Looking out the window, I saw green valleys divided into pastures of every shade of green. A giant patchwork quilt tucking small gray stones to rest against the dusty mountains sheltering the valley from the sea. But John saw something completely different. With a degree in environmental studies, John saw his beloved landscape dying at the hand of first English and now EU legislators who make decisions from afar in an effort to get the most for their money. Under penal law, the English forced Irish farmers onto the worst land, passing legislation that denied them the ability to acquire additional acres. Forced to divide what little they had among their children, the plots became smaller and smaller with each generation, eventually becoming so small that they couldn’t sustain the family who was left to cope with the consequences of foreign rule. In my patchwork quilt, John saw the scars of long-overcome oppression. In my beautiful wind-blow mountains, John saw EU mismanagement that has resulted in overgrazing and severe erosion, leaving the land barren and unforgiving. In the States, we’re used to seeing mountain sides covered in evergreen trees. But in Ireland, the acidity of commercial spruce forests is killing the salmon that have run in the mountains’ streams for hundreds of years. As I listened to John and tried to view the scene outside my window from his perspective, my heart was breaking for Ireland. Even Ireland’s close ties to the States (over 40% of Famine Era emigrants made their way to the US) have left a negative mark on the landscape with American-style motorways and housing developments ill-suited to the Irish way of life.

I know, of course, that I now have only one side of the story. Had our time together not been cut short by our arrival in Tralee and subsequent transfer to different buses, I would have asked John what’s being done to promote sustainable agricultural practices and what kind of future he sees for Ireland. Although he did express his general disdain for Bono and a concern for other social issues in Ireland, such as the Travelers (Ireland’s troubled gypsy-like community, another lasting product of English subjugation), John is unmistakably proud of his country. “If you don’t have a place to live, [the government] will give you one. We take care of each other.” After three weeks in Ireland, I’m beginning to see things less as a visitor wooed by the foggy footbridges and picturesque vistas, and more as a temporary resident with a vested interest in what happens here. In 20 years, I want people to look out their window on the road to Tralee and see what I saw, not lifeless hills with no stories left to tell. The fight isn’t over yet, old friend. Erin go bragh.

Sitting there, I discover that I am no longer purely French, as English jars its way into my life. My schoolbooks are in English, and I worry that their covers and titles give me away as an American. I try to not let this bother me, hoping I’m more “foreign” than “stereotypical American” as I order in French, sending the message that I do indeed speak more than one language. I take it for granted that I’ll read in English while here, and it doesn’t bother me. Academically, its great. I can read for pleasure in French. Then, I write. All of a sudden, something that comes so naturally to me has become a point of conflict- I don’t know what language to write in. I kept journals on my last trip to Paris, determined to write only in French in order to really immerse myself. I’ve got a moleskine and a half full of my French thoughts back home, but as I read through some of them before I left, I found them stifled, a feeling I remember when I was in the process of writing them. I can’t express myself quite as eloquently in my second tongue, and if there’s any language in which one must write beautifully, its French. So, my point of conflict: do I write in English or in French? Do I immerse myself at the cost of clarity, or do I come home with a beautiful record of my life here and loose an opportunity to practice the language of my new home?

It may seem silly to worry so much about my writing when I have so many other things to do in Paris, but in India, my writing was such a critical part of my experience, I can’t help but want the same record of my European life. Furthermore, its a conflict that speaks to a larger issue in my life here- the attempt to merge my French and American lives. At home I’m French, at school I’m English and in reality its as though I can’t ever be firmly on one side.

I don’t know how to resolve my conflict. I want to find a way to capitalize on the things I love about both my home and my host countries, for as much as I love France, being abroad has made me realize that my country has wonderful things to offer too. How do I protect and preserve the best things of both of my lives when I feel as though I must be immersed in one or the other to fully appreciate what it has to offer? Do I pick one language, or write in both?

The patriotism that emerges when the Seleccion Nacional (National Selection) takes the field is unparalleled among my US compatriots.  Soccer ignites a passion among the Argentines that is passed from generation to generation.  I was lucky to secure a few tickets to see last year’s Superclasico between Boca Juniors and River Plate, two classic teams that divide the city of Buenos Aires each time that they take the field.  Watching these rivals face off, I had my first taste of the fiery Argentine spirit that emerges as I listened to “hijo de puta”s, “la concha de tu madre”s and other combative and obscene phrases spring from the mouths of both young and old alike.   I was shocked as the seven year old boy in front of me churned out obscenities that surpassed even the slew of vulgar phrases streaming out of his father and grandfather’s mouths  He was greeted with an assuring head nod from his father, and I understood: Like father, like son.  All’s fair in futbol.

Today, Argentina and Spain face off at 5pm in what some Argentines are calling “the world cup final that should have been.”  Devastated by their team’s performance in the world cup against Germany, the lack of goals scored by Lionel Messi, and the failure of the Albiceleste to reach the further rounds of the tournament, Argentina is ready to cheer her team to a victory on home turf.  It has been 23 years since a European futbol powerhouse played the Seleccion Nacional on home turf.  But armed with a new coach, Sergio Bautista, who has replaced the infamous Maradona, and with the unstoppable Messi returning to home soil, the Argentine national team is ready for revenge.  The whole country will be watching.  Seven year old children will be yelling obscenities, grandfathers will be insulting the mothers of all of Spain, and I’ll be taking it all in.  VAMOS ARGENTINA!

When Mohammed asked for money, I sighed that I once again got myself into this situation. As I dropped a few gineeh into his open palm, I saw over his shoulder a small girl walking toward us. Nadia, too young to wear a hijab, had a deep tan and curly hair that had become golden blond from spending so much time outdoors. The fanny pack she wore across her shoulder was stuffed full of postcards that she was attempting to sell to tourists. Pushing them into our hands, she began her spiel, begging us to buy them for such a great price. Indeed, they were pretty cheap, especially when divided by 5.5 to convert the price into dollars. At our first refusal, she said,

“No, no just take it. Please! They’re yours, keep them.”

Egyptians are a very hospitable and generous people, honoring the guest above all else and insisting they give to you all they can afford. My roommate explained this to be very important in Islam: to give someone else highly valued possessions rather than those you would prefer to give away. In Nadia’s case, she was giving us all she had to give, even if we didn’t return the favor of payment. Thinking of how the poor girl spends all day in the scorching sun trying to make a living off postcards, we all gave her some coins. Our hearts broke even further as she ran off with the money to give it to her mother, who was doing some sort of work behind a fence that separated her from her child.

Like other Egyptians I’ve come across on the streets, the child’s spirit was unbroken. More energetic and enthusiastic than the Americans who were seeing the Pyramids for the first time, her smile and kindness were contagious. Before continuing on our way, we chatted with her and her sister, who then allowed us to take a picture of our new friends.

I don’t want to downplay the grandeur and glory of the pyramids, because surely the first sight of their sandy magnificence looming over a blue sky is breath taking. Their age alone is staggering. But what captivated me most was not only the plight, but even more so, the generosity and spirit of Nadia. The infamous Pyramids have been photographed enough that I’ve chosen not to depict them. I’m sure no one even needs a description. The portrait that, in my opinion, is much more stunning cannot be found on the internet or in travel guides. The Egyptian spirit against the dusty, impoverished backdrop is truly beautiful, and Nadia’s smile alone was worth the 60 pounds it cost to enter the Pyramids.

The week I spent in Germany with my boyfriend and his family was nothing short of incredible—every day was another adventure, and every day I fell more in love with that gorgeous, lovable country.  There are a million instances I could document here.  But as my gushing intro may indicate, my favorite night was without a doubt the night we went to the Weinfest der Mittelmosel in Bernkastel, Germany—the biggest wine fest in the Mosel wine-growing region of Germany.  It consist of about 200,000 people who, over the course of 5 days, gather to come drink some amazing local wine (the venders can literally point to the hill where the grapes were grown), listen to some live music, watch beautiful fireworks shoot out of an ancient castle, and schmooze with family and friends in the streets of a town that is absolutely bursting with rich history and pride.  I’m pretty sure if I could craft my perfect day, it would involve wine, food, Germans in costume playing percussion, and castles, so I was pretty much the happiest girl in the world.

I knew things were off to an excellent start when they offered wine both in the parking lot and on the 5-minute boat shuttle from the parking lot to the festival; obviously we decided to take advantage of this option.  The very elderly German woman walking by me drinking straight out of her own bottle of wine (hey, no one likes sharing) was another indication of a fine night ahead.  Strolling through the streets, I was in awe to the point of utter uselessness; my boyfriend had to steer me around the crowds so I could take pictures without focusing on important things like not trampling young children.  I had just never seen anything quite like it.  The buildings there are so old they physically lean, and many display the date they were built proudly on their faces.  The picturesque image of cobblestone streets suddenly giving way to acres upon acres of gorgeous vineyards was absolutely breathtaking.  But I can’t lie—as a girl who seriously loves her food, I was pretty damn preoccupied by the culinary “sights” as well.  Everywhere you looked there was, quite frankly, real live food porn: thick, gorgeous red tomatoes gleaming against cheesy margherita pizzas, decadent fried mushrooms as big as tennis balls lined up on kebabs, and, perhaps most epically, 6-foot wide hanging grills covered every inch with pure, unadulterated meat.  Yes, even though as a longtime vegetarian I couldn’t fully appreciate German cuisine in its entirety, Germany has taught me to wholeheartedly respect the bratwurst.  I speak in particular of the ½ meter long bratwursts that pervaded the fest, crammed into an entire baguette and slathered with sauerkraut, designed for families to share….or, as it turned out, for my boyfriend to consume by himself.  (I was so proud.)

The night ended with the aforementioned castle fireworks; the gorgeous reenactment of the historic burning of the castle pretty much put every 4^th of July I’ve ever had to shame.  Maybe it was just the wine talking, but as we strolled to the car (stopping, of course, for one last drink in the parking lot) I couldn’t help but think: I don’t remember the last time I was quite this happy. And with that, I promptly fell asleep.  Because what better way to end a trip to Germany than with an alcohol and pretzel-induced nap? I’m sure the elderly women clutching their solo bottles of wine would agree.

Las tortugas (the turtles) – “¿Abueeelaaa, por qué la mataste? ¿Pero, por qué?” quizzed Andree, with a smirk on his face. He would repeat this question over and over until Abuela had nothing left to do but call him a weón, with a connotation right in the middle of what I would call the “weón scale” from homeboys to worst enemies. Andree just wanted her to explain why she had killed the turtle. Of course Abuela wouldn’t admit to killing the turtle. She had simply put it in a box or something because it had appeared to have died, but Andree then explained how the turtle really died, something about how the box exploded, which I didn’t fully understand. The turtle rant was really the highlight of the lunch conversation. I asked Abuela if it she had ever taken care of bigger turtles, to which she responded “sí, po, ¡pero las tortugas grandes corren rápido, pero rááápido!” explaining that these kinds of turtles run too fast for her to catch them. Later it surfaced that the small turtle used to come to the door to look for food but would prop itself up on the little step too much, to the point that it would tip over and never be able to get off of its back without Abuela’s help. Perhaps that’s why she threw the turtle in the box prematurely…

Los gatos (the cats) – Apparently Abuela killed the neighbors’ cats. She claims she had nothing to do with it. I’ll be sure to elaborate if I ever find out any more details.

El hámster (the hamster) – When enumerating lists of animals, hámster always made the list. I don’t think Abuela had much of a story to tell about hamsters, but perhaps she had owned one in the past, or maybe she thought hamsters were cute. Either way, I thought it was funny the way she would blurt out “hámster” with conviction after pausing to think of more animals.

La perra (the bitch) – Female dog, mind you. Except perhaps “bitch” describes this portion of the conversation a little more accurately. All that I really understood was that this perra would be sent to sit by the door, but would always run over and sit near Abuelo Iván Marchant’s feet. Marchant, who suffers from Alzheimer’s, was busy sipping on his tea and stabbing at an empty plate since he had not realized that no more food would materialize, but perked up for a second to utter “concha de su madre” to label that certain perra a “motherfucker.” The table roared with laughter.

El conejo (the rabbit) – I guess there was a rabbit at some point. What I understood was that a young Uncle Jorge took the bunny and hung it in a vine or something, and then yelled at it. Upon finding out what had happened, Abuela screamed out the window at Jorge, telling him “¡suéltalo!” (let it go!).

I hope that this laughter and livelihood will leap from the lunch conversation every weekend, when my familia loca sits down to enjoy a large meal together.

It didn’t. We actually couldn’t wait to get ourselves out.

The Marjam is basically the Moroccan version of Wal-Mart surrounded by upscale air-conditioned stores selling American clothes, toys, and jewelry. It is a 20 minute drive outside the center of the city, accessible only by car through a neighborhood that looks like it belongs in southern California. Moroccan men, women, and children filled up their shopping carts (thank God, not as big as the carts at Wal-Mart) with clothes and electronics and back-to-school notebooks and shrink-wrapped meat and frozen food and bottled water (lots of bottled water). Next-door at McDonald’s, parents ordered their children Happy Meals while sitting next to signs that read “Happy Ramadan.”

More disconcerting, however, than Muslim adults feeding their kids Big Macs during Islam’s most sacred month, was that the general skin tone of the Moroccans at the Marjam was noticeably lighter than what you see when you walk around Rabat’s old Medina. It seems that no matter where you go, lighter skin often comes with higher quality of life.

I say it was like taking a step back to the U.S. for a reason. Because, though Morocco may be number 130 on the UN’s Human Development Index, while America enjoys a spot much closer to the top, the Marjam represents all of the most disgusting things about America. It’s a reminder about all of our country’s vices—suburbia, consumerism, fast food, elitism—which we happily export across the ocean. I’ve only been here a week, but it seems to me that Morocco would be better off without them.

“You know that feeling of horror you had when you were a kid and realized that the awesome slide at the water park was actually terrifying? You were at the very top, and you’d already waited with hundreds of people for over an hour. Suddenly the feeling of horror turns into nervous resignation when you realize that even though you’re terrified all you can do is get on because, let’s face it, you’ve been in line with hundreds people for over an hour. That’s about where I’m at right now.”

Unlike a lot of my friends who are going abroad, I know full well what it means to live in a full immersion experience. Whenever I visit home in Miami, FL, things can very easily become all Spanish, all the time. Even before Dad married a woman who only spoke Spanish, being from Miami has meant that whether I’m trying a dress on at Forever21 or talking to my best friend’s grandmother, it would probably be easier for everyone involved if I break into Spanish at some point during any conversation. I don’t need to guess what I’ll be like in a full-immersion situation. After about 3 or 4 hours of non-stop Spanish, I get mentally drained, cranky, and desperate to speak English. It’s even worse if I’m tired or hungry, and on top of everything else, I feel an intense discomfort and shame when I speak Spanish that has forced me to really be terrified of speaking it. This fear, the knowledge that I don’t deal well with full immersion, and everything else that would usually make someone nervous about going abroad, has combined to form a mental specter analogous to the water slides at Disney World I was so afraid of when I was 4 years old. You might be wondering, then,”If all that is true, why on Earth would you want to go to SPAIN for  NINE MONTHS,?”.

I plan to provide you with an answer to that question, and, hopefully, allow you to chart my progress as I face my lifelong fear. This experience is obviously about Spanish, being a third generation immigrant, and culture, but it’s also about self-discovery, self-definition, and self-confidence. Spanish is an integral part of where I come from and where I’m going, so learning to love Spain, its language, and its culture is inextricably intertwined with growing and learning to love myself. I’m excited to share this with you so keep reading, keep commenting, and keep cheering me on!

“The building has been taken over.” Emblazoned on a gargantuan sheet of construction paper, those words greeted all visitors to the University of Buenos Aires (UBA) campus on Ramos Mejia street. Words you would expect to see in a war zone, not at a university.

Inside, students locked all the classrooms and pushed the chairs into the hallways. Professors unwilling to cede their precious class time led impromptu discussions amidst a scene of mild chaos. Students and revolutionaries alike roamed the hallways, handing out pamphlets explaining the takeover. A local radio station started broadcasting from a table near the front entrance. Bewildered foreigners stood in shock, trying to take in all the commotion.

As any porteno (a Buenos Aires native) will tell you, the revolutionary spirit is alive and well in Argentina’s capital. Protests and demonstrations are as much a part of the city as delicious food and mate. Plus, in general college students are in their “protest prime”—the period of one’s life in which they are most likely to fight back.

In high school my United States history teacher, Mr. Hicks, once made this offer: an automatic A for anyone who could organize a walkout. “The food in the cafeteria is bad, but not that bad,” I remember thinking. Really, we didn’t have much to complain about. We went to a clean, well-funded, safe school. I feel the same way about Northwestern and every other university I’ve visited. Yeah, some schools get more funding. And yes, some have better facilities. But at the end of the day, I’ve been lucky enough to attend some of our country’s premier institutions.

Anyone who’s strolled through an UBA building knows that the facilities are nowhere near equivalent to the university’s reputation as one of the best on the continent. To make matters worse, students and administrators have been on different wavelengths (to put it nicely) for some time, making for a palpable tension. So when two glass structures collapsed at a nearby UBA building, injuring a bystander, a group of students took the initiative and took over the school. A walkout by lockout.

This is far from the first time something like this has happened—students took over the building as recently as 2008—so it wasn’t as fascinating for everyone as it was for me. I discussed the issue over coffee with a group of Argentines from my class. For the most part they were nonchalant, not really concerned with the “what” or “why.”

Some students, however, were more passionate about the situation. I filmed the accompanying video at a rally later that night, in which several hundred students came to listen to speeches from classmates and teachers. The energy was electric. Several particularly rousing orators evoked huge waves of applause, and after every speaker the crowd broke out in chants and songs.

(Believe it or not, this was the first time I have ever filmed a rally in a foreign country while standing on a chair in the middle of a large crowd. Please excuse the shaky camera.)

I can’t say I agree with everything these students were doing, or why they were doing it. But watching students fight tooth-and-nail for services that I had always taken for granted is something I’ll remember for a while.

Mr. Hicks would be proud.

Here’s a quick and dirty inventory of familiar things that don’t seem to exist in Spain. Some of these items are more missed than others.

Cold milk. Whenever I go out to the grocery, it’s alarming to me that I find liter bottles of milk on the shelves rather than in the fridge. After a quick consultation with the information superhighway, I found that they’re placed there because ultrapasteurization, the pasteurization method used in both Spain and France, creates — wait for it — milk that doesn’t need to be refrigerated. Seriously. European milk defies refrigeration. It transcends it. This has challenged my American understanding of the universe in ways I can’t even explain.

Spitting game. Hitting on women, I guess, is an American art. In Spanish nightclubs, a man who finds a woman attractive will simply come over and say to her, “Hello, you’re very pretty. Is that guy your boyfriend? …OK, good. Come dance.” The cranky feminist in me would love to get on a pedestal and talk about how this is personally degrading, but the truth of the matter is, I’m kind of into it. Speaking as someone who’s never really mastered the art of feminine wiles, I like having things spelled out for me. (Please raise your hand if that last sentence made you uncomfortable. If your hand is raised, sorry about that awkward dinner date that’s probably in our past.)

Facewash. Conditioner, too, for that matter. Spanish people apparently just look this good all the time without skincare or haircare help. Magical, or infuriating? I’d go with both.

Corners. Spain, it seems, is post-corners in two senses. First, the traditional street corner seems very uncommon, at least in the area where I live. Where there would be a street corner in Chicago, in Barcelona there’s a flat, obtuse edge, like when you use a pair of scissors to cut the corners off a page. Each intersection is an octagon. And second, the cityscape is punctuated by the influence of Gaudí, who liked using only shapes found in nature. Most of his architecture looks like it’s melting — thus, no corners.

One-piece bathing suits. The only “one-piece” bathing suit you’ll find in Barcelona consists of a bikini minus the top part. The classic Marilyn Monroe look just doesn’t fly on the beach here; belly buttons, it seems, are an essential part of the Mediterranean experience.

Down escalators. You can escape climbing up the stairs, but nobody gets an excuse for not walking down them. Fat, lazy, beloved home country, take note.