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Yesterday I attended what may very well have been the single most depressing class of my life. In the last session of Cross-Cultural Psychology before the exam, we talked about the one topic that everyone in our program has been most adamantly ignoring: going home.

Instead of letting us go on in blissful ignorance, the professor made us spend an hour and a half talking about leaving Barcelona, which is going to happen on April 25^th, like it or not. All my friends at home keep asking me if I’m ready to come back, and if I had the choice, I’d have to say no. Not because I’m not anxious to see my family and friends or to have some of my old creature comforts back (you won’t believe how much you miss being able to text out of sheer boredom). The only thing is that as trite as it sounds, Barcelona really feels like home.

You know that feeling you get when you are finally comfortable somewhere? When you not only know how to get to and from school, but you have that favorite place to sit and read, or that one café where you know you can always get an amazing café con leche? When you start using “we” instead of “they” to describe the inhabitants of the city? Well, Barcelona and I have finally formed that bond, and given the choice, I’m not sure I’d be ready to break it. However, that choice was made quite a while ago when I bought my return ticket from the STA desk in the Marvin Center. So come next Friday, I take my last trip to El Prat, the Barcelona Airport that I have gotten to know so well these past few months.

Would I want to stay in Europe forever, if I had that option? No, I don’t think so. I love D.C. too much to imagine never living there again, and I don’t think I could happily handle the thought of being so far from everyone I care about in the States for an indefinite period. I am still much more of an American than I could ever be a Spaniard or a European, and I’m just fine with that.

I suppose I just want an extra month or two before this incredible experience come to a close and I have to go through that horrible period of saying good-bye to people and places I’ve come to know and love. But then again, looking at the all time high exchange rate between the dollar and the Euro, maybe I am ready to get out of here after all. One week and counting.

I just got back from my last trip of the semester, and while I’m not sure if I’d go so far as to say I’d saved the best for last, it certainly was the most different. After deciding that three days of class weren’t nearly as important as getting to see a whole new continent, my four roommates and I all embarked on a five day trip to Morocco (a lot of numbers in that sentence, I know).

Walking out of the Fez airport, we were greeted by sunshine and 75 degree weather, and all thoughts of the classes I was missing were long forgotten. Whenever I get to a new country I usually have to remind myself that I’m in England or Italy or Belgium, but Morocco needed no such reminders. A few minutes into the cab ride towards the city, and the cabbie had to swerve around a laden down donkey walking on the side of the road- hardly something I’d ever come across in Barcelona.

While Morocco is a nation that thrives on tourism, you would hardly know it. In Amsterdam and Italy, it is hard to walk ten feet without running into a gaggle of tourists with cameras around their necks and their noses buried deep in guidebooks. In both Fez and Casablanca, we went almost the whole time without running into more than a dozen people who looked like us.

This is not to say that the native Moroccans were not happy to see us. The people were for the most part extremely welcoming, which actually caught me a little off guard. After hearing so many stories about how you have to bargain for everything, and how everyone just wants to rip you off because you’re an American, it was at first a bit hard to understand that most people were truly just being friendly.

This is not to say that there aren’t people that can see you don’t know the language and the customs and will try to use that to their own benefit, but it is by no means a fair blanket statement about the inhabitants of Morocco. We asked for directions at one gas station, and even though the man didn’t really understand us or know the answer, within seconds every worker in the place had stopped what they were doing to try and help us.

However, I do have to say that the Moroccan salesmen are very good at what they do. We went on a tour of a rug weaving place, and even though no one had any intention whatsoever of purchasing any rugs, two on my roommates ended up giving in, and one of them spent $1500- his credit card company called looking for him later that day, slightly concerned.

Coming back from Morocco was bittersweet, because it means that I only have two weeks left before I pack up my giant suitcase and head back to the States. I suppose I’ll just have to make sure it’s quite the two weeks.

The best thing about spring break in Europe is that you have what seems like endless options. Sure, you can head to Greece and do the whole beach resort thing, but I choose to pass on that this year, opting instead for ten days in Italy.

If you haven’t had the chance to travel to Italy yet, go. No, seriously, go and book your ticket right now. If there is one country that no one should be allowed to miss out on, Italy would have to be it. Between the beautiful weather (for the most part), the amazing food and the countless breathtaking sights, there is little more one could ask for.

My two friends and I started off in Rome, where we somehow miraculously managed to avoid the infamously long lines at St. Peter’s Basilica, the Vatican Museums, the Colosseum, you name it. Still, I would have waited a lot longer than we did to see all of these places.

I had always heard about how gigantic St. Peter’s is, but even when you’re there, until you go up to the dome and stare down at the minuscule people below, it is hard to grasp the sheer size of the place. As incredible as it was to see the Sistine Chapel and all the masterpieces at the Vatican Museum, I think my favorite site was probably the Spanish Steps, where hundreds of people just sit to talk, take in the sunshine, and people watch. Also, the best pizza that we found in Italy is from a small shop right outside the Metro stop to the Spanish Steps.

Our next stop was Venice, which turned out to be my favorite Italian city. Before I left for spring break, a friend advised me that as soon as you get to Venice, throw away your map, and just wander, which is exactly what we did. Each turn of the corner exposes another quaint square or bridge overlooking a canal, and well, let’s just say my camera put in a hard day’s work. Speaking of cameras, we asked someone to take our picture, and ended up spending the rest of the day with these students from Paris, wandering through Venice.

After Venice, we headed to Florence, where we hit some rainy weather, which made it a little harder to really get to know the city. Still, we did have a little bit of sun, enough for me to be able to tell that in good weather, Florence is beautiful. The Duomo of Santa Maria del Fiore is one of the most memorable, if somewhat lesser known, images of Europe. However, on the second day, the lines that we escaped in Rome caught up with us in our two hour wait to get into the Uffizi, which if you know even a little bit about art, is worth it. Florence is definitely the city to go to if you want art and architecture, even if the churches do start to all look the same after a while.

The last day we took a train to Pisa, where we spent approximately an hour and a half. Pisa is a really small city; we were able to walk from the train station to the other end of town in about 20 minutes. While it is no Rome or Florence, the Leaning Tower of Pisa is worth a visit if you have a few hours to spare.

I could go on and on about the sights and the food and the people, but I am just going to leave that up to you to discover. Have you booked that ticket yet?

No matter where in the world you may be studying, I think that most college students can safely agree that there is very little better in life than a cancelled class. The time that you were originally planning on spending in a stuffy classroom is suddenly completely open and yours for the taking, as happened to me this afternoon.
My immediate train of thought was that I would be able to go home, take a nap, put in some time on Facebook, and while away the rest of my day. But before I had even taken two steps down Plaza Catalunya, I had to stop and remind myself that I’m in Barcelona.

I’ve been here for two months and have two more left, but it all just seems to be going by extremely quickly- too quickly. I’m sure all of you know the feeling; it’s the beginning of the semester, and before you know it, midterms are upon you, then finals. Once I get into a routine, the weeks just slips by without my noticing it at all. It’s even more profound abroad because there are no classes on Thursdays (I know, nice, right?) and Mondays turn into the weekend within the blink of an eye.

Realizing I don’t have that many free afternoons left to just be in and enjoy Barcelona, I forgot all about going home and instead walked down Las Ramblas and through the Gothic Quarter, to the Picasso Museum. Afterwards, I got some mango gelato and sat on the sunny steps in front of the Barcelona Cathedral to just read and people watch.

And you know what? I really think it is only afternoons like this that have the power to make time slow down. As soon as I get back, I am going to have to test this theory in D.C.

Last time I posted, I was talking about how traveling is sure to make for some great stories, no matter where you go. Well, this past week I managed to rack up quite a number of stories that I wish I hadn’t.

To give you the cliff notes version, while in London one of my friends whom I was traveling with came down with meningitis, and had to be rushed to the hospital our second evening there. Just to clarify, meningitis is an infection in the spinal fluid that impacts the brain and can become deadly- plus, it is highly infectious.

After the initial shock and terror wore off, it was followed by a whirlwind of pills, shots, IV drips, hospital waiting rooms, panicked calls from parents and questions from the public health officials who would not stop calling. Oh, and we were not allowed to leave the country until Wednesday afternoon, our original plan of returning on Sunday long forgotten.

Back in Barcelona, they cancelled classes to disinfect the building, and more than 80 people went to the doctor just to be checked out and given preemptive medicine. For the better part of a week, it seems safe to say that everyone was pretty much in a state of panic.

We turned out to be lucky on a number of fronts. We got our friend to the hospital on time. We were in a country that spoke English and could understand us even at the height of our panic. Our program was extremely supportive, and had someone from the London office meet us at the hospital and arrange for hotels, taxis and meals, to take care of phone calls and paper work, and to help our friend’s Dad to come to London for free. But best of all, even though it is still early, it looks like our friend is going to be okay.

I’m not really sure what the moral of the story is here or even if there is one, but it sure helped to put a lot of things into perspective.

Instead of marking my spring semester by President’s day and the Cherry Blossom festival this semester, I have been busy charting out my calendar with trips. Europe has never been more appealing. Most students I know spend half their lives on budget travel websites, gazing wistfully at a screen that lists everywhere from Lisbon to Istanbul, trying to figure out what their wallets and calendars will allow for.

Thankfully, when you’re traveling with all of your possessions stuffed into a backpack, and staying at hostels filled to bursting with 20-something-year-olds from every corner of the world, you’re going to have an interesting time wherever you go. This past weekend was my first official trip outside of Spain this semester, as I headed off to Amsterdam.

Apart from being absolutely beautiful, Amsterdam is one of those cities that attract backpackers and travelers like nothing else. Within 24 hours, my friends and I encountered two little old ladies from Scotland, a group of British guys, some Italians, 20 Irish boys and a man from Mexico.

When you are in a new city for only two days, it is easy to get overwhelmed, and get into a travel-guide induced frenzy, hopping from one landmark to the next. However, I’ve quickly come to realize that by doing this, Europe could easily become one huge blur of archaic churches and massive museums. Instead, I am trying to just pick two or three main sites that are unique to each city (although I’m guessing this won’t work quite so well in London and Paris), and make the effort to see and enjoy them. Other than that, the best part to traveling is being able to soak in the culture and atmosphere, and let yourself enjoy being in a location so completely different from what you call home.

I suppose the phrase “so much to do, so little time (and money)” has never been more appropriate than when you find yourself in a foreign country for four months, with relatively easy access to such a fascinating continent. But it is really no different than in D.C.- time is going to fly by way too fast for our liking, and all we can really do is settle in and enjoy the ride. Ok, well, I’m off to book a flight to Paris…

You know those random, slightly-awkward-yet-amusing exchanges you manage to have with complete strangers not only at GW, but all over D.C., whether you’re trying to pay for your groceries at Trader Joe’s, or are jointly complaining about the food at J Street? Well, as soon as you step off of the airplane at the Barcelona airport, you should leave that mentality at the baggage claim.

Although this is not true for all of Spain, in Catalonia (the region when Barcelona is located) people are taught to keep to themselves for the most part. It is always easy to spot a group of Americans on the Metro; they will likely be the only ones having a loud, heated discussion in an otherwise almost muted train.

The Spaniards in Barcelona don’t throw around the words “please,” and “thank you,” as liberally as we do, and it is not considered rude to omit an “excuse me,” after bumping into someone- apparently, all of that is implied. Small-talk is a rarity, and smiling at someone out of the blue has way more connotations associated with it than just an exchange of pleasantries.

First impressions seem to hint that these people just are not very agreeable, and it is easy to assume that when someone doesn’t thank you for holding the door, that they are being just plain rude. However, once you see the Catalans in settings other than those of the daily grind, all of this becomes a lot more questionable.

Thursday night, while at a FC Barcelona soccer match, it was hard to reconcile all of the energy and the sense of camaraderie circulating throughout the stadium with the cold demeanors I meet on my daily commute to school. When our team scored a goal, I have yet to see such an enthusiastic response at any other sporting event I’ve been to, GW basketball games included. Then, during halftime, a group of men that were sitting a few rows behind us decided that the crowd was too quite, and one of them figured that his bullhorn would make an excellent speaker, and started blasting music from his cell phone. Within seconds, half the people surrounding him were singing and dancing to the music, and refused to let him put his phone away until after the players were back on the field.

A simple assumption would be that it is the overwhelming European obsession with soccer that allows the almost 100,000 people that fit into Camp Nou let their guards down simultaneously. Well, that, or the immense amounts of alcohol that are snuck into the game- believe it or not, they sell non-alcoholic beer at the stadium. But let me give you just one more example.

This weekend, Spain, like many other countries, was busy with Carnival, a significant festival that occurs before Lent. Translation: every person in Barcelona without a bedtime and under the age of 30 (and plenty over) puts on the most outrageous costume they can throw together, piles onto the train to Sitges- a small town about 30 minutes from Barcelona- and stays out literally all night, filling the streets and beach almost beyond capacity. Imagine M Street on Halloween, plus another 20,000 people, and minus open container laws. Again, it could have been the liquor talking, but no one seemed to have any problem running up to strangers wearing similar and/or interesting costumes and insisting on a photo shoot.

So what conclusions can be drawn from this? That we should all start drinking at noon every day in order to be open and approachable? Or that business and pleasure have a very distinct line that is best left intact? One of my professors mentioned once that if you make friends with a Catalan, you’ve made a friend for life, which is a stark contrast with our habit of adding everyone and anyone we meet as a “friend” on Facebook at our earliest access to a computer. While I am not ready to stop thanking the waiter when he hands me a menu or to quit saying excuse me if I step on someone’s foot, I am glad that I have had the chance to be in Barcelona long enough to realize that when others do so, it is not out of malice. And after all, Barcelona certainly does know how to have fun.

Remember at CI, when you must have rattled off your name, home state, and major more times than you heard the fight song? Well, I’m not sure what else I was expecting, but the IES Barcelona orientation is almost a mirror image, minus the khaki-clad Cabinet and laser light show. People are constantly asking your name and where you’re from, and then if your answers prove adequate, they start listing names of people that live within a 100 mile radius of where you grew up or where you go to school.

Well, I’ll save you the trouble; my name is Diana Kugel, and no, I won’t hold it against you if you fail to remember this in two minutes. I am a GW sophomore majoring in psychology, and last semester I was The Hatchet’s contributing opinions editor. This spring semester, I am lucky enough to be in Barcelona, Spain, where I am living in a home stay.

My home stay situation is fairly typical from what I’ve been able to gather; my two roommates and I live with our señora, a widowed woman. We eat dinner with her, but are free to come and go as we please. The unique thing about our home stay is that our señora’s grown son lives in the apartment downstairs, and is hosting two boys from the program, and they eat dinner with us as well.

Even though I have only been in Barcelona for just over two weeks, it already seems like ages ago when I moved out of my FSK dorm room. Now, instead of seeing the Washington Monument from the classrooms on E Street, I see the towering Sagrada Familia from the IES Center. A fair exchange? I’m more than ready to find out.