Semana doce: Para concluir...
Hola a todos y todas, y bienvenidos a la última edición del blog desde España.
We’re splitting this into two parts: a weekly rundown and a reflection on my time in Spain. I decided to hold off on posting this on Wednesday so I could wrap up everything in one place. Because frankly, the best reflections happen while you’re still standing on the soil you’re reflecting on. So grab a bocadillo, buckle up (as state law requires), get comfy and get ready!
I vividly remember the last time I “studied abroad” (a generous term, since it was only two weeks). I wrote my mandatory reflection in a Write-in-the-Rain notebook somewhere in Monteverde, Costa Rica, scribbling promises like bringing a reusable cup and straw to Dunkin’, quitting social media (we didn’t have phones that whole trip), recycling more—you know, the usual post-eco-trip vows. I can’t recall them all, but I still have the notebook, so I’ll check when I get home.
Keep in mind this was the same day my group and I came up with and presented a project called Tree Top Retreat, a “sustainable business venture” with a gondola and pool in the trees. So yeah.
Anyway, the point is: I want to write something more meaningful here in Spain—before I’m back in the U.S. where my old habits will creep in like they never left. Let’s face it, I never once brought a reusable cup to Dunkin’ after Costa Rica, even after watching sea turtles struggle on Playa Grande. So I’m hoping these three months in Spain made a deeper impact than those two weeks in Costa Rica.
Pues nada, let’s get into it.
Last week, I promised you some solid Terra-taken photos—so here they are.
Terra mentioned feeling like she hadn’t visited enough museums this trip. A problem I… clearly didn’t have (cough cough Prado, Reina Sofía, Casa de Greco, CCBA, MACBA, and more). But being the kind soul I am, I accepted her invite to the Casa de las Ciencias, a science museum in Sevilla, last Wednesday.
It was absolutely worth the three euros and our time—we had a blast.
Remember when I argued swings are fun for adults too? Well, so are science museums with VR headsets, video games, hands-on exhibits, and astronauts. We had the best time playing the biodiversity quiz, which I completely bombed. Every answer I picked was wrong. Eventually, I told Terra, “Just choose the one I didn’t suggest.” It worked.
There was also a wild brain exhibit featuring that classic fake-hand experiment. You know, where you cover one of your real arms and then someone brushes both your visible hand and the fake one, and then when they hit the fake hand with a hammer, you feel it? Yeah, that one. Except… the museum didn’t provide a hammer, and the brushes were tied to the wall so tightly they barely reached the hands at all. Not quite the immersive experience.
The best way to describe the museum? A fever dream where more laughing than learning happened. Which maybe was for the best—because some of the scientific claims were… questionable. Like one that suggested venom from certain animals could cure Alzheimer’s and autism.
Yeah, I’m not buying it.
Good thing RFK Jr. and the whole Trump-adjacent crew are anti-Spain, or they’d be having a field day with that one. You know, the same RFK Jr. who promised to find the “cause of autism” by September because, according to him, people with autism are “problematic” and will “never pay taxes, never hold a job, never play baseball.”
I call BS.
As a camp supervisor and swim instructor, I’ve worked with many kids with autism and other medical conditions. I’ve seen them swim, play baseball, make friends, do arts and crafts, go on field trips, perform in talent shows, read, laugh—basically, participate in everything we offer at camp.
My mom—whose exact job title I forget, but she’s basically the programming boss—works incredibly hard to make sure community programs like camp, dance classes, and events are inclusive for all ability levels. She even does monthly playground inspections and regularly badgers public works about fixing the high-backed inclusive swing.
I really look up to her for this work. It’s not easy. I’ve had my share of challenges at camp too—it’s not always sunshine and rainbows. But it’s worth it.
Anyway, not sure where I was going with that tangent… but yeah. Be skeptical of bold claims, even when they come from museums.
That day, our class had a field trip to the Archivo de Indias, which supposedly, in the days of Cristóbal Colón, was where they brought products from America to sell—because the Cathedral kicked them out for being “too commercial” in a religious space.
Anyway, we were promised we’d see documents Christopher Columbus had signed, but sadly, we didn’t see that—or anything exciting. Hoy en día, it’s honestly the most boring building ever. The shelves are filled with the same fake book repeated over and over again, because they would “look dumb” without anything on them. How we spent an hour in there bewilders me.
That day, we also had the famous Christopher Columbus lecture, which started with the question: “What do you know about him?”
After getting all the happy, textbook answers, my professor looked me straight in the eyes and goes, “Delia…”
So, I decided to hit him with a little Spanish 105: Columbus went to America, there were Indigenous people there, he enslaved them, stole their resources, brought them back to Spain… oh, and killed lots of people. ¿Necesitas más?
Well, apparently that wasn’t the answer he was looking for, because according to him, Columbus and the Spaniards didn’t kill anyone. Maybe indirectly, through diseases.
I’m sorry—what?
Do you think they just willingly enslaved themselves and handed over their food?
While maybe not the most academic source (I’m so close to my three weeks off), according to CNN:
“Throughout his years in the Americas, Columbus forced natives to work for the sake of profits. Later, he sent thousands of Taino ‘Indians’ to Spain to be sold, and many of them died during the journey. The natives who weren’t sold into slavery were forced to look for gold in mines and work on plantations.
While he was governor of what is now the Dominican Republic, Columbus killed many natives in response to their revolt, according to History.com. To prevent further rebellion, he would have the dead bodies paraded through the streets.”
Don’t worry—I took a whole class on this stuff last fall and can confirm. I’ve also seen the movie También la lluvia basically like four times at this point (a great watch, by the way), so I have plenty of other sources.
And don’t worry—I made sure to tell my prof all about this in my last essay, where I criticized his book for missing this point. The idea that the Spaniards simply brought food to Spain completely misses the reality that they stole this food.
Here’s what I wrote:
“And while this chapter may seem to present a linear and peaceful story, where Columbus and the conquistadors simply brought food from the Americas to Europe, the reality I want to highlight in this final paragraph is that they not only stole food from Indigenous peoples, but also took their lands, enslaved them, murdered many, raped them, and committed other atrocities. We cannot ignore the fact that the Spanish seemed to value culinary wealth more than the lives of millions of people. This narrative contributes to the concept of neocolonialism that many countries in Latin America continue to face today. After all, the least Spain can do is tell the whole story and not ignore the crucial details of what really happened.”
I find it funny how I’ve essentially learned the history of Spain five different times now—and every time it’s told just a little bit differently. Different dates are emphasized, different heroes and villains, and different places become the “center” of it all.
Don’t worry—whoever reads the course reviews from CIEE headquarters definitely got an earful on my thoughts here.
I definitely think I scared the professor a little, though. When we went to the Cathedral this week on Tuesday to see the shrine of Cristóbal Colón (which, fun fact, is basically just a bag of remains—many of which have been lost because no one wanted to house the tomb of Columbus), he didn’t say a word.
Just: “Oh, here is Cristóbal Colón.”
Maybe he learned his lesson.
Sorry if you can tell I’m still a little angry about this.
Speaking of anger—remember that exam I was complaining about last week? Well, turns out the prof graded it exactly like I expected: he was looking for something specific but didn’t ask for it.
In my opinion, you can’t give an open-ended prompt that isn’t even a real question, slap a list of topics on it, and then expect students to magically include everything you’re looking for. If what I wrote was correct, it should get full points. It shouldn’t be, “Well, you didn’t include the date, so… points off.” You didn’t ask for the date!
I kid you not, the question was something along the lines of: What are some of the greatest innovations in the kitchen during prehistoria?
So, of course, I wrote about fire and ceramics. But apparently, because I didn’t mention the dates, that was “bad.”
Or take the other open-ended essay about the three religions and their food. Apparently, I was supposed to mention the Visigoths… which, by the way, is not a religion.
Anyway, as you can tell, I’m still a little salty—even though the grade absolutely doesn’t matter and this class counts for nothing. Except my own enjoyment.
What did bother me, though, was what the professor said after the exam:
“Well, the exams were good—for Americans.”
This isn’t a Spanish-as-a-second-language class. And I like to think—and hope—that my writing is on par with native Spaniards. Especially since the writing wasn’t graded. It was just the content of the responses.
So… is he saying Spaniards are smarter?
I don’t know what he meant. But he’s welcome to bring his “superior Spaniard” to Princeton and we can find out.
Now, I’m not saying Americans are smarter. But I’m also not going to sit here and accept the idea that we’re dumber.
Thursday, my after-class adventure was the weekly street festival situation with Court (another friend), who was looking for a gift for her novio. I also got to see the outside of Court’s homestay and—let me just say—it’s not fair. It’s gorgeous. And she’s city center, not 40 minutes away on a cramped bus like me.
Post festival/market, I went on a scavenger hunt for some flags. I’ve been searching for flags all summer—they’re surprisingly hard to find. After four bazars, I finally found some. And then—of course—the souvenir shop I went to after had more (for cheaper prices, ugh). I ended up with four flags: Spain, Andalusia, NODO (a popular Sevillan symbol/slogan), and a País Vasco flag (which I had to order from Amazon because I had little hope of finding one on the opposite side of the country).
Friday, we had a chocolate tasting in class. Now, as I wrote… I think last week… I love the chocolate in Spain, especially one brand that comes in purple packaging. But our professor brought in some wack chocolate (which I should’ve expected, considering we’ve taken shots of aceite de oliva and praised Christopher Columbus in this class).
Following the worst chocolate ever—including a special chili flavor and one with salt—our professor decided it was a good time to show us a movie… in English. And no, it wasn’t an English movie dubbed in Spanish. It was just a straight-up English movie with Spanish subtitles, put on “for practice.”
The best part? The movie took place in a small French town. So really, it should’ve been in French for accuracy. We got it wrong in three languages.
Anyway, what this movie—Chocolat—had to do with our class is beyond me, but it was two whole days (including Monday’s class) where all I had to do was eat chocolate and watch an English movie. So I’m not complaining.
Did the movie have a plot? No, not really.
Post-Friday class, Court, Terra, and I went on an adventure through town. That night, we went to see a free flamenco show at a bar. It was interesting. I was hoping to see some of the fancy outfits I’m always seeing on posters around Sevilla, and I was very let down. But it was still a fun experience.
Flamenco is so cool… I actually think I’d be great at it. It’s just a lot of clapping and dramatically stomping on the ground. Okay, maybe things got a little more intense than that.
One aspect of the bar I did not enjoy: it was cash only, and I’m running low on cash. My other friends also lacked cash, so I went to the ATM with a friend. She got a 20. I attempted to also get some cash, but my card wasn’t working. A blessing in disguise—there was a surprise €7 fee.
On the way home, we ran into a rollerblading gang! It was absolutely the coolest thing. Think: middle-aged men in neon clothes following another middle-aged man on a bicycle, with giant speakers strapped to it, blasting classic American girly pop—think “Party in the USA” vibes.
I wish I could join. I used to be a big rollerblader… around my kitchen. My mom was not a fan.
Weekend adventures were intense, and three days later I’m still feeling it.
Saturday, I went to Córdoba, which hypothetically shouldn’t have been that bad—except it was 39 degrees out (somewhere around 100°F, I think). I made it to the famous Mezquita, walked around for a few hours, and then happily retired to the train station coffee shop to watch Netflix for a few hours… okay like five hours.
Maybe not the best use of my time, but it was so hot, and I wasn’t feeling great in the heat. Still, I saw all I wanted to see, got the postcards, and was content.
The Mezquita was gorgeous. Terrible lighting for photos to show its beauty (it’s a “you had to be there” kind of place). I expected it to take longer, but for me it was a 40-minute experience. I’m sure you could stay longer if you wanted to read all the signage. I read a few, did a lap, played with my phone camera settings for 15 minutes trying to get the lighting right, and left.
Like the Alhambra last week, the Mezquita was another place featured in my “Muslims in Spain” presentation (yes, from Spanish 105). So it was very cool to see it in real life. It’s kind of surreal to see a giant Christian altar in the middle of very Muslim-styled architecture.
Also like I said at the Alhambra—would be an amazing wedding spot. All those arches! Arches just scream wedding aesthetic.
As many of you know, I missed the wedding of my cousin, Mrs. Fallon Ponte. While I may have missed the actual wedding in the States, I brought the wedding to Spain—just to illustrate my point about the beauty of a Spanish wedding. That being said, I’m pretty sure the famous Mezquita doesn’t let people get married there, so Fallon, you now have a one-of-a-kind wedding photo that no one else in the world will have.
And to my very Catholic grandmother Rose—don’t worry. It’s a Catholic church now. There’s plenty of Jesus to combat that Muslim architecture.
I took my final train ride that day, which was sad—but also a relief because the train was one hour late. Understandable, since it was coming from Barcelona and it was the day of the rail strike. But still, it was inconvenient.
I’ll miss those fast trains. Especially when I think about all the painfully slow rides I have coming up this school year.
Ugh. I’m already dreading it.
One thing I was considering on this train ride was security for the train system. To get on a high-speed train in Spain, your bag has to be searched—aka it goes through the X-ray machine. But to get on a Media Distancia train (which can be as long as four hours), your bag doesn’t have to be checked at all. So… is it just okay to bomb the Media Distancia train?
I don’t really understand the concept. People are still traveling with luggage.
However, the religious experiences didn’t stop there—because on Sunday, I did my Camino de Santiago… by airplane.
For those of you who don’t know, the Camino de Santiago is a long pilgrimage with various routes, the original going from France all the way across northern Spain, ending at the Catedral de Santiago de Compostela. It’s extremely famous.
Of course I had to go, though I was mostly in it to:
- See some Gallego, the language native to Galicia
- Escape the ola de calor (heatwave), with temps hitting over 40°C in Sevilla
I had luck once again and ended up randomly in the emergency exit row on the way there and with a window seat on the way back. The emergency row seat may have been a middle seat, but in my opinion, it was the second-best seat on the entire plane—the best being the aisle seat in the emergency row. I love the extra room; I just don’t want to be the one responsible for opening the door.
One interesting thing about this flight: they were selling lottery tickets down the aisles. Like, full-on airplane aisle bingo? I’ve never seen that before.
Santiago was gorgeous! Maybe not quite as gorgeous as Bilbao—which has a similar environmental vibe but with more mountains and different architecture—but still stunning.
Santiago de Compostela has almost a rustic seaside feel, even though it’s not actually on the coast. The stone buildings feel ancient, like something out of a storybook. The cathedral doesn’t shock you—it kind of just belongs there. It feels expected, but still awe-inspiring.
What really made it beautiful, though, was seeing all the pilgrims finishing their journeys. The excitement on their faces was the best part.
I got the full cathedral experience—going inside (which was free!) and also doing the roof and tower tour. Yep, I got to stand on the actual roof of the cathedral. It was awesome, and the views were incredible.
The streets were the kind you could get lost in. In fact, after taking a long walk and passing a stall with 3-for-1€ postcards, I decided to go back and get them. That turned into a full hour of wandering because I couldn’t find the place again.
I didn’t end up having time for the famous pulpo (octopus) from Santiago—not because I lacked time in the city, but because I had to be at the airport by 3:45 p.m. and lunch in Spain is so late. I couldn’t risk missing my flight, especially given my bus navigation track record.
So I settled for a jamón y queso bocadillo. Not the best one I’ve ever had, but after a long day of walking, getting up at 4 a.m., and taking two flights in one day—any jamón bocadillo feels like a gift from God. Plus, it was only 3€.
I also got to see tons of Gallego, mostly on official signs from the ayuntamiento. It was really interesting because I could basically understand all of it. It’s probably the closest language to Spanish I’ve seen, and way easier to get the gist of than Catalán.
I only read a few signs in Gallego, but I feel like I already know it. So… can I say I’m trilingual now?
In all seriousness, it got me thinking: where are the lines between languages and dialects? At what point is something its own language vs. just an accent or regional variant?
Like, with Spanish vs. Basque, it’s obvious—Basque is unlike anything I’ve seen before. But in Andalucía, where the “s” just disappears half the time… is that an accent? A dialect? A whole new language?
It’s an interesting question.
Going back to the airport, I did take the correct bus. That was mostly thanks to the fact that everything was clearly labeled—signs, stops, everything.
One amazing part? The 40-minute bus ride from town to the airport cost only 1€.
Meanwhile, in Sevilla, the airport bus costs 6€ and you can’t use your transport card—which is the most annoying thing ever. I still have tons of money left on that card that I’m now just going to lose. Would’ve been nice to knock 12€ off for this trip and another 6€ when I leave Spain, but I’ve accepted that I’m going to forfeit the 20-something euros left.
On Monday, we finished the Chocolat movie. After class, I threw together my presentation on canela y pimienta (cinnamon and pepper) because everyone in class had to give a spice presentation on Tuesday.
I know last week I was kind of hating on my Spanish speaking, but honestly—I think I gave a pretty solid presentation, considering I was winging it. No notecards, just slides.
Sure, the slides had notes on them, but I still had to structure full sentences on the fly. Made it a little more exciting, for sure.
Like last class, the questions were kind of weird. I mean, I don’t really know what kind of questions one asks about spices, but the one I got was: “Do you cook?”
Honestly, it’s a great question. I’ve been asked it so many times in Spain that I’ve got my answer down to a science at this point.
While working on the presentation, a few friends and I decided to head to a café—you know, for the productivity vibes. I finished my presentation pretty quickly, because honestly, how much is there to say about spices in five minutes?
So I had a great time instead going through the kids’ books at the café and reading them. I seriously need to start a Spanish story time for kids—it would be so fun. If I ever have kids, they’re getting read books in Spanish, no question.
There was a little boy watching me the whole time, and I know he was judging me so hard. He was very British though, so it wasn’t the Spanish he was judging—it was the Peppa Pig puzzle I took. I was bored, okay?
I offered him the puzzle, thinking maybe he wanted it, but he hit me with something along the lines of “I HATE Peppa Pig.” The kid was funny though—he made faces at me the entire time like we were in some sort of silent comedy act.
I didn’t end up doing the puzzle because the kids’ books (and even some French ones) were enough entertainment. I even showed Terra my amazing French.
(Spoiler: I know no French.)
Here’s my script:
Je m’appelle Delia. Enchantée de te rencontrer. Je suis des États-Unis. Je ne parle pas français.
My French pronunciation was… French, but with a Spanish accent, which made it completely unintelligible. 10/10 performance, honestly.
On Tuesday after class, we went to the Catedral de Sevilla. Like I mentioned before, we saw the giant shrine to Cristóbal Colón and also walked up to the top of the tower. Sadly, there was a ton of renovation happening, so the cathedral was kind of underwhelming—especially after the magic of the weekend in Santiago.
Wednesday’s class wrapped up the spice presentations (thank God), and we started our final chapter on the Mediterranean diet.
Something I really wish we’d done more in class is actually talk about modern food in Spain. Like… meals. What people eat today. That’s what I thought the class would be about from the beginning. Instead, we spent a lot of time on ancient Roman meals like ientaculum, prandium, and cenae.
Honestly, I don’t feel like an expert on Spanish food at all, which is a little disappointing after spending a month “studying” it.
Maybe I learned more from my homestay, where I got to try a variety of foods—many of which, I’m sorry to say, I didn’t really like.
For example, a store-bought tortilla is never good. It’s kind of sad that I’m leaving Spain without having had a single solid tortilla since Toledo, but maybe I can learn to make one at home. After all, it’s just eggs and potatoes. And my brother is a master chef.
That said, a good tortilla is an art form. It shouldn’t be brown on top. I hate when it’s wet inside and not fully cooked. The potato-to-egg ratio has to be just right. Oh, and it should never be sweet. A lot of the store-bought ones have this weird retrogusto (aftertaste) that’s vaguely sweet and honestly gross.
During class, we also visited some local markets to check out food products. Not super productive, since it’s now August during a heatwave, and only a fool would still be in Sevilla at this time.
As much as I’m sad to leave, Sevilla is making it really easy—it’s just too hot. My days are basically: go to class, maybe do a small activity after, and then retreat to my AC room for the rest of the day. It’s so boring.
Of course I would’ve loved to explore more, but I’d also like to return to the U.S. without ending up in a foreign hospital.
I really hate being trapped indoors, and I especially hate that my beloved weekend walking adventures have been put on hold because of the heat.
As you all know, I’m a big walker. I’m sure I’ve said it before, but walking is where I come up with all my best ideas—along with the occasional bike ride, shower, or car ride (which are worse because I can’t write stuff down in those situations).
Why do people have meetings sitting down? Like, what’s the point of a coffee chat? Take a walk! I truly believe that if people started doing walking meetings, the world would be more creative, innovative, and definitely healthier.
Speaking of walking, I came up with another class concept during one of my walks this past week.
No, it’s not Spanish improv like last time. This one’s for a sociology class, but held entirely outside.
The professor would wear one of those headset microphones, and students would have little radios or lanyards with headphones. The class wouldn’t be lecture-style; it’d be team-based.
At the start of the course, students would fill out a survey about their interests and strengths, which would get run through some AI to generate unique pairs or small groups—emphasizing creativity and spontaneity.
Everyone would carry “write-in-the-rain” notebooks for all-weather note-taking. Class could take place in all kinds of formats: maybe a lecture on the quad one day, a fieldwork-style investigation on the streets the next. The world is your oyster!
Attendance would be required (obviously), and students would write individual essays based on the group discussions and interactions they had with people during class.
And this is why I should never be a professor because number one no school would ever let my “innovative” teaching fly and two poor children -or I guess they’re really adults- would be forced into this.
I think it would be fun.
Another Brilliant Walking Idea™: Wedding Babysitters.
Maybe this already exists, but hear me out—
Instead of mandating “no kids” weddings and forcing parents to scramble for babysitters, why not have one at the wedding? A separate space at the venue just for the kids, with one or two babysitters. Parents can check in when they want, kids are supervised, and no one has to miss the cake-cutting because their toddler is eating pebbles. Honestly, it feels like a very Spanish concept—I’ve definitely seen playgrounds next to bars here. So why not playgrounds next to wedding venues?
Meanwhile, the host family situation has continued to feel… odd. Most days are quiet and a little dull, with everyone locked away in their separate air-conditioned rooms. I still eat alone. The bulk of our communication happens via WhatsApp, not conversation. The rhythm is:
— Delia, ¿quieres comer?
— Sí, quiero comer.
And that’s about it.
I did get an interesting “add-on” the other day: I was running about ten minutes late for lunch (thanks to a bus that was, I kid you not, twenty minutes late—public transport roulette is real), so I messaged my host mom. Her response? Then you eat out.
Me: …Could you just leave it out like you’ve done before?
Her: Oh sure.
So was she mad? I have no idea. But I do find it a little frustrating to be held to a rigid meal time when I’m literally eating alone. I get the importance of punctuality when you’re sitting down with others—but when the food is plated and waiting in the microwave, why the drama?
Fun fact: I recently discovered what time they eat dinner. Ready?
12:45 a.m.
How did I learn this? Because I kept getting woken up by the clatter of silverware and the blaring TV. On mornings when I had to get up at 4 a.m. for a flight or even 6 a.m. for a train, they were still awake. Honestly, it’s wild. Even at the bus stop at those hours, the sidewalks are full of people coming home from the clubs. We’re living on completely different planets.
Oh, and later that Wednesday, we toured the Sevilla FC stadium.
No, the players weren’t there.
Yes, it was just an empty stadium.
Still pretty cool—though if you’d been blindfolded, you might not have been able to tell the difference between the stadium tour and a NASA museum. The music they were playing gave serious frontline innovation and space exploration vibes.
I can’t say I was super interested in seeing the old trophies and whatnot, but sitting in the player seats on the side of the field (which are kind of like movie theater seats) and going into the press conference room was fun. Fun fact: the roof of the players’ dugout is so low that you have to duck to get out of it—something Terra learned very quickly. Imagine how many players must smack their heads on that every day!
Thursday’s class was our last before the exam on Friday, and we had a queso and wine tasting. I really wish our tasting involved more variety—like, can we really call buying four chocolate bars and breaking them up a tasting? But I guess it’s better than nothing.
I haven’t really enjoyed the process of these tastings either, where one must “be patient” as we start by looking at the food, then smelling it, then finally savoring it. The worst part is when we have to give descriptions of the scents, because I have a terrible nose and zero skill in describing things. I kid you not, some of my classmates will say, “It smells like a dewy morning in the middle of the forest,” and I’m like… It smells like wine.
After class, I studied for my exam, wrote my final ensayo of the summer, and started packing. I also discovered—at 11 p.m.—that Air Portugal doesn’t want me bringing baggage because the baggage workers in Portugal are on strike. Good thing I have two suitcases.
But here’s something I’m extremely proud of: I can make Spain work for me. What do I mean by that? I know how to navigate and get what I need with ease. Post-exam on Friday, I headed down to El Corte Inglés, got some SmartTags (aka Samsung AirTags) for the suitcases, and then went back to the bazar to get yet another suitcase—this time carry-on size—to try and save some of the stuff, like the postcards and burrito. I really hope the baggage makes it (and I make it), because there’s a risk my flight could be canceled. But I have birthday parties and funerals to attend, so hopefully it all works out.
And that brings us to now, Friday afternoon. I did my very last Mercadona run. The bags are packed, the Cabify is booked, and all I have left is a trip to the store to get a new battery for my Samsung tag (it’s not working for some reason), publish this blog, and have a 6 p.m. meeting with my friends for our last tinto de verano—or for me, my last tinto de verano for a year, until I’m back studying abroad again.
Stupid U.S. and their drinking laws. I mean, I used to be very “laws are laws” and think the rest of the world was the weird one, but after literally spending an entire summer solo traveling—navigating airlines, trains, buses, hotels, supermarkets, farmacias, and more—it seems a little ridiculous. Like, legally I’m smart enough to do all that, and oh, also vote (which arguably affects all of our lives a lot more), but the second we start fermenting some grapes, it’s a problem? It is what it is, and of course I’ll be following local and national laws.
We’ve finally reached section two—my great reflection. I don’t have a great transition in mind, so… here you go.
Someone once told me that McDonald’s is basically the U.S. embassy in Spain—neutral ground for the homesick and jet-lagged. That line stuck with me, but not for the reason you’d think.
I Lived in Spain for Three Months and Told No One About It. Well, not no one—my family, close friends, and a few teachers/professors knew—but I’ve been on an Instagram break for 2025, so the broader world had no idea.
Here’s the thing: it’s easy to tap a heart button and feel like you understand someone’s life. But after twelve weeks in Spain, I can say with certainty—what I lived can’t be captured in a 10-photo carousel, explained in a caption, or experienced on a 10-day vacation. I didn’t just live in Spain. I paid attention in Spain.
Spain taught me how to connect—not through tagged posts or Snap streaks, but through slowness. Through paying attention. Through getting gloriously lost in narrow streets or accidentally ending up in Gernika on the wrong bus (a town I’ll never forget).
You might ask, “But Delia, how do you stay connected from so far away?” The truth? The people who mattered stayed close—and not through social media, but through this blog. And while I know not every word was read (yes, I rant), hearing from readers who took time to reflect or ask questions meant far more than likes ever could.
Spain reaffirmed something I’d forgotten: that the best café con leche is taken para aquí, not para llevar, and that meals are meant for connection—not as pit stops between productivity binges. In the U.S., we preach “you’re more than your GPA” or “you’re not your credit score”—but then build systems that treat people like data points in a race where the Joneses are always one pay grade ahead.
At Princeton especially, we have a productivity problem. Just this week, I saw a YouTube video from a classmate titled something like “Transform Your Summer with These Productive Tips”—early mornings, structured schedules, books about med school. But… what about rest? Or joy? Or sleeping in just because you can? What about balance?
Pro tip for Princeton students: All that is needed is a little planning. Essays and projects should not be done the night before.
We wonder why there’s a mental health crisis in the U.S. Maybe it’s because the American Dream we’re all chasing is less of a dream and more of a mirage. Some of us start in mansions, others on the street—pretending the path is the same for everyone is delusional. So why keep running after a fantasy that was never built for all of us?
If we truly valued collective well-being, we’d lean on one another. But instead, we’ve built a country of performative politics and giant grocery stores the size of five Mercadonas, full of choice but not always accessible. Some people are more offended by the word groceries than the fact that others can’t afford food. Some would rather rip down a sign that says Everyone is Welcome Here than ask why some folks still don’t feel welcome at all.
I collected (42) postcards across Spain—not just to build a shrine in my dorm (though it will be spectacular and includes four flags), but to reflect on how we symbolize society. As I sit next to Burrito, my giant stuffed bull, I think about how easily a place becomes reduced to objects, flags, photos… or peluches. What stories do those symbols tell? What myths do they keep alive?
Like those niños I overheard in Toledo claiming Latin America is just drug dealers—though they’d never been. Where did that idea come from? Movies? The government? Who decides which symbols get power?
That question hit me hard in Córdoba, where I stumbled into a museum exhibit by Verónica Ruth Frías titled “I Am a Performer Woman.” Among colorful signs and bold displays, one installation stopped me cold: a simple table filled with scissors, rocks, pens, tools—and at the center, keys. My peripheral vision caught them, and I immediately understood.
In Spain, I’ve often walked alone at 4 a.m. (for travel purposes), never fearing much beyond maybe getting robbed. But in my American brain, that still felt safe—because at least I wouldn’t get shot. In the U.S., my grandma insists I take pepper spray just to go for a run. In Spain, I held keys in my hand “just in case,” wondering if they’d help, but thankful I could believe they might.
Spain gave me the kind of freedom I wish every woman could feel: to travel alone and feel safe. To talk openly about machismo at the dinner table. To critique old TV shows, ask why the U.S. has never had a female president, and find parenting resources on the street—accessible even to a foreigner like me. To see protests, camaraderie, and community in action.
This week, I opened a pirated PDF of my fall Sociology 101 textbook, and right there on page one was the idea of the sociological imagination—the ability to take what feels “normal” and question its normalness. Spain helped strengthen mine, but if I’m honest, I’ve always had it. That’s what this blog is. It’s what my chapel speech was, too—even when Bobby Fisher tried to dissect every word.
I asked: Why do we give the same speech every year? Why do we stand behind a podium shaped like a guy none of us knew—St. George? Why did we have to tiptoe around which activities “counted” as sports or core, while robotics wasn’t allowed to meet year-round?
Spain didn’t give me all the answers—but it did remind me that asking the questions is a form of resistance. And that maybe, just maybe, “Too Much and Extra” was never a flaw. It was always a lens.
And while I’ve drawn out this dream life of mine complete with a piso with a balcony and a sofa perfect for siestas in Bilbao, a frigo filled with all my Mercadona favorites, and AC (I’m still part American) while doing research, running a language learning app that somehow preserves Indigenous languages and Basque, speaking Spanish, English, and French and maybe Basque (we’re still up in the air about that), living on a Polish passport, maybe with a pet, a novio, a bike (obviously), and perhaps a frequent flyer card because I have big plans, I know that things may change.
But if there’s one vision I have for my career—maybe as an academic, maybe as a researcher, maybe as something totally unclassifiable—it’s this: I might not solve the problems of the world (because, as we’ve already established through that little detour through chemistry and engineering, entropy is inevitable and the world will always become more chaotic), so I might as well stir the pot. Or, as my mom puts it: “stab it with a little knife.”
I want to publish things that make people angry. Not just “raise awareness,” but demand change—and back it up with real, hard-earned data.
Someone recently asked me—critically, of course—why I’m “wasting money” on college if I don’t have my whole career and life mapped out.
Well, first of all: I like to learn. Second of all: my Princeton tuition is shockingly low (especially after opening an email today that said it’s been reduced again). I won’t say the exact number on a public blog, but we’re talking Europe college cheap.
More seriously, I’m not in college for a piece of paper or a rigid job pipeline. I’m here to learn how to strategically pick fights, argue with words, and, yes, maybe just make the world a little more chaotic—in the name of justice. And also, eventually, so I can afford that piso and all that international travel.
In the U.S.—especially where college costs as much as a house—there’s this idea that if you don’t have your career locked in by age 18, you’re wasting time. And honestly, I get it. Some schools saddle students with crushing debt.
But what happened to just knowing things? Like in the olden days, when college was full of white rich men from prep schools reading Latin and debating moral philosophy. You know, the liberal arts.
Now, with AI and Google answering any question instantly, I think we’ve got two real paths forward:
- Become so specialized and expert that you know more than the AI, or
- Be the kind of person who can connect dots—who knows a bit of everything and can problem-solve in ways the AI never will.
I’m choosing path number two. To be a person that can solve differential equations, tell you all about Spain, analyze the world, and more, because serendipity is what creates innovation, not robots, or people that act like them.
A few weeks ago, I asked: How do you pack a country in a bag?
And this week, I realized: you don’t. Symbols only have meaning because we assign it to them. And that meaning doesn’t come from the product—it comes from the brain. So what is in my bag?
- A Frankenstein Spanish accent that can no longer say gracias with the “s.” It’s just Gracia now, and you can’t convince me otherwise.
- A love for Fanta de Naranja (if you think Limón is better… I’m sorry, you’re just wrong), jamón, and queso.
- A confusion on the difference between a frigo and nevera, a cola vs a fila and a raya vs a linea.
- Experience as an unofficial help desk at the nearest train/bus/airport station.
- So maybe I lied week one when I said everyone could use the train. It just is too complicated for some. I kid you not this past weekend some lady just sat down in a random seat on the train. There is literally a seat and car number in bold on the ticket. I just don’t get it.
- A master Mercadona shopper, who has seen a grand total of 35 of the 1603 total stores.
- An itch to explore the world—and maybe Spain just a little more.
- Oh and maybe… just a little bit of knowledge about Spain.
And most importantly: what I set out to achieve.
To quote that little gem of an essay I wrote for Princeton in Spain:
“Sobre todo, espero que este verano no sea solo una oportunidad para mejorar mi comprensión de una cultura y un idioma, sino que marque la transición profesional de alguien que estudia español como un idioma extranjero a una investigadora lista para contribuir al campo en Princeton.”
Or, for all the angloparlantes out there (and yes, sidenote: angloparlantes makes no sense—it’s part French. Shouldn’t it be ingleshablantes to match hispanohablantes? Anyway):
“Above all, I hope that this summer isn’t just an opportunity to improve my understanding of a culture and language, but that it marks a professional transition—from someone who studies Spanish as a foreign language to a researcher ready to contribute to the field at Princeton.”
Don’t get me wrong—I was researching last spring. But I think what I meant here was about creating a connection with place. Or rather, with the being that is Spain. Because Spain is alive. It’s evolving. Its arms don’t look like its legs. Every ciudad and pueblo has its own rhythm, values, and even languages.
And I’m proud to say I’ve seen—and heard—all four this summer: Spanish, Basque, Catalan, and Galician.
While I, as a foreigner and researcher, will never be Spanish—and I’ll never catch up to the years of lived experience of those who grew up here—I think my three months gave me a good base. Enough to start critiquing. Enough to start asking questions. Enough to pick the occasional fight with Spanish professors about Cristóbal Colón and his over-the-top tomb in Sevilla. Enough to write an exposé about the Real Academia Española and its absolute hot takes on inclusive language.
It all started in Toledo, where cultures collide and car mirrors hang on by threads. During my four weeks there, I explored the meca that is Madrid—a central hub, or kilómetro cero if you will, for all of Spain. I made it to Valencia, where I had the best paella of my life and wandered its winding streets, even watching fishermen cast their nets against the backdrop of a pink-gold sunrise. To wrap up that first month, I ventured to the highly recommended Alcalá de Henares, where I swung high (yes, on an actual swing), walked more than I care to admit, and ate an entire package of jamón for lunch—no regrets.
After a weekend of taxi drivers insisting on taking me to airports instead of train stations, trains arriving fashionably late, and a quick visit to Pablo and his crew in Salamanca, I headed off to Barcelona—the closest thing Spain has to an American city. It was expensive, loud, and impersonal, with pickpockets lurking in the background, but I managed to keep all my belongings. Between bouts of host family drama, I soaked up the sun on the Costa Brava and even took a quick detour out of the country to the mountains of Andorra—where, honestly, the bus ride was better than the destination.
From there, I hopped a flight to what is now officially my favorite place in Spain: Bilbao, where the mountains quite literally call you and the architecture begs you to fill up your camera roll (though, as we know, I was terrible at actually taking photos). It’s also where I learned the importance of boarding the right bus—I still have that wrong-ticket souvenir.
Finally, I made it to my last stop: Sevilla, the heart of Andalucía—or more accurately, the oven of Andalucía. From there, I explored all the south had to offer: Jerez and Cádiz, Granada, Málaga (with its breathtaking Caminito del Rey), Córdoba, and even Santiago de Compostela.
So no, I didn’t pack Spain in a bag.
But I packed what I needed.
Maybe this sounds profound or maybe I’m just ranting, but either way Spain changed me for the better.
I was once asked in a bar to talk about myself and explain what electrical engineering is, and why I wanted to study it. I didn’t have a good answer. So I’d like to take this final moment of this final blog, on my final day of Spain to start again.
Hola, I’m Delia. I’m bilingual (and not just un poquito) and aiming to be trilingual before I graduate college. I lived in Spain for three months, my geography knowledge is well above par, and I thought I wanted to major in electrical engineering.
Spoiler alert: I don’t.
It’s not that I didn’t like robotics in high school or that I’m not passionate about renewable energy—I am. But you’re not going to catch me reading microchip literature for fun or voluntarily signing up for a course on signal processing. And no, I didn’t switch because it was “too hard,” despite what a senior from CMU once insinuated.
I just realized that, while I still hate art with a passion and you definitely won’t find me memorizing history dates (unless it’s 1492), there’s a space for me in the social sciences and humanities. As my writing seminar professor once said, I realized that the questions I want to ask about the universe aren’t about which metal conducts electricity better or whether it’s more efficient to use two for loops or one while loop. And I definitely don’t care whether a solar panel should be tilted 15.1° or 15.2°.
No, I may not have all my career steps lined up in a neat, color-coded spreadsheet like the average Princeton student, but to me, that makes it all the more exciting. I want to do interdisciplinary work that’s actually interdisciplinary—not just labeled that way in a course catalog. I want to explore calles and get lost. I want to take risks. I want to stand on top of mountains and feel like I’m on top of the world—or at least on a chapel balcony blasting rock music (10/10 would recommend).
In my free time, you’ll find me taking an ungodly number of photos, writing (I have a blog, you know), drinking coffee, crocheting, watching movies (in Spanish, of course), and working on some big, dramatic, creative project that may or may not require a printer and emotional turmoil.
My favorite dining hall is Forbes—not because the food is good (it’s not), but because on a warm spring day or a crisp fall one, you can take your raspberry iced tea (highly recommend) and your favorite book, plop yourself down in an Adirondack chair, and just exist.
My favorite color is purple. When I think of home, I think of 395, woods, and, right now, as summer winds down, clam cakes, chowder, and an iced Dunkin’ coffee. I have an obsession with colorful pants, and I’m a Mathey Moose—quietly, not proudly. I survived one month of dorm life in The Club and eight months in a hair salon with a mouse infestation. But soon I’ll be living in the dorm closest to East Pyne (my favorite building on campus), in a room with a fluffy rug (finally), a shrine to Spain, a coffee machine, and my new stuffed bull, Burrito.
Why Burrito? Because I confused toro and burro (bull vs. donkey) and by the time I figured it out, it was too late. Burrito had already been born.
Sure, I could’ve spent the summer grinding away in a lab or some fancy internship, but instead, I chose Spain. And Spain gave me everything I needed—and more.
So here we are: Delia 2.0. The latest and greatest software update. She’s still not perfect (still occasionally gets on the wrong bus), but she’s more aligned with her values now. And let’s be honest—I just can’t be hanging around all the future Lockheed Martin employees anymore.
Thank you to everyone who’s followed along on this wild adventure. Your eyeballs mean the world to me. I can’t wait to see you all in person!
I’m sure the blog will live on (you’re not getting rid of me that easily), but for now, my hands need a break. Don’t worry though—we’ll probably be back with monthly updates during the semester, because you’re going to need to see the U.S.’s newest Spanish embassy. Or… shrine might be the more accurate term for what’s going down in my dorm room.
We’re talking 40+ postcards on the wall, four different flags, and of course—Burrito.
Oh, and if my luggage actually makes it Boston.
Also, the excitement of starting a new major and finishing my Spanish minor. And hopefully not getting my bike stolen this year.
So that’s my Spain story. And as the Dropkick Murphys say, “I’m shipping up to Boston”—because waiting for me there is one giant sign and a large Dunkin’ iced butter pecan coffee with regular cream and sugar.
Hasta luego,
