I have a part time job at a software development company in downtown Philly, so I get to see the city a lot. I also really love Philadelphia for being what it is. I feel like I’m an outlier in all those respects though (we have lots of New Yorkers who complain too much).

On campus, I’ve been active on the student newspaper, The Bi-College News (shared with Bryn Mawr) since freshman year. Some years it’s great, others (like now) we are understaffed and struggle for content. Fun anyway though. I’m also involved in FIG, the student tech group that runs a bunch of websites and servers and builds public video game projects. I feel like the Haverford “tradition of student self-governance” is at play not just in Students and Honor Councils, but in every extracurricular. The administration is great at what they do, but hardly gives ANY in-kind support to clubs or activities. I do not think this is a downside. At Haverford, students have to envision, drive, and run everything themselves, including “essential services” that other school administrations take care of, like faculty/administrator search committees, the community service programs, the tech group, the newspaper, a cappella/music groups, the student run cafe, etc. It is easy to be active, you get sucked into it, and it takes up a lot of your life having to run it all (with hard classes and homework). But you have SO much freedom, you are actually *able* to run things by yourself versus what happens at other schools.

The education I have gotten outside of the classroom from being so active in campus life and making the school run I think has really prepared me for operating well with responsibilities in the business/nonprofit career world. We may be a liberal arts college, but one does not come out of 4 years of a Haverford Education with a “Do you want fries with that?” experience. We’re ready to go.

I just read this article: http://slatest.slate.com/posts/2011/10/20/lisa_simeone_soundprint_freelancer_fired_after_npr_began_investi.html

I love NPR. I’m sure many listeners will be angry at this decision, and it might balloon into a similar (though no doubt smaller) controversy as Juan Williams’ firing last year. But even as a liberal, I agree and support NPRs actions here. (Note: I actually *disagree* with how and why Juan Williams’ was fired, which I might expound upon at a later date.)

NPR is one of the last news organizations I see that still subscribes to the “pure objectivity” Walter Cronkite-esque form of journalism. (Yes, you conservatives, NPR is one of the most objective and holistic media outlets we have in this country.) Them firing this freelancer for publicly politically participating is in line with that. NPR is saying, “Journalists should be no more than observers, never participants.” This objective “Cronkite way,” I feel, is dying. Huffington Post, Fox News, MSNBC, Rush Linbaugh – they are all substantially biased. They do, on the whole, seem to make those biases clear and are at least open about it, which is good for something. But I am very sad for the day, which I think is fast approaching, when we will no longer be able to get holistic, minimally-biased reporting on an issue in America. I think journalism can work well and keep a point of view, but I just wish that wasn’t our only option.

At the positively luxurious hour of 10:00ish, I headed out to catch the Ferrocarriles to the IES Center and found our room on the 2nd (really 3rd – tricky!) floor. Our professor, Laura Vasquez, introduced herself and the fact that our class would be all-Spanish from the first second. I was starting to understand that this would be a theme with all our class’s dealings with IES. Judging by the eye-rolls and groans from the rest of the room, my classmates shared the same sentiment of dreaded challenge I had. I took this to mean that I was placed at just the right level.

Laura is originally from Madrid, and is working on her PhD in Spanish Film Studies, for which she studied for a few years at some university in Virginia. Like any good Spaniard, she also loves to use vosotros, the third person plural informal pronoun and verb conjugation that they don’t use in Latin America, and, therefore, don’t teach us in the States. Makes for a confusing adjustment.

The good news, however, is that Laura’s Madrileno accent is easy enough to understand (always a concern when dealing with foreign professors, or so I’ve heard), she’s very enthusiastic and bright (certainly makes class more fun), and – after having several classes with her by now – she would prove to have a decently lenient and understanding attitude (in stark contrast to our orientation instructor…humorless bleh!).

Part of my evidence for this is that she announced she would be giving us a half hour break in the middle of every class period, so we could go get lunch/coffee and wouldn’t pass out in our seats. Another piece of evidence was, for the first several days of class, we had the most fun playing games and other engaging educational activities. It was great; it was like I was in 10th grade Spanish class again, almost as good as freshman year at Haverford with Roberto Castillo-Sandoval. Plus, we had no homework for the first week; something neither of my roommates or anyone else I talked to could brag about.

During today’s 30 minute break, I set out to discover just what was around the IES center to eat. I was beginning to discover that eating in Europe, and particularly Spain, is difficult. Or rather, not what I’m used to.

First of all, it’s expensive. Even aside from the Euro exchange rate, staple lunches like Coca Cola and sandwiches or salads will regularly push you up close to 10 euro. Its actually cheaper in a lot of circumstances to drink beer – which dehydrates, and is not particularly my favorite flavor, and therefore not ideal. Second, you have to remember the right time to go. If you get hungry before noon or after 4:00pm, you’ll be hunting for a while for any place that’s open, be out of luck, and likely find yourself at an American shrine-to-capitalistic-globalization like Burger King. Third, you don’t get all that much for your money. A small-ish panini, miniature plates of “tapas,” et cetera – so its difficult to feel completely satiated on a budget. And fourth, it takes a long time depending on which restaurant you go to. The Spanish – probably mostly for the better – treat eating as a social activity, so you sit down with friends, talk for a bit, the waiter comes by and maybe you order something, talk some more, your food comes out, and you talk for however long you want until you specifically ask for la cuenta, the check. There’s no rush for anything, and a regular lunch at a standard street cafe will regularly take you over an hour’s time when done right. The lone, cheap, student traveler who’s got things to see and a break schedule to keep isn’t catered to very well in this system. Particularly compared to America, when I can walk into anywhere at any time of day, get a rather cheap meal that’s fulfilling for a full half day, and that is served quick enough that I can be in and out within a 30 minute lunch break.

Today, I walked around the corner of the IES block on Ronda Sant Pere, and found a close-as-I’m-gonna-get answer to my prayers: a local Spanish-inspired all you can eat buffet for 8 Euro / 10 on weekends. This still doesn’t solve the price problem, but seeing as its all you can eat, “Lactuca” is just about perfect: you walk in, have the most diverse smorgasbord of a salad bar I’ve ever seen, get a drink (unlimited non-alcoholic included in the price!), pay the cashier (no waiting for the check!), and choose from a variety of hot dishes, paella, and pizza. You can sit down anywhere in the three-floor cafeteria and enjoy your meal in as quick or long a time as you have. If you choose the upper floor, the lonely traveler is presented with a captivating view of Plaza Urquinaona. I already love ogling all the unseen-in-the-US makes and unique puny European hatchback models when they’re parked on the side of the street, so watching them navigate a 5-ish way intersection with a forested plaza in the middle is great entertainment.

After class, I still had a free afternoon. IES requires us to have an up to date cell phone for the entire trip, and I had had Verizon enable my US number for international use, but to call anybody cost an arm and a leg, and Blackberry internet cost a first born child. I knew I would be meeting more Spanish friends at the UPF, so I wanted a local number to give them, and I was beginning to realize just how useful access to Google Maps from the Blackberry in the palm of my hand would be in a foreign city and country.

Vodafone, one of the main European carriers, had released a prepaid, 3.50 Euro a week Blackberry plan just a few months ago that I had heard about. This was big news, because normally Blackberry’s require a permanent year or two long contract. I walked down the street to the Vodafone store to try my hand at buying a cell phone SIM card in Catalan and Spanish.

Thankfully, it didn’t come to that. I told the guy at the front door, “Yo hablo castellano, pero mi ingles es mucho mejor.” He said that was OK, and directed me to a guy named Jesus that spoke pretty good English. Within 10 minutes, I had paid 30 Euros and had a penny-sized plastic SIM card that, when slotted in to the back of my Blackberry, gave me a Spanish number and access to the internet like Verizon didn’t even exist. Hooray technology.

Now it was decently late in the afternoon, and today was the day that our RA Tatianna had invited us to the UB dorm to meet her friends and some more IES Americans, so I dashed home, stopped momentarily to re-learn where the address was from the map she gave us, and walked the 10 minutes to Sant Jordi.

There, in the dorm’s full-service basement bar – This is your cue, all the Haverfordians and other US college kids reading this now, to let your jaw drop and exclaim “WHAT?” at your computer screen – was a gathering of about 20 students, half American and half Spanish. As a late comer, I sat down at the far end of the table and started talking with Tatianna, Jeff (my roommate), and a few of Tati’s friends. One of them, Sara, took classes at the Pompeu as well, and was thoroughly welcoming and excited when I said I was taking three of my classes there as well. I was starting to discover that the UPF might have the most ardent school spirit in the city.

On the table were a few print outs of the key dance clubs in Barcelona, and Tati and her friends were explaining to us where and when were the best nights to go out. Discotecas aren’t particularly my thing even back in the states, since I actually prefer to talk and meet people rather than spend a few hours in a hot and sweaty room with more decibels than a 747 takeoff. But, going out late and partying is a part of, shall we say, the cultural experience in Spain, and since I was here for total immersion, I was interested in attending a club or two soon for the experience and just to say I did. It was nice to have Tati spell everything out for the folks like me (perhaps I was the only one) who had researched every aspect of Spain before coming here (universities, cell phones, metro maps, Renfe trains, airports, cuisine, tourist attractions, history, etc) except this particular element.

Tati’s friends were in the middle of finals (in January? The Spanish university schedule makes no sense), and at 6:00 they told us they had to go back to their rooms and study. Jeff and I headed back home for dinner, talking along the way about how neither of us had been out to see the nightlife yet, and how we had been hearing these over-the-top stories from pretty much everyone else in IES. In the way an anthropologist gets excited and (with a bit of trepidation) looks forward to heading out to the Andes mountains to conduct a new field study, to experience a culture and “way of life” completely unknown to oneself, I was excited about what might happen to us when we went out with the other guys from the dorm tonight.

After dinner, Fernanda was much more flexible and understanding about us having plans to head out than I thought she would be. “Chicos, you are free to do what you want, I remember when [my children] went out on Fridays and came back at 4:00 in the morning. Call if you run into any problems, and keep an eye on your pockets!”

We walked back down to the Sant Jordi dorm, with Jeff leading the way and my other roommate Scott accompanying us this time (he wasn’t able to make it to the afternoon get together because of a class). We hung out in the room of two other IES guys, from Minneapolis and White Plains for about an hour or two while sipping beers. When it was “time,” as decided by some arbitrary standard that I didn’t seem privy to, we headed downstairs to another room with IES guys, and stayed there for yet another 30 minutes or so. Then, again by some signal I couldn’t figure out, the 10 of us came down en masse to the grassy park in front of the dorm. A few of the guys had bought 2 Euro litre jugs of Sangria, which, I have to admit, tasted pretty good despite the cheapness. Of course, sangria always tastes good. I’m sure the “I’m actually in Spain right now” effect added something as well.

There was some conversation about where the group wanted to go. We started walking down towards the Avenida Diagonal, many of them still arguing (loudly) among competing agendas and the rest of us walking along and observing. Three guys were dead-set on some bar downtown called Sumum, the apparent draw of which was shots (chupitos) for one Euro. A few more wanted to go straight to Club Shoko, apparently in the Port Olimpic area by the ocean. Still others had heard about a no-cover-charge offer for Club Oshum, in the Zona Universitaria area. Once a plan coalesced – that we would go to Sumum for the cheaper drinks, and then Oshum, since we could get in for free – there was yet more loud arguing over how exactly to get there. Since I have an excellent sense of direction (I’m not boasting – it has rarely led me astray) and had studied the metro map to a T, I knew exactly how to go about finding each place (they’re in opposite directions on the Green line). I was thoroughly enjoying the entertaining spectacle unfolding before me of 6 slightly-buzzed American 20 year old “bros” fight over who was right, so I wasn’t about to interject.

We finally got on the right subway, and after first passing the bar by 2 blocks, walked in the door to discover a packed and happening Sumum, with bright burnt orange lighting. I walked around in what little room there was for a few minutes, watched how other patrons walked up to the bar and ordered, and walked up to follow the same motions. Then it hit me just how strange this felt: I had never in my life been to an establishment and ordered a drink before. In fact, given my age, this was still impossible for me to even do legally in my home country. I might be spoiling myself right now of a significant rite of passage back in the States. I thought of maybe waiting until I got back to the US to try this – for precisely the amount of time it takes a highly radioactive atom of an element with an atomic weight over 100 to decay. Dear Fox News, if you want to talk about somebody circumnavigating the Constitution, the lobbying job Mothers Against Drunk Driving did in 1984 to withhold highway funds from all states that didn’t set the drinking age at 21, might be a great place to start. Want to stop drunk driving? Don’t try and stop the drinking. Stop the driving. Barcelona did it: ye olde smashed college students have subways and busses to take home here.

After talking with my roommate Scott, and one of the American guys, and a close Spanish friend of his, and even a few other people, I was starting to like this whole concept of being at a bar. Its social, open, festive. You meet people you never would otherwise, and even the friends you came with tell the best stories you never knew to ask them about. After awhile, I began drawing parallels between where I was now and the English and French coffeehouses of the 1700s I had learned about in my mass media classes. Bars and coffeehouses were where society was formed. People talking about what’s going on in the world, this was Habermas’s “public sphere”. The first sparks of revolutions, both French and American, had ignited in humble watering holes on the street like the one I was in now. And back home in America we deny these activities to everyone under 21, and instead force feed our youth television, internet, and television on the internet. I don’t know about you, MADD, but it seems like a crying shame to me.

After 1am, momentum started shifting again among us students. It was time to hail taxis over to Club Oshum. I said a silent goodbye to the public sphere that had graciously accepted me as a member for 2 hours (something tells me I was the only one of us to think of it that way), and in my best, tipsy Spanish, told Scott, Jeff and I’s cab driver where to go.

We arrived in short time. There was no neon sign or anything indicating that this was the correct nightclub, but a nightclub it most definitely was. The three of us agreed if we had to pay any sort of cover charge, we were leaving. We learned from the guys from the dorm, a club promoter had sent out an invitation on Facebook to get in for free until 2am. Theoretically, if we told the bouncers “Kike” (pronounced key-kay) had sent us, that would be enough.

I – since my Spanish was best of the three of us so far – walked up to the bouncer, a grizzly bear of a man in a dark sportcoat. “Somos los amigos de Kike, usted conoce?” The bouncer paused for a second, said nothing, and then waved us through. “Well that was easy,” Jeff said later. My thoughts exactly.

You could hear the music emanating from the basement from two floors up. As we descended down the stairs the adrenaline pumped faster and faster, until we rounded the last corner and…holy cow.

Multicolored swirling spotlights and ultraviolet area lighting were the first things I noticed. When my eyes adjusted, I began to realize how huge the fully-black basement was. It could easily do double duty as a hangar for a medium size jet airliner. There were easily a few hundred people dancing on the floor, on the stage, on raised platforms, everywhere. Having experienced how disgustingly perspired and humid the air gets at a Haverford dance in Founders, a building with no air conditioning, I was even more amazed at how cool I felt in the room. But beyond the visual and the tactile, what I could not wrap my head around was the sound: the 1.21 gigawatts (bonus points if you get that reference!) of eardrum throttling techno bass. And it had fidelity, you could hear every note even still!

We had made a pact at the front door to come back and find each other at 3am, because none of us wanted to stay out later. Knowing there was a definitive end time allowed me to enjoy myself a lot more. I may be at a discoteca, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still have a bit of Haverboy in me. I was enjoying being at the discotheque for the experience of it, for observation and to expand my horizons. It is not particularly the atmosphere I’m comfortable in on a regular basis. I prefer to actually talk and have conversations with people to get to know them, and appreciate music for music’s sake. If I want to dance, I want to at least dance with a large group of friends I already know. You can do none of these things with much success in a pumping discotheque.

So while the time flew by and you bet I got my groove on, I was relieved when I looked at my watch and it was 2:55. Jeff later convinced us to stay for an additional 15 minutes so he could say goodbye to his friends. We walked outside, found a cab, and headed home happy, still slightly buzzed, and totally exhausted from our first real night-on-the-town in Barcelona.

Today, though, merited one experiment. The UPF campus is only 5 miles away, but to get there requires almost an hour and at least two metro lines. Looking at the map, there are any number of plausibly-direct routes to mix and match and possibly get there quicker. The route Alberto had led me along last Tuesday was the simplest – only two lines, one transfer point – but it took about 45 minutes and was nowhere near direct. This morning I decided to try what looked like a more direct route on the map, with two transfers and three lines. Green from Maria Cristina, transfer to Red at Plaza Espanya, transfer again to Yellow at Urquinaona, and exit right by the UPF campus at Vila Olimpica.

Not helpful. It was just about the same amount of time, but involved me running wild and sweaty (the Spanish like heating in their metros and buildings in the winter, and lots of it) through an extra station, and Plaza Espanya is pretty huge. So I decided on my next experiments, I’m only allowing one transfer.

Thankfully though, I made it to class on time again. I found Sara and Steve from yesterday and sat next to them. While we were waiting for lecture to start, Maika also came over and said hello. It felt good to know people were remembering me – that meant I was interesting! Maybe it wouldn’t be as hard to make friends as I was beginning to think it would be.

After the first hour of class, we had a coffee break again. This time, a fair group of people congregated in the hallway outside the room. I inched my way in towards one guy leaning against the wall, offered a hand and said the only words that could come to mind: “Hola, me llamo Andrew. Soy de los estados unidos.” His name was Bruno. The wheels were in motion – before I had to say “Que es tu nombre?” even once more, everyone around started introducing themselves to me. Eventually, a sizeable circle of students crammed into the hallway to watch this spectacle: Hey look, here’s this guy nobody’s ever seen before shaking hands with everyone in sight. He says he just got here 3 days ago from America and he’s trying to speak Castellaño. Go figure!

Within a minute I was in an interesting conversational groove with this guy named Vicenç – “You can call me Vince, though, and I will respond. Its okay!” he assured me when I didn’t get the hang of his cedilla at first. “Its not a letter we have in castellano, only in catalan. You know any catalan?” Not really, I said in spanish, but I’m finding it a bit easier to read on all the signs. I’m mostly here to practice my Spanish though.

“This is good, I want to learn English better. If you don’t mind, we can make an agreement where I will talk to you in English and you can respond in Castellaño, and we can correct each other,” said Vicenç. This seemed like an interesting plan to me, having a conversation in two languages at the same time so that both of us could get practice. “Ah, una situación gaño-gaño, es verdad!” I said. And so it was from that day forward.

We finally came back into the classroom, and the professor was not happy that 50% of us had taken a 25-30 minute break when he intended somewhere closer to 5 minutes. I suspected, in part, my “novelty” in the hallway was to blame. As the saying goes however, there is safety in numbers, and because it was somewhere on the order of 15-20 of us who were late coming back, el Profe couldn’t do or say much, and went on with the second half of lecture. Today he asked more questions and solicited more participation, which I was happy with.

After class when everyone was packing (again, I didn’t have much with me and was one of the first students up – starting to think that would be a theme), I walked up to one of the guys I had talked to in the break and asked if there was anywhere at the Pompeu to eat. Por supuesto, el bar! A bar right on the University campus, I thought to myself? Now there’s something we don’t have in the States. I gotta see this.

I went with several students downstairs and across the monstrous open-air patio in the center of edificio Jaume I, talked to Sergio who was interested in the NBA – and he could probably qualify himself, seeing as he’s even taller than I am! – and we arrived at an 8 person table in the decently sized (but not huge) café/bar. My jaw dropped when I saw how low the prices were; most sandwiches were only 2E! Finally I had found a place to have lunch that wouldn’t cost me an arm and a leg. And in a collegial and convenient atmosphere, to boot!

I talked to even more students at the table while I waited for the hamburgesa amb fromatge y Coke Light I had ordered at the counter – most everyone, especially Jordina, got a kick and several chistes out of me living up to the American stereotype with my order, but I justified myself with the fact that I was really hungry, and hamburgers do a delightfully economical job of filling you up for a while. I also asked them to cut me some slack: I had only been here for a few days, and was only ready for one cultural challenge at a time.Esperate, esperate!

I got to know Antonio, a student from Pamplona in the País Vasco, the city where the famous running of the bulls hails from. I listened to him and Sergio talk about the FC Barça match against Real Betis that was tonight. Note to self, see fútbol match some weekend soon. Antonio asked me if I liked Obama, and I told him that I did, and he was better than the alternatives (“Los republicanos no traen ningún solución a la mesa, sólo dicen “no!” para todo…) but the rest of the States didn’t seem to agree with me at the current moment and this past November. And to be fair, I told him, Obama had many promises but was rendered inept porque la crisis. “Sí, esta es una situación que nos relaciona, con Zapatero,” he said. I was somewhat aware myself of how the Spanish prime minister had hit the same trouble Obama did when the financial crash began, only his roadblocks weren’t universal healthcare and bailouts, but rather pensions and labor reforms he had promised and just couldn’t deliver on. Just a few weeks ago in December the Spanish air traffic controllers union held a surprise strike for a day, and the Spanish military had to come in and direct planes. I then saw a headline out of La Vanguardía, Barcelona’s flagship Berliner-format newspaper, that someone had left on the table, about Chinese President Hu Gintao’s first official State visit to the US, and a picture of him with Biden. That’s when I realized that I had absolutely no clue what the heck was going on en los Estados Unidos ahora. Heck, I knew more about the dictatorial crisis in Tunisia or Angela Merkel’s slim chances than I did about my own country’s civics. Despite my best intentions, this would prove to be a recurring theme for the next several days.

Before I knew it though, it was noon, and I had yet another IES orientation class to get to at Plaça Catalunya. I said goodbye to my new friends (!) and headed up a few blocks toward the Marina metro station.

I’ve since forgotten what that orientation session was about (I think it might have been a touchy-feely activity about differences and challenges we had encountered in Barcelona to this point – for my part, I was adjusting quite well and really didn’t have any complaints other than jet lag), but at the end our instructor told us that afternoon starting at 4:00 we would have to take part in a mandatory gymkhana, a Spanish “scavenger hunt” in the city. She handed out  a packet to everyone that detailed the route we needed to take – from the Jaume I metro stop, through El Born and the Parc de la Ciutadella, ending at the Arc di Triumf – and what we needed to look for. Despite it taking up the time that I was desperately looking forward to taking a siesta, I was actually moderately excited to do this, it seemed like a fun teambuilding activity that would finally allow me to get to know some IES students better, but alas, it seemed us optimists were in the minority in the room: a dreadful, dejected “oh my goodness why is this mandatory?” look swept over a significant swath – though not all – of the room. Man, I hadn’t really encountered many warm and cheery feelings at the IES center in my two days so far…so far my time at the UPF was winning out.

Our instructor told us we needed to pick a leader for the scavenger hunt to turn in the final form – there were field trip prizes for the team which found the most sites in the city. Nobody was quick to volunteer. For some reason or another – it may have been because I had talked more/asked the most questions in the Orientation session – she looked at me, and in that way professors have of forcing an idea upon students underneath a thin veneer of “its just a suggestion, honest!” asked if I wanted to be leader. What was I going to do, say no? And so I was now in charge of a group of people I didn’t really know yet and expected to in some way lead the charge on this mandatory activity. This could be either good or bad, time would tell.

I managed to get everybody’s name on my sheet and coordinate a meeting point and time with almost everyone before the class dissolved quicker than Alka Seltzer into the hallway. Now, with my free afternoon whisked out from under me, I had about an hour and a half with which to cram some sort of nap in. I went up to the third floor and found a not-entirely-uncomfortable-but-pretty-close-to-it bench where I lay down and closed my eyes for about an hour.

Before I knew it, about five of us were at the decided-upon meeting point at 4:00. I guess we’re running on Mediterranean time already. Within 10 minutes, a few more showed up, but it still wasn’t our whole class. The most entrepreneurial of us at the front decided the heck with the rest of them, it was time to go.

We took the metro to our starting point, walked down Carrer Argentinaria – we had to guess what this street was known for trading a lot of centuries ago, and the Bar Platería gave us the sound clue it was Silver. We came across a Basque tapas bar by the name of Sagardi, and we went in and asked the bartender what they were called: pinxors. Our sheet said we had to try 2 varieties and describe what was in them. I forked over the 2E to try a crossaint with jamón ibérico, which was quite delicious. I’m not sure what it is about Iberian ham specifically that makes it so much better than regular ham, but I can’t get enough of the stuff. It’s almost better than pizza. Pizza con jamón ibérico – now that I gotta try.

Our next stop was the Cathedral del Mar, a prime example of Catalan Gothic architecture. We had to go inside and take a picture of the new stained-glass window that was sponsored by FC Barcelona. Man, this football club has its hands in everything. This also happened to be the first real old gothic European cathedral I had ever walked inside – St Paul’s in London isn’t that old, and isn’t gothic, and the same goes for the others in Moscow. My eyes exploded in wonderment at just how high the ceiling was when I walked in. Not quite as significant a feeling of smallness as the Christ the Redeemer cathedral-replica in Moscow – that’s the biggest single room I think I will ever be in in my life – but very, very tall.

Our next stop was the Museo de Picasso, which proved relatively tricky to find – left up a tiny alley that kept getting tinier and tinier. At the end of this alley, there was a bakery, which we had to go in and ask for the ingredients of a croqueta – I think that was it. I still haven’t explored the Ciutat Vella that much yet, and its still incomprehensible to me how many streets and alleys the Romans and such managed to cram in there. You could explore for weeks and not find them all. What’s more – there’s always something down them – a shop, bar, apartments, etc. You’ll be in the middle of a side street which you have no idea the route you took to get there, and find the best butcher shop you’ve ever laid eyes on. How do any of these establishments get repeat business?

Once we were out of the alley, our now slowly-dwindling in number group was presented with a much wider street and the “under rennovation” Mercat del Born, a huge circus-tent like structure with scaffolding all over, that once re-finished would rival La Boqueria in size. We were supposed to read something on the inscription for our gymkhana – gee, IES, thanks for making sure there were no barriers, like, say, scaffolding and construction in the way! Pretty organized of you.

No matter though, the few of us left soldiered on into the Parc de la Ciutadella to look at some statues of Iguanas, the Geological and Natural History Museums, the Zoo, and the Parliament of Catalunya.

Our route ended at the Passeig de Luis Companys and the Arc di Triumf, a famed Catalonian independentista who got a wide street and red brick monument dedicated to him for the Universal Exposition in 1888. With sighs of relief from the few girls in the group who had worn bad-walking shoes and even high heels, we headed over to the Metro stop. There were less than 6 of us who finished – the gymkhana had taken about 2 hours, and it was now about 6pm. As the leader, my sheet was the most fully-complete, so I volunteered to head back to the IES center to hand in our entry with Eleni, who had been our most prolific photographer, and Ryan, who needed to find a bathroom (we all did). When I made it back to our homestay, my living-mates Jeff and Scott were already back. Jeff’s group flat-out decided not to do the scavenger hunt, and Scott’s did a bit, then dispersed – similar to ours.

Just before dinner, our Resident Advisor came to check in with us for the first time. “Tatiana” was a second-year psychology student at the Universitat de Barcelona, with particularly good English. She sat down with Scott, Jeff, and I for about 15 minutes to talk about any problems or questions we had had about living in the homestay or in Barcelona – none of us really did, Fernanda was an excellent host – and to invite us to a small get-together tomorrow with her friends and the ten or so IES Americans living at the UB dorm, Sant Jordi, about a 10 minute walk from where we were.

Not too much later, my tired brain and body were later pleased to hear, that, because it was Thursday, Fernanda was going to make her weekly paella for us. Having never tried or really seen in person this most Spanish of Spanish cuisine and yet heard so much about it, I was interested to see what fate had in store. Fernanda’s cooking had already proven over the past few days to be absolutely exquisite, so despite my initial picky-eater reaction to almost everything, something that I’ve been working on getting rid of over the past several years but still lingers, I wasn’t worried.

Nor should I have been. Paella is named after the wide, medium-depth pan it is cooked in, and is a sort of rice casserole with vegetables, shellfish and other seafood, and sometimes chicken or meat, and any number of seasonings and/or sauces. It could have been how hungry I was at that point, but Fernanda’s receipe was great, especially the mussels!

Today, Wednesday January 12, I was extremely pleased to not be that rushed in the morning. The first item on my agenda was my first IES Abroad orientation class at 12:25 in the afternoon, so I finally had time to sleep in this morning and begin recuperating from jet lag. Since I wasn’t rushing anywhere, it also gave me more time to appreciate all the little things about our apartment home for the next four months.

It’s a cosy fit, but our abode is very nicely laid out and comfortable. We’re on the top floor #4 of the building, what Barcelonans call the “atic.” There’s also a “superatic” which is the penthouse, and the ground floor is actually zero. Elevator buttons are really confusing in this city. The IES center building elevators themselves have a button for 0, the ground lobby, E, the “solarium” which is basically a stair landing, and finally the regular numbers. Floor “1″ is really the 3rd off the ground. Takes some getting used to.

Back to our apartment though: You open our door with an old fashioned Harry Potter-esque key and lock, and have an entryway of sorts (was still replete with Nativity scene and decorated christmas tree when I first arrived), and immediately on the right is a short hallway with a coat closet, and my room is at the end of that. I have a bookshelf, desk, decent office chair, wardrobe, more dresser drawers than I have belongings, mirror, nightstand, several lamps, a ceiling fan, and firm but comfy bed. My window can open fully to the atrium – makes a bit of an echo chamber, but the roof is ventilated so I always have fresh air and can tell what time of day it is or if the sun’s out by how much light is coming through. No view aside from other inside apartment windows and the atrium though. No matter, as I actually really like the interior decoration of my room: maps! Two huge, detailed Michelin maps of Europe and España are on opposite walls, and they provide me endless minutes of wonderment. One wall also has a thumbtack-board type material, and below the window is a cool angular/circle drawing that one of Fernanda’s children did years ago. Also, I have a curved, dome-like ceiling, and parquet-pattern wood floors. Can you get any more European?

Aside from my room, we have Fernanda’s bedroom, a small den/TV room, combined dining/living room, 2 bathrooms (1 with shower), Scott/Jeff’s room, and a small kitchen, where the laundry machine is. Fernanda does 2 loads a week for each of us. This is more luxurious than Haverford. I’m not sure how I’ll be able to go back.

The building itself feels kinda beton brut brutalism that makes me think post-Franco 1970s, but has an Art Noveau form and features to it that make me think 1930/40s. I like it. We have an outside courtyard-overhang area at the front door, and are situated at the corner of a three-way intersection with Plaça Artòs at the opposite corner.

I had to quit admiring architecture at some point: there were orientations to attend and routines to establish. Not wasting any time I took a shower and got dressed. Once again thankful that I decided to unpack everything that first day, I picked out one of my favorite, blue, it-looks-like-I’m-wearing-an-undershirt-but-I-fooled-you-its-just-a-second-collar long sleeves, put on a belt (because they’re classy in Europe), and chowed some breakfast. Once again, I have to rave about Boulé brand Mermelada Extra Fresa. Who knew the Germans could take simply strawberries, sugar, pectin, and citric acid, and make a fruit jelly that tastes better than anything that has ever graced my mouth before? Why don’t we have marmelade this good in the States? I might have to import it if it comes to that.

I made the six minute walk to the Ferrocarriles station, and 12 minutes after that I was at Plaça Catalunya for the first time. Like any deserving European city worth its salt, Barcelona has a grand central plaza that is always fun to see in every weather condition at every time of day. Catalunya’s specialties include the huge five pointed marble star in the center (huge as in it literally almost takes up the whole plaza), the mountains upon mountains (there are more than you’re used to seeing in a city) of pigeon flocks that walk, land, fly, and torpedo in the center, the Caja Madrid to the north, El Corte Inglés to the east, FNAC to the west, and Las Ramblas and the Ciutat Vella to the south.

I knew the general direction of where the IES Center was, and after passing over it twice, I got a clue and entered the giant swinging door that a bunch of students were standing in front of. It’s a standard office building, shared with translations.com and a few other companies; whereas I was expecting something more educational. I stepped in the aforementioned confusing elevator, guessed on a number, and found my orientation classroom on one of the three floors IES has at Ronda Sant Pere, 5. Yes, they also put the building number after the street in Spain.

The building might be staid, but the IES floors are anything but: with bright blue carpet, red chairs, and walls painted a screaming playful rich chartreuse, just by walking in you feel cool and hip. The 10 or so of us in SP350 Advanced Intensive Spanish Grammar, collected in the room and made introductions. Folks from Penn State, Illinois, DC, and Cornell – and me, the lone Haverfordian. Our orientation instructor walked in and began speaking Castellano, and explained since we were the “advanced” group, of course we were prepared to handle orientation entirely in Spanish. Gulp. I was very glad, however, to notice a prolonged wave of panicked looks, gulps, and nail-biting around the room after this announcement from the other students. Maybe I placed myself in the right class after all.

This first class involved an introductory activity where we talked to the person next to us, made a nametag for them, and presented their personality for them to the class, the world-renowned, Grammy-nominated, classic Powerpoint presentation, “How not to get Pickpocketed, and Other Useful Safety Information,” a thoroughly mediocre video about our “Study Tour” to Valencia in 2 weeks, and ever-crucial WiFi security codes.

After un hora y media, we were free, and thank goodness, because we were all hungry by 2pm. I stuck with two other kids from my class, Ryan and Nathalie, and met their respective roommates Jacki and John on the sidewalk outside, where we debated where to go for lunch. Jacki had to go back to the IES center at 4 for a make up orientation, and I had to go back at 5 for my UPF orientation. We decided on a thoroughly-touristy-priced tapas place on the other side of El Corte Inglés, Café Kilimanjaro.

At 4:00, Jacki went back to IES, and the rest of us wandered all the way down Las Ramblas, me for the first time. Having read about this street in the research for my 20-page research paper comparing Barcelona’s and London’s port renovations and evolutionary stages last year, and knowing how central a feature it has always been in the city’s history, I was excited to see it – but more than a bit cautious of the pickpocketing IES had warned us about. Our walk was uneventful, aside from noticing the horror of a Dunkin’ Donuts in front of La Boquería market, and at the end we arrived at the Passeig de Colom and the beginnings of the port. Situated in the middle of a roundabout intersection with Las Ramblas and the Passeig, an extremely tall Corinthian column topped with a statue of Christopher Columbus commemorates the spot where Columbus returned to Spain to report back to Ferdinand and Isabella the results of his voyage to the “New” World. Theoretically, the statue’s arm points west to the Americas, but in actuality it points east. Sculptors of antiquity would have done well to take a geography class.

Unlike Columbus, walking over the boardwalk toward the Moll d’Espanya we weren’t discovering new land for the first time, but a new sea: the Mediterranean. On this pier in the middle of the port with today’s sunny and cloud-free weather, the water was a shining navy blue, ever so slightly rippled from the sea breeze coming in. Looking all around the port area – from the Barceloneta district, the new W hotel, the Balearic ferries coming into the dock, sailboats heading out, the towering hill of Montjuïc, the ornate Baroque administration buildings of the port and other antiques on the waterfront, and the modern Mare Magnum shopping center behind us – I took in that singular source of activity and advantage Barcelona has always had and rival Madrid has never been able to surmount. There is just something exciting about port cities that elevates them above all the rest, particularly those in the Mediterranean. While the rest of Europe was being generally barbaric, here on the Mediterranean, in Barcelona, Genoa, Naples, Valencia, Marseilles, and Nice, the Renaissance set its first sparks and the very first communicative and commercial “network” of cities arose hundreds of years before anything like fiber optic cable or airplanes were on the drawing board. To me, it’s exciting to imagine what it would have been like to stand on the top floor of the Customs Office and look out over Barcelona’s waterfront in the 15-1700′s, to experience the sounds and sights of that early transportation infrastructure and primitive but ingenuous technology, listen to the stories and knowledge sailors and captains told of lands they had just come from, read the original newspapers first printed daily to detail what cargoes were arriving and departing, and witness the financial and political power that came with access to the growing trade and commerce. Somehow sending a package by UPS or FedEx today, though still rather amazing when you think about it, just doesn’t convey that same sense of wonder as an early port might have.

My daydream was interrupted by the realization that I had to be back at the IES Center at 5 for my UPF orientation. The four of us began to walk back up Las Ramblas, me leading the way at a slightly faster pace than everyone else because I was anxious about time. I need not have worried, though, as when I got to the third floor I was astounded to find close to 80 other students waiting in a room for several minutes. One of the IES deans came to the front of the room and explained that we would actually be heading down to the UPF by Metro, where their staff would give us an orientation. As we came to the Plaza Urquinaona metro stop, it became apparent that several students hadn’t even bought Metro cards yet! I smiled internally, grateful that I had attended my first UPF class and “been there and done all this” yesterday morning. I talked to some students who had known their classes at the business school had started yesterday, but hadn’t been lucky enough to have a host as generous as mine to orient them, and they simply didn’t attend. Other students were completely shocked by the realization that their classes had already started. Meanwhile, here I was talking to them about the combination bar/cafeteria in each building, how massive the courtyards were, which metro stop we were going to, and all the other I’m-a-super-knowitall details.

We were herded into a stadium-like classroom in the Roger de Lluria building, and at every seat was one of the big glossy red UPF folders (with international student info inside) I had seen on the subway yesterday! Yay, carry one of these around and I look like a local! UPF’s International Director talked to us from the front of the room, and aside from showing everyone how to use the “Aula Global,” the UPF version of the online class Blackboard software (again, been here done this), I quickly realized that “orientation” meant “university advertisement where we talk about how great we are,” for the most part. From 5-7pm in the afternoon, when we were all hungry and tired, this got to be pretty boring. I started flipping through the more-interesting information in the folder, the conversation level started rising and there was a lot of “hush hush, we need to tell you more about how many degree programs we have this is important” from the front. The one high point was at the end, where they showed us a thoroughly hilarious full-length music video hundreds of UPF students had put together as a way to “say hello”:

I think I’m gonna like it at the UPF.

No matter though, I was up now, and there were showers to take, Spanish “Frosties” to eat (still complete with Tony the Tiger on the front of the box), and subways to catch. I left the flat with Alberto at 8 (who was nice enough to lead me along on this first day), and we walked down to the Maria Cristina stop on the Avenida Diagonal. At 8:10 in the morning, the train was – relative to other urban subway systems I’ve used – rather deserted. But after we took the 10 or so stops to Passeig de Gracia, the yellow line we transferred to was standing – nigh, pushing – room only.

And then I discovered: I may be in a foreign land, but God only ever created one species of college student. The second the doors opened at the Cituadella I Villa Olimpica stop, a flood of red Universitat Pompeu Fabra bright-red folders, iPods, outfits ranging from “posh” to “american” to “european hipster,” backpacks, and conversation in just about every language I could think of poured off the train and onto the escalators. I’m sorry Haverford College Study Abroad office, but you’d do well to stop telling people they don’t know what t-shirts, iPods, backpacks, and sneakers are in foreign countries. Those items are cross-cultural. Gotta love globalization.

Anyway, I walk the final block and make it to the Ciutadella campus of the Universitat Pompeu Fabra. Alberto and I take a circuitous route to find classroom 101 for my “City and Urban World” class, but eventually do, and he turns to go back home as I walk in scarcely 2 minutes late. Just like Haverford, there’s about 40 students in the room (okay bigger than HC) chatting, checking their phones, passing around iPods, whipping out notepads, and the like for a few minutes. Then the professor comes in and announces his presence.

“I’m sorry, but if you saw the syllabus, the class is in English. You can answer questions in Catalan or Castillian or whatever language if you’re not yet comfortable with that and I’ll do my best to respond or translate, but the next sentence is the only one I will say in Spanish.” El profe tells us, then follows through and does his announcement in Spanish, he cracks a few jokes, explains the syllabus, and we’re off to the lecture. In the beginning I was acutely aware of how uncomfortable I was being in a new building, with people I didn’t know sitting next to, behind, and in front of me, but in 10 minutes that all subsided. Thanks to el profe’s easily-understood accent, I forgot about Spain and for the next hour it was like I was back in the United States taking a class at Haverford again. Everything was normal.

Then, halfway through, a coffee break came. Unsure of what to do, I stood up with unease and lightly paced out into the hallway as I saw some other students did for a few minutes. Bored of the lack of activity there, I went back in the classroom and sat back down. My ears were thankful to find heavily-accented British English, but English nonetheless, being spoken in the row of seats behind me. There I introduced myself to two Erasmus exchange students from King’s College London, Sarah and Steven. I talked to them a bit about Erasmus, and how I had gotten there through IES and flew in only yesterday. I also introduced myself to the person sitting next to me, a Catalan student from Barcelona herself, named Maika. She asked me why I had decided to come to Barcelona, so I explained I wanted to learn and improve my Spanish. “But we speak Catalan here, its so much better!” she balked. She then explained to me that Catalan was more closely related to French and even Italian than it was Spanish. A lightbulb went off in my head: the pronunciation of all the signs I had been seeing, with odd spellings, cedillas, d’apostrophes, it all made so much more sense now.

But before I knew it break was over. At least I’ve made conversation with some students, I thought to myself. The last 24 hours had given me a feeling of isolation, along with the disorientation. Like a placebo drug to my Liberal-Artisan mind though, the second hour of lecture brought back the same relaxing “normal Americanness” feeling. The professor later showed some slides of Las Vegas and some random Stepford-wives-like Florida suburb, and me being the resident American in the nearest 3 rows and possibly the entire room, had to respond to jokes about our country’s poor urban decisions to a roomful of European cityfanatics. “But my family only visited Las Vegas once, and it was to see the Grand Canyon!” I defended.

Then we were dismissed. I only had a notebook and pen, so I packed up quickly. I didn’t have anyone to wait for and wasn’t feeling terribly outgoing yet even though I had made attempts in the break, so I decided to set out immediately and explore the UPF campus.

“Le Pompeu,” (pronounced pom-PAY-ewe), as I found out over the next few days what local students call it, is more of an urban university than I’ve come to expect in the States. As a subterranean exposition hallway in the Library told me (in Catalan, Spanish, French, and English), there are three campuses: mine, the Ciutadella, the Communications Campus in the newly-gentrifying post-industrial neighborhood of Poblenou, a few scattered buildings in Ciutat Vella (the old Roman quarter where all the tourists are), and a biomedical Campus del Mar overlooking the beach between Barceloneta and Port Olimpic. I assume there are dormitories, but they’re not very close, likely privately run separate from the UPF, and most students have apartments or commute from home anyway. Certainly takes away from the “residential” atmosphere and associated club and school spirit activity that US colleges have.

Though I have yet to visit the others (As a cities major, I do want to spend some time in Poblenou), the Ciutadella campus is compact, but it still has a bit of a campus feel. To the west is the Parc de la Ciutadella, Barcelona’s main central park that was converted from the land where the old imperial city fortress stood. So even though there’s no greenery actually on the UPF campus, every time you go outside and look left, you can see a few trees and appreciate their calming effect. The campus itself is made of only about 4 buildings from what I could see. Two of these are the main, large, square-with-the-corners-lobbed off (look up the octagonal shape of the blocks in Barcelona’s l’Eixample neighborhood and you’ll get it) classroom buildings – Roger Lluria and Jaume I. Both are painted an appealing yet unusual darkish carnation pink, and both have humongous courtyards in the center; Roger’s enclosed and made of brick all around, and Jaume’s open-air but with concrete floors. As I would find out later, they are historically renovated ex-military barracks – presumably the courtyards were designed for battalion marches or some such function. As a Quaker and urban enthusiast, I can’t possibly think of a better use for a former military facility than a university, and to keep the historic buildings intact, to boot! There’s also the Economics grad school building, a new looking glass structure in the back of Jaume I, and then the (excuse my Catalan) “Disposit de les Aigues.” The medieval brick “water castle” [its not really a tower] has been reconverted into a section of the library. Such high ceilings are a problem when you’re walking around exploring, because your footsteps echo and you cringe as you see all the trying-to-study eyes of students on you. The main entrance to the library, and loud, active lobby with computer stations, tables, and students collaborating, is actually in the basement between the Roger and Jaume buildings. You can follow as many corridors and book stacks as could fit in your average subway station between the two main classroom “barracks” and the water depository. I already was very glad I decided to register in one of the foreign universities, because I don’t care whatever resources and facilities the IES center had, there’s no way it could match this library or this campus. I couldn’t wait to get my UPF International Student ID card.

After exploring, though, I was starving. I found a combination cafeteria/bar in the Roger Lluria courtyard, but the menu was in Catalan and I wasn’t quite sure how the ordering system worked, so I passed. Thinking, like any college neighborhood in the States, the next few blocks would yield many a cheap local grub joint (or even pubs here in Europe!), I ventured off campus.

Not so. After passing many cafes with menus that were too expensive, and several that appeared closed, I finally found one that I might be able to deal with (free WiFi zone sticker in the window and “hamburgesas” on the menu). I walked inside, only to have the bartender tell me that the cook wasn’t yet in (it was 12:40pm) and he didn’t know how to make lunches. Strike the first inconvenience with the later, elongated Spanish daily schedule for me. Disappointed, I decided to go to the most touristy of all places: Plaza Catalunya. Surely something would be open there. Along the way, I bought myself some Spanish Head and Shoulders shampoo at the nearest Capralbo supermarket (gotta love those big multinationals, thanks Procter and Gamble!) and found the Red line Metro stop. Results of Plaza Catalunya: A #3 Whopper-type deal on the Burger King menu for 7 Euros. If it’s any consolation, I felt really, really, really terrible about resorting to that even before my first 24 hours were up, but I just wanted cheap food that I knew what was, especially at that point in the afternoon when I hadn’t eaten in 7 hours.

Without much else to do that first day, I went to the subterranean regional rail station beneath Plaza Catalunya to head home and take a siesta, have dinner, and call the day quits. One of the transit companies in Barcelona, the Ferrocarrilles de la Generalitat de Catalunya, the one I take most often because it’s closest to home, shares an acronym, FGC, with a famous Quaker organization. It gets me every time when I walk into a metro station with those three bolded letters FGC. Imagine trying to hold silent worship in a subway station. I bet it might actually be kinda cool.

I “alighted” the train at the Sarria stop, and now walked through the “downtown” of our community for the first time in the superior afternoon sunlight. Alberto had taken us around on a tour the first night, and we had taken the metro down this morning earlier than the sun cared to wake up fully, so this was the first time I could see everything as it was meant to be. Last night on the tour, he showed us the town church that was built in 987, and explained that Sarria had its roots as a country estate village, where all the rich people a century ago went to spend their summer weekends, away from the crowds of Barcelona. Now, it’s been absorbed into the city and has a more diverse population, but is still a bit like a village. I really like our neighborhood of Sarria. It’s a good place to come home to each day, and there’s a lot American towns could learn from.

First of all, the 6 minute walk to the FGC station is so, so exquisitely pedestrian friendly. Narrow cobblestone streets the whole way, making it a aesthetically pleasing walk as well. You do encounter vehicular traffic, particularly motocicletas, but the streets are narrow enough that they go slow, the rumbling stones announce their presence, and there’s rarely more than one or two every 3 minutes. Along main street, we have linen and household shops, fruterias, bank branches, a mobile phone store, bars, computer stores, periodical stands, restaurants, markets – the works. Even if you’re not looking to buy anything, window shopping along the way to the station can be a lot of fun, just to see what’s on offer. And boy, is it convenient, particularly the Barclay’s branch, which theoretically has a no-fee relationship with Bank of America.

When you get closer to our humble homestay, you run into Plaza Artos. As far as European plazas go, this one’s quite modest and quite small, shaped like a triangle sandwiched between two intersections and paved in gray stone. There’s the Doctor Coffee shop at the back end, which does a roaring trade no matter what the hour of the day. There’s a playground in the center, and the #66 bus stop off to one side.

Sarria is compact, and it has a calm but sure sense of neighborhood identity that makes you feel safe. It looks nice to walk through, and it’s not that busy or crowded. But perhaps most importantly: it’s active. Whether it’s the outdoor tables of Doctor Coffee full with rapidly gossiping “futbol moms” waiting for the nearby Catholic school to get out in the afternoon, the kids on the playground, the few (but present) motocicletas buzzing around, or all the strolling window shoppers and proprietors at every inch of street-level access, there’s always other people and sounds about and nothing feels empty. To accomplish this sense of activity and closeness (which is what makes people feel safe and at home) while at the same time not having the mountains of bustling crowds like on Las Ramblas (which is still safer-feeling than a completely quiet and desolate dark alley, but only just) is truly an accomplishment. Adding to this communal feel is the first building that you see when you exit the ferrocarriles station: Casa Orlandai, one of two “Centre Civics” in Sarria, a community center that every neighborhood in Barcelona has, with a cafe, workshops, artistic and other events, and municipal WiFi internet with free access – a “digital divide” busting tool that we need more of in the United States. There are always folks at the Centre Civic, just like Doctor Coffee, which means la gente de Sarria actually interact with each other, with their neighbors on a regular basis. Interaction and familiarity are important means by which society conquers political division and social diversity, and back in America our populace has and/or takes too few opportunities to engage in either.

The closest I could compare Sarria to in the States is somewhere like Hopedale or Milford, Massachusetts, or an urban center like Beacon Hill or Brooklyn – but they all fall woefully short. Hopedale and Milford are still too much like suburbia – too many double-yellow lined roads, too many cars, not enough shops and plazas, not compact enough, not good enough sidewalks. Beacon Hill and Brooklyn do better in these respects, but again, the car rules the streetlife, and there’s still not a feeling of cozy, welcoming public space. If there’s one thing Barcelona gets, it’s how to do public space. It needs to be active, a bit cluttered, and compact to be welcoming, and you need to have enough little “spits” of it in enough places that every community has their own to enjoy. Central Park is nice, but wouldn’t it be great if it was half it’s size, and you had that many extra acres of small local plazas and yards like Plaza Artos to sprinkle throughout New York? And don’t give skyscraper developers permission to build higher if they turn some of their land into a huge, empty, concrete “sidewalk” and let them call it “public space.” Put a fountain in, some benches, tables, trees – make it cluttered, alive, busy. If you build it, people will use it.

Boy, am I tired. Like really, really flat-out, I’ve never been so completely exhausted in my life, tired. But, I am here – that gloriously independent city sandwiched between the Llobregat and the Besós, Montjüic and Tibidabo. I have made it to Barcelona.

It all started yesterday afternoon, when I was still running around in my PJs whittling down all the clothing choices and necessities I could possibly use for four months to pack and fit into the two, 23 kilogram suitcases Swissair was going to allow me. Somehow, I finished on time and our whole family dashed to Boston’s Logan airport that evening. I had already checked in online and taken a gamble on a bulkhead-aisle seat on Swiss’ A340, in the hopes that I would have more legroom, and at least no one would lean back on me. I dropped the bags off at checkin – one was 23.6, but the agent was nice to me – and shared a last drink with my sister, mom, and dad. My last 2 hours in America, I thought. What am I doing? On the plus side, that was also my last soft drink sweetened with high-fructose corn syrup.

After much hugging and pulling-on-coat from a frenetic mom, and a knowing chuckle from a dad who’s done this countless times before (and never gets any reaction to it, much to his chagrin), I breezed through a the non-existant security line. Of course, it wouldn’t be a good TSA checkpoint if they didn’t mistake your plastic laptop case as highly-enriched uranium from North Korea at least once, and this one proved to be no exception, but I was in no rush. Meanwhile, the full-body-scanner attendant told me to walk over to her TSA colleague and wish him a happy birthday. “One heck of an embarrassing day this has been, with hundreds of random strangers wishing me luck,” his rolling-eyes and funky smile seemed to say when I gave him his umpteenth millionth wish. After probably the first out and out laugh I’ve shared with a bunch of TSA agents, it was time to sit at the gate for a lonely hour (fortunately punctuated by a phone call from a good friend) – not quite gone, not quite going either.

Finally they boarded us. I was sitting next to a guy named Bob, behind a bulkhead that was unforgiving in the room it gave your feet, but did have a nice coathanger, and in front of – as I discovered from some odd barking while taxiing, and later a sharp preventative jab in the back when I tried to lean my seat back – a lady and her Furby-sized dog and Paris Hiltonesque carrier. I have to sit upright in front of a barking dog for 7 hours? Uh uh, no way. I moved over into the middle two bulkead seats in the 4 part of the 2-4-2, where I had an understanding Englishman to my left and a free spot to stretch my legs in an odd-”J” shape to my right. From 12am to 3am EST, when the cabin lights were off, I tried desperately to fall asleep, to no avail. Relaxation, sure, but relief from continuous thoughts and sentience that would come back to bite me today, no.

WHAM! Here comes the cabin lights and sun at 3am with the coast of France, Good Morning, have a croissant, hope you slept well, our German-native speaking Swiss crew comes around. I didn’t, though thanks for asking, it’s just a shame you guys didn’t offer me the empty business class seat I could see all night. Putz around on the inflight TV for another hour, and then we’re descending into a very cloudy, rather rainy Flughafen Zürich. The weather kinda looked like my brain felt.

But the adrenaline surges. One down, one to go! A tram to the other terminal! Schengen passport control! I’m an unemployed student and they let me IN! Where do I go to collect Social Security, snigger snigger? I have an hour before Swiss 1954 to Barcelona, but I figure I might as well go through security and get it over with, thinking it’s as bad as America is usually. Plus, all these duty free shops are still too expensive/boring, though, had I looked around more, I might’ve found a Burger King somewhere.

Zurich security for gates A70-79. No line, wow. “Hello,” I say, indicating through polite subtext that I simply won’t understand should the agent launch into the German, Italian, or French that other Swissair and Swissport employees use with no rhyme or reason it seems. “Any laptops?” he says in return. Yeah, two, actually…Oh, you mean you can put those in a bin with their cases still on, and the Swiss don’t catch you for the terrorist you are? How shocking! No body scanner? Man, no wonder you guys are so untargeted and neutral. No passive agressive fashion divas who are upset you threw away their nailclippers.

OK…gate 72…73…74, ah ha, the 12:20 to BCN. Oh, we don’t a plane yet. Right, the 12:30 to BCN. Now to find some food. Coffeeshop with german menu…vending machine….hmm, maybe if I go down this corridor….Other coffeeshop with german menu. Whelp, I guess we’re skipping the Whoppers. “Tomaten und Motzarrellen,” I understand that, sure. Oh, and that sugarized Coke I keep hearing about. 7 CHFs? 5 CHFs for a soda? What’s a CHF? You mean the Swiss have their own money? This sandwich the size of a potato chip is 7 of anything? I have 10 Euros…that internet kiosk gives me a CHF/euro exchange rate of 5 minutes per CHF versus 8:24 per Euro…I didn’t do so well in calculus, so that doesn’t help me. I have an American $20, does that count? Apparently, as he yanks it from my hand, and gives me three diminutive little coins back. You think a country that prides itself on its banking would care more about how substantial its coinage looks…but I have edible calories now.

Now boarding. I wait for row 11 to be called, walk down, and find it is indeed an exit row like I hoped…but what’s this? Another exit behind? I can’t recline? Curses! At least I have a window. And there’s nobody next to me. Maybe I’ll put my jacket down there. Fredrich von Swissair attendant comes by, yaps some German at me (I probably look the part better than all the Catalans), and he puts it in the overhead. Shoot, my book and ipod were in there. I guess it is just an hour long flight. If we ever get off the ground. This is your captain speaking, once again in German, English, French, and Italian, (it’s rather amazing how well I tune out the other languages and then zero in on his English message), we’re negotiating with our ground crew to wait for some of your bags from connecting flights in just a few minutes. Good, I think, those could be mine! “Also, we have a passenger discrepancy between our manifest papers and the number of people on the plane.” Well, that might not be good. Wouldn’t want to be on the first Swissair hijacked flight. Certainly would challenge the neutral stance, I bet. Glad they’re figuring that out too.

Takeoff! Yay, another sandwich, this time it’s free! And drinks. Oh, I wonder what german is for apple juice or carbonated mineral water. Hey, my row mate got both in one. That’s even better. Think fast Andrew….”Al mismo” I utter in my most convincing Castilian. The attendant understood it, wahoo! I sit back, admire my first quick-on-the-feet interaction in the language I have to live with for the next four months, and watch Grenoble and eventually the Pyrenees pass by my window.

Before I know it, we’re descending. I see plenty of tiny mountain ranges along the coast and in the distance…several pueblecitos on the coast with their recognizable white plaster walls and red terra cotta roof shingles. Yes, this is Iberia. I’m relaxing already. Then, without warning, a large metropolitan expanse erupts into view. Could it be? I only see a few tall buildings, probably Diagonal Mar. That kinda looks like the Torre Agbar…oh, wow…OK, confirmed, that most certainly totally couldn’t be anything but La Sagrada Familia. Touchdown! ¡Estamos aquí!

I walk out of the plane from my privileged row 11, and into…wow, this may be the newest/nicest/most elegant/gigantic airport terminal I’ve ever set foot in. It sparkles, for Pete’s sake! As un edificio designed by Ricardo Bofill should, I discover later.

I get my bags, emerge from customs, and sure enough, there are those friendly black IES letters. The three of us who were on the Swiss flight gather up, and our guide takes us to the business center, just as I read in the arrival papers. A nice lady shows me where to put my stuff down, and its off to registration. It only takes the IES staff about 30 minutes to ask for our cell phone numbers, get our passport numbers, and show us the addresses of our homestays. At the suggestion of the housing director, “John” from Indiana University and I will share a cab to our somewhat-close homestays. First, I go back to change USD$200 into Euros, but not before I get lost, and have to practice the Spanish again and ask the tourism office for the “oficina para cambiar dinero”. Now, with my E$144 in hand, John and I cram our bags into a Prius and approach Barcelona on the expressway with Lady Gaga on the radio.

The traffic signs are different! The cars are really tiny! They have roundabouts! There are really tall freaky modernist buildings next to the ocean! And I thought flying in was cool.

Our cab driver expertly finds the Carrer in the foothills that my homestay is at, and John and I talk a bit and split the fare 50/50, which works out to E$15 for each of us. The driver gets my bags, and zoom…he’s gone. Good thing I looked this place up on Google Streetview, so I kinda-sorta think I know what’s the right building to go to. I cross the street and…

“Ah! Andrew, estás aqui!” a shout comes from inside the large recessed entranceway. An older woman rushes out to me and opens the gate. “You are Andrew, yes? You speak Spanish, any Spanish?” she interrogates. “Un poquito…tú estás Maria Fernanda?” I manage to muster. “Sí, sí, just Fernanda, is easier. I can speak English today but tomorrow – is forbidden. IES says this. Bueno.”

She leads me into the atrium of the apartment complex and over to an elevator, and here comes a man introduced to me as Alberto – I promptly forget his name after perhaps half a second, my brain is so swamped. I’m not even sure who he is, whether another apartment owner or what. Didn’t even cross my mind at the time that he might be Fernanda’s husband.

We ascend the four floors with my two huge suitcases in a very small two-person elevator. I can already tell Fernanda loves to talk. “Cuantos años tienes?” Veinte. I can barely stand up straight at this point, much less condend with this stimulus.

We reach the apartment door, Fernanda opens it and we move to the right. “This is your room, the others already arrived and are over there.” A single free neuron in my brain wonders why one of my other two roommates didn’t take the single if they arrived first before I realize I probably shouldn’t question my good luck. My beyond-all-expectations good luck. Fernanda walks around and shows me the dresser, closet, window, lights, plugs…wonderful information, I know this is all useful but my head is just spinning right now.

Alberto shows up again, and interrupts the tour of Vital Apartment Information. Still don’t know who he is or why he came into Fernanda’s apartment. “Fernanda, Fernanda, mira mira, esta cansado! Él nesecita a dormir! Fernanda!” They start to bicker a bit in Castilian. I really don’t know who to agree with. Yes, I would like to know how to get to the bathroom, but resting would be good too…

Finally we have some resolution. Says Alberto, “OK, Andrew, pack your suitcases and rest a las seis o siete, por dos horas, y después we take tour with others and dinner, yes? A las seis?” I don’t remember but I must have agreed to this, because the two of them left the room, closed the door, and I was alone again.

In my sleep deprived state I had the single, amazing contrary-to-what-I-normally-do stroke of genius to unpack all my suitcases entirely before sleeping. I would later thank myself for thinking this a thousand times over. The adrenaline was catching up to the stimulus of not two minutes before, I guess. Running on fumes, I put all my shirts on hangars and then fell down on the bed. I feel like I slept for a bit, because the next thing I noticed it was 6:30, but it must have been very shallow. Man, am I messed up now.

I change clothes and walk out to the bathroom, where I run into Scott and Jeff for the first time, my IES homestay-mates, and Fernanda and Alberto again. Fernanda makes us turkey and cheese sandwiches to tide us over, and Alberto gets his coat and leads us outside to take a tour of the neighborhood in the dark, street-lit, brisk, post 7pm fresh air. We see the train station, get tickets, find the plazas, walk down cobblestone streets, see a really old church, and find the park. I learn Scott is studying Finance and Econ and Jeff is studying business. Alberto learns I’m an “architecture” major, which provides much for him to talk about on this tour (I will dumb down “Augmentación y estructura de ciudades” for the rest of the semester to “archquitectura y planificación urbana”. Thankfully everybody in Barcelona understands urban planning is a field.). When we’re in the park, Alberto points out a jagged gateway as evidence that “Barcelona is the capital, world capital of design.” In my tired and shivering mind, I may have feigned more interest than I actually had in this zig-zaggy blue door, but to its credit, it was unusual. “Looks like a Picasso painting,” I say. Scott chuckles, “Yeah, like something out of his Blue Period.” It did, and I remember Scott’s response here instantly – OK, I’m going to be able to get along with this guy. Anybody who makes jokes about something as liberal artsy as Picasso’s Blue period is OK in my book.

We’re back about 2 hours later for dinner. Chicken, salad, and pan con tomate, or if you’re catalan, pa amb tomaquèt – the dish all the guidebooks have been telling me about. Fernanda’s cooking is quite excellent, and just the thing I need to go to bed.

Day one in Foreign Continentlandia, complete.

But, rather than panicking, I had the presence of mind to think resourcefully. I could barely flick the card with my longest fingernail. I pulled out my keychain and used another discount card I had mounted to it to slide up over my ATM card in the slot, and then with the half-millimeter of space I had left, took a key and used the serrated edge to grab onto the raised numbers of the card and extricated my rectangular plastic friend ever so delicately. If you’ve ever tried to get out of a very tight parallel-parking spot, you know how it is: pull it a little bit this way, adjust, pull some more, adjust, pull some more.

After about 3 minutes of effort, I had siphoned it out just far enough that I could grab it with my fingers; once again, I was reunited with my monetary lifeline. Relieved, I had the idea to warn anyone else who might get caught in the same situation, and stuffed a deposit envelope scribbled with the words “DONT USE SLOT BROKEN” into the slot. Frustrated, I drove down the street another mile and a half to use the ATM there, which worked fine.

But there’s a proper fix to this situation. Yes, Bank of America could pay its maintenance division overtime to check every small unstaffed ATM across the country. Or, if only some piece of software existed that allowed you to remotely monitor all your ATMs and determine if something was wrong, and if it was, you could actually fix it automatically by issuing the command “run card_eater_motors backwards();” And these ATMs are all connected to the internet already, so it wouldn’t even be that hard. Man, that would be cool!

Oh right, such a piece of software exists. It’s called Axeda ServiceLink. I help bug test it over the summers. It actually runs on Bank of America ATMs. Diebold ones, to be exact, thousands of them across the country. After I stuffed the deposit envelope in the slot, I looked up to see the manufacturer nameplate. The letters “NCR” are proudly emblazoned in silver across the top of the screen.

“Dear National Cash Register, Have I got a deal for you…”

Created by Oatmeal

I thought up many things I want to write about over the course of this week, but for now I’ll give the highlight reel:

1. I visited my grandpa Gus’s the first weekend, with my mom and half-Uncle from Virginia. It was somewhat of an unplanned visit, but I experienced a lot that I wasn’t expecting to, and because of that I’m even more appreciative of the time I was able to spend in Woodstock, New York than I normally am.

2. I got accepted to study abroad in Barcelona! Exciting! That means I’ll be missing Haverford next semester. Scary. I’ll talk more about this later.

3. The trusty Blackberry kicked the bucket in my bike crash a few weeks ago. Microphone broke – kinda hard to use a phone without one of those! Solution: a shiny black Blackberry Bold 9650! Holy cow, does it make a difference! There’s more memory, so it doesn’t freeze up every hour like the old one did, it has a web browser that can actually render decently, and a camera!

4. I drove back to Haverford early this break (Thursday), because I have a kitchen in Quaker House and I felt like spending some time here without homework to worry about. I drove back in a huge awful rainstorm in Garden State Parkway rush hour. Funny, because on the way up to Woodstock I was just thinking about how much I loved cross country driving.

5. I got to visit old graduated friends at their apartment in West Philly on Thursday evening! That was fun and long-awaited.

6. I decided yesterday to do something I’ve been meaning to do forever: take the train into Philly on a day where I have nothing to do and all the time in the world, and just wander around and explore with no particular goal. I was in the city for 5 hours. It was blissfully amazing.

7. While in the city, on South Street I splurged and bought myself a new hat! A black, fur-felt, wide-3″-brim “Outback” with a cool cross-stitched band. It provides a nice foil to my beloved brown Indiana Jones fedora. I’m just a little bit embarrassed about how much I paid for it. Little bit.