Fordham students enjoying the beginning of their time abroad. (Courtesy of Lusa Holmstrom for The Fordham Ram)

In a way, my study abroad experience began over a decade ago. My grandpa and my mom both spent a semester in Salzburg during their time as undergraduates in 1960 and 1987, respectively. Stories and fond memories of their time abroad fueled my love for travel and the knowledge that studying abroad would, at some point, become a shared experience. Uniquely for me, this involved SIM card stress, wall adapter searches and the impossible decision of what to download for my 15-hour journey from Los Angeles to Granada (I chose “The Holiday,” and never watched it). 

While the months leading up to this semester included long, panicked talks with my Spanish professor and trips to Lincoln Center to pick up my visa despite dropping it off at Rose Hill, the days leading up to my long-awaited flight included the organized chaos of packing — I tragically left my favorite green Sambas behind — crying at the Mexican restaurant when my grandma told me I grew up too fast and waiting on hold with AT&T to check for the hundredth time that there really wasn’t a better deal than $100 a month for an international line. I laboriously separated my most prized belongings, from my truly forgettable socks and white button-downs into my carry-on and checked bag respectively, only to find out my carry-on was six pounds overweight. I was given an ultimatum: part with my bag, negate my separation work and check it for free, risking its being lost to the Iberia gods, or fork over $200 to be christened with the honor of lifting it into the overhead bins. After asking in disbelief for her to repeat herself, I watched as my teal suitcase was conveyor-belted into the depths of LAX. When my younger sister left the airport, she said she hoped I didn’t come back “annoying,” or she’d have to hit me. Can’t wait to see her! 

While I pray that my suitcases are, in fact, on the plane with us, I’m thinking anxiously about all of the exciting experiences that I have to look forward to. Through Fordham, I have the opportunity to live in a homestay with a Spanish family (they never answered my email, going in blind here), take all of my classes in Spanish (though only three-fourths count for my Spanish major…) and even hold an internship. For the next four months, amidst program trips to Sevilla, Córdoba and Morocco, I’ll be writing both for the Ram and DIARIO Ideal, a Spanish newspaper based in Granada, which my homestay couple was very excited to discover.

Continuing this article from the little desk in their apartment with the din of garbage trucks collecting trash at two in the morning… I’m happy to report I made it across the threshold with both of my bags, though the adjustment has been tough. My roommate Alice and I are staying with a sweet older couple in the center of Granada who do not speak English but do eat dinner at 10 p.m. It is a bizarre feeling to live in someone’s house while also trying to get your bearings in a place that is going to be your home for the next four months. With the time change, most of my friends and family aren’t awake until 4 p.m. here, which can be frustrating at a time I’d like to chat with them most. 

The full week and a half of orientation has felt like a violent flashback to my first year: introducing yourself by hometown and major, activities from morning until night, name tags and icebreakers. I feel even worse for the four students from other universities within the Fordham cult of 60 strong. At one point, they brought in an American psychologist who has lived in Granada for 20 years to talk to us about culture shock. She introduced herself (hometown and major!) and was from Chicago — and later mentioned we don’t need to be afraid of being “jumped and killed.” Regardless of culture shock, nothing makes me feel like more of an idiot than being in a large group of Americans wandering around a city that must be sick of us (source: the “go away tourists” graffiti I saw). 

The Spanish way of life is much slower and more relaxed. I’ve noticed bartenders sharing a beer with customers and shop owners eating lunch outside with their friends, leaving their stores empty until a patron wanders in. Many places don’t open until nine or later and each meal takes upwards of an hour. We were also warned of how much the families might want to almost overfeed us. When Alice and I mentioned we were going to dinner with friends, our host mom ushered us into the kitchen as we were leaving and fed us an entire meal, so we could have “energy” for dinner. 

This adjustment period is one that leaves many of us wondering if we’ve made all of the right decisions; if the homestay is best, if we can learn to love the siesta and how much soup is too much soup. It’s bittersweet to be away from Fordham as we miss friends, jobs, graduations and the creamy green salsa from Estrellitas. At the risk of sounding preachy, what’s important to remember is how this uneasy feeling is that same pit in my stomach from when I lived in Loschert 234 and had to walk down the hallway in squeaking shower shoes and a towel. The person who hated Fordham so much that fall, is the same person who can’t wait to come back for this one. Before then, I just need to be patient, take walks and remember to call my parents. All that being said, Michael Persaud from the Career Center is still emailing me about COFFEE CHATS.