In my latest case of lesson-learning, I wrote off the idea of working for a language academy without stopping to think that maybe it would be smarter to discuss my concerns with the directors first, in order to try to come to an agreement. Luckily, they called me and suggested we meet to talk before I made any final decisions. I agreed, and then felt silly for having sent my “good riddance” (although polite and reasonable) email instead of just calling to have an actual conversation and try to come up with a solution for my problem.

It turns out that they were willing and happy to meet me halfway. I agreed to take a few of their classes instead of all the ones we had originally discussed, thus leaving half of my evenings available for giving my own classes. On the same day, I met with another language academy that wanted to hire me to give a late morning class at a nursery. I’m still undecided about this one, as I want to find out exactly how many two-year-olds we’re talking about. However, it could potentially be a good deal since it’s a little tricky finding morning classes, which is when I’m most available.

By working for academies half of the time, I’ll have the security of knowing I’ll be able to make rent each month without fail. The money is guaranteed, except on holidays, which is not the case with private classes. But by having the other half of my work hours free from academies, I can organize a few of my own classes, allowing me to make the most of my time by scheduling pay-per-person classes with small groups. Now, having both the fixed income and more control over how much money I can potentially earn each month, I think I’ve achieved the best of both worlds.

In my last blog, I admitted that decision-making is not my forte. From this most recent event, I have learned that situations are not necessarily black and white, and discarding an option or situation that appears unsatisfactory without first working to fix it is probably a mistake. I’m pretty sure I’ve learned this lesson before, in one aspect of my life or another, but learning to apply it is an on-going challenge.

For a couple of months now, I’ve been reading a book  on decision-making. I still haven’t finished it because I do that with books and other things in life — start them and get kinda interested but then get distracted by something else that’s more interesting, like the Facebook. Or my empty gmail inbox. Why read when you can stare at a glowing screen? This problem is on my list of things to change about myself in the future. But I digress.

My mom bought me said book this summer because I tend to struggle over decisions to the point where they become painful. I know there is no perfect decision, but I don’t really believe it. So, I have already reversed one of the decisions I made when I first got to Granada — to work for a language academy. The thing is, the academy hired me, but not to work at the actual place, but to give private classes in people’s homes for a flat hourly rate.

You see, I’m an old pro at giving these kinds of classes, but I usually just organize them myself and choose where I want to go, when I want to go there and how much I want to charge. I tried to get used to the idea of having someone else do all the managing for me, as the advantages were that they’d give me some materials and guarantee me a full schedule on my available days, but I just couldn’t get over the fact that I could work fewer hours for more money and with more flexibility if I ditched The Man and found students on my own.

So I quit. Before even starting. Well, I had given two classes already, but the academy hadn’t even finished putting together the rest of my schedule yet.

The thing about private classes is, once you have one, you’ll soon have more than you can handle, or at least that many offers. Word gets around; it’s just getting started that takes some creativity, if you don’t have immediate connections. Working for an academy would surely be worthwhile if I had a block schedule in one place instead of having to waste time traveling to people’s houses, or if I had time to do both that and give some of my own classes, or if I had no idea how to go about finding my own classes or that I could charge per person and not just per hour, but none of these hypothetical “ifs” apply to me, so according to my book, I should immediately stop thinking about them and be content with my decision. Which I am.

Now comes the creativity part, as I no longer have the connections that working for a bilingual school gives you. I’ve posted ads on the internet, advertising special offers and highlighting my qualifications, and this afternoon I’m going to recruit Jaime to help me hand out flyers to parents waiting outside of nearby schools to pick up their kids when the bell rings.

It will be an experiment in self-marketing and management, to see how much bang I can get out of my only two evenings available for giving classes. Will I find a way to pay the bills? Will I hate my life in the process? Will my decision prove to be a good one? Only time will tell.

Here I am again, in Granada, after a nine-month stint in Madrid and a couple summers spent living at home. Last time I was here, I was a teacher’s assistant, part of a popular program organized by the Spanish and American governments to bring native English speakers into Spain’s bilingual schools to combat the country’s bad reputation associated with learning the language. I played that game for two years, as it provides a nice monthly stipend to live off of — complete with health insurance, paid vacation and legal resident status — but I was absolutely out of my element most of the time and basically just getting by in the hopes of figuring out what I really wanted to do in the meantime.

The first year, in Granada, was markedly worse than the second, caused by both circumstances and poor choices. I was placed in a school that was in the process of becoming bilingual, and it was my job (in partnership with the other language assistant at the school, a girl my age from Quebec) to “teach” the teachers who would be expected to teach at least 30 percent of their classes in English the following year. Did I mention I had no teaching experience or training, and my job description explicity prohibited me from leading a class without the supervision of an actual teacher? So the other girl and I spent every morning giving “conversation classes” to small groups of teachers, which involved a lot of coming up with games and activities that would let the teachers practice speaking English in a hopefully not-too- boring way. But it was boring, and I habitually started dreading the work week, consisting of 12 teaching hours over four days plus some private evening classes, as early as Saturday afternoon.

But the school situation was not the only factor contributing to the bad year. This was technically my first time living completely on my own, as I started the program right out of college.  I’d been working since I was 16 but had never had to make a budget for my monthly earnings in order to cover all my living expenses, wants and saving goals. Thus, I picked an apartment that was too expensive, planned trips I couldn’t afford and stressed myself out to save more than feasible on my stipend. In order to meet those goals, I took on too many private classes, which were spread out all over the city, paid me less than I should have accepted and filled most of my evenings Monday through Thursday. All lessons learned the hard way, but learned well.

The second year wasn’t so bad, even rewarding at times. This time I worked at an elementary school with only 100 students in a pueblo just north of Madrid. I worked with everyone from three-year-olds to sixth-graders to teachers, and the staff was small and welcoming. My favorite thing about the year was having a purpose — preparing the young’ns to take an important English level exam at the end of the year and helping the English teachers make their classes more authentic. I didn’t just fill hours like a student waiting for the bell to ring; I was needed, even too much at times, and I got to see my students’ progress over time. I even discovered something that shocked my friends and family, not to mention me: I really like working with kids, like little ones. I thought I had no maternal instinct, and maybe I don’t, but they’re so darn cute and just make you smile. I never would’ve thought being an elementary school teacher would even cross my mind as an option, but if I decide to teach one day, I will most certainly consider that age group. If for that experience alone,  the year was more than worthwhile for me.

What’s more, the experience was better than the last because I made smarter choices as far as planning my private classes. I decided to set the condition that in order to accept a class, it had to be SUPER convenient for me. And it worked. I limited myself to just a few classes, and I got a ride directly to their houses via a co-worker in every instance. I even lucked out and was hired to give a weekly class at the royal nursery, which just happened to be down the street from my school and pretty much ended any financial worries I may have had. Needless to say, I was generally much less stressed overall than the previous year.

All of this leads me to this year, in Granada again, but no longer as a language assistant. So, what am I doing now? The better question is, “What am I not doing?” In mid-October, I begin a master’s program at the local university. I’ll spend full evenings Wednesday through Friday studying “international cooperation,” which involves things like economics, politics, humanitarian aid, management and government. In my two free evenings I’ll give English classes in people’s homes, a job organized through a language academy in the city. During the day, I’ll run (my boyfriend and I are training for a half-marathon, you know), give private classes I arrange on my own, and do freelance translation work and hopefully some writing.  At least this is how I envision my year to come, but I’m fully aware that my eyes may be bigger than my belly, so to speak.

I wanted to do this year on my own, without the hand-holding of any program designed to facilitate foreigners’ experiences abroad. I’ve done that type of thing four times now, study abroad programs included, and it’s time I do something with no expiration date. I got my legal papers (well, they’ve been accepted and are being processed) on my own, translated all my academic documents and got into the master’s program on my own, got the English teaching job on my own and will hopefully build more translation contacts on my own, as well. This means that when the academic year ends in June, I won’t be back at square one, wondering what to do next. I’ll have jobs that could potentially carry on into the future, or at least contacts and new qualifications that could lead to such a job. Thus, my reasons for telling myself that I’ve started off this new adventure by making smart decisions, and we’ll see how the circumstances turn out to be. So far, things are looking good.

Yesterday, I was doing a greater amount of facebook stalking than usual, as my roommates had gone out for tapas and drinks and I was stuck home nursing my ankle, and I came across a blog that exemplified the kind of Americans-in-Spain that drive me up the wall.

It was written by a language assistant like me, and it was full of stereotypes and generalizations about Spanish people and culture. But the most annoying part was the “I’m so above these people and this place” tone that rang throughout the entire thing.

Maybe I’m being harsh…it was pretty obvious that this girl hadn’t spent much time abroad before, and maybe I was just as naive and oblivious when I first began my international adventures. I do remember commenting to my mom one day, three years ago, barely into my first stint in Spain, that Granada was a “cosmopolitan city, like New York!” The small town in southern Spain does has a lively atmosphere, decent shopping compared to my hometown,and lots of culture, but it’s no New York…not even close. (I hadn’t been to New York yet, either.)

But the sad thing is many people never progress beyond that first phase, where everything is foreign and exotic to you, and therefore silly, and you can laugh about it because you know you get to go home soon, where everything is “normal” and makes much more sense.

I’ve met so many people in the two-going-on-three years I’ve spent in Spain who say they’re here to experience another culture and learn the language, but they never step outside of the America bubble they create in Spain. They only spend time with other Americans, they make fun of Spanish customs that they don’t understand and people they think are funny because they’re different, and they meet one or two Spaniards and assume they’re all the same.

I know I’ve taken the integration and acceptance thing to the extreme, what with the Spanish boyfriend and all, but through my relationship I’ve been able to meet  and get to know a lot of Spaniards. Now, whenever I get caught in certain conversations with other Americans, I usually feel like it’s my personal responsability and mission to defend the Spaniards under attack and prove that the stereotypes are as true as many Europeans’ stereotypes about Americans — we’re all overweight, frequent McDonalds, eat eggs and bacon for breakfast every day, don’t know where Europe is on a map (ahem, John McCain), and carry guns at all times, among others.

I don’t know about you, but none of these oh-so-common stereotypes apply to me, and I’m as American as they come.

Let me start by saying this experience is completely different than last year, which was exactly what I was hoping for. Last year, my work day consisted of giving English conversation classes to groups of teachers at a high school that was working on becoming bilingual. It was fun getting to know the teachers, but the whole routine got really old really fast. Not to mention, every move I made, the other language assistant at the school also made because we had the same function and the same schedule.

This year, I spend my day (usually from 10:30 or 11 until 4:30) going from class to class helping the teachers with whatever they happen to be teaching that day or leading an activity that I planned myself. I’m more involved in some classes than in others, and my least favorite aspect of the job is the times when there’s nothing for me to do and I just stand around looking awkward in front of the kids. But that’s happening less and less as the teachers (who are mostly all new to this bilingual school thing) and I figure out how I can participate in the class.

I like that I’m getting to know the kids although it’ll be a while before I know all of their names. Just about every girl, and female teacher’s, name is Maria this or that (Maria Jose, Maria Jesus, Maria Teresa, etc.), which makes things complicated. I also like seeing how smart some of them are, and I’ve been surprised to see that one of the worst-behaved kids is also one of the most clever.

I like that I’m learning how to interact with kids, and I’m getting a better understanding of what they’re capable of at what age. Last week I had my first private English class with a 5-year-old girl, and I left the class thinking she was a little terror because she refused to participate in any activity I tried to initiate. After having a couple more classes with other kids around her age, I realized it was partially my fault — 5-year-olds can’t read…who knew? I also thought she was just copping an attitude when she said she didn’t remember her birthday, but it turns out little kids don’t necessarily know their birthday. All news for me, as I’ve never worked with kids in any form or fashion besides babysitting a long time ago for a couple of neighbors who weren’t much younger than me.

Even the school itself is much different than the school where I worked last year. I’ve already mentioned how small it is, and the teachers keep telling me they’re like a family, even though several of them are new this year. Breakfast (a morning break from 11:30-12) and lunch (from 2:15-3) are served in the cafeteria, but this is no typical cafeteria food. Breakfast usually consists of coffee or tea with an assortment of pastries and fruit, but sometimes they mix it up, like when we had chocolate and churros one day earlier this week. Lunch is a multiple-course meal, starting out with something light like salad or lentils and then getting more serious with offerings like lasagne or fish. It’s always fresh and plentiful, and there’s always dessert followed by coffee.

On my first day, one of the teachers advised me to bring my lunch as the school food engorda (gets you fat). I ate at the school the first two days as it was too good to resist, but after lunch I felt so full and sleepy that it was impossible to stay on my toes in my last two classes of the day. So I started bringing my lunch this week and have felt much more awake in my afternoon classes. However, I think I will let myself partake in the feast a day or two per month.

I’ve really only been on the job for about a week and a half now, so I’m still feeling it out. I think I’m lucky as far as the school I got placed in, as it’s in a nice town, the teachers are enthusiastic, and the students can be loud but are generally well-behaved. It’s going to be a learning experience for me as well as my co-workers and students.

I’ll just sum up what happened to bring me to where I’m living now and what I’m up to.

That first night in the Argentinians’ house, the Portugese student started saying negative things about the house in the same breath he used to introduce himself. I’d only known him for two minutes when he complained about the washing machine and the TV not working right and the air being “not very breathable,” whatever that means. Then, he popped his head back into my room to tell me that “you can find something much better for what you’re paying.”

Now, I definitely considered the source of this information, as this guy seemed a little off, and I’d seen enough apartments in the same area to know what I could expect to find in my price range. However, I was in a vulnerable state as Jaime had just gone back to Germany, and my friends had not yet arrived in Madrid. Not to mention the fact that I was already a little unsure about my decision to take that room, and I wasn’t even 100 percent sure I’d made the right decision in coming to Madrid. To top it all off, I’d just discovered that my roommate and I would not be friends. Needless to say, that was not a happy night.

I’ve never been one to sit and pout with my arms crossed when I find myself in a situation I don’t like, just as my mom likes to point out that I’ve never been able to take no for an answer. But I half-resolved to relax and give the apartment a try for a week. I even went grocery shopping and started to unpack a little that night. But by morning, I knew I wasn’t going to last a week.

The night of sleep didn’t calm me down — it got me more worked up. What had I been thinking taking that place that was empty and dark from 9 in the morning to 10 at night, and where the only space I felt comfortable in was my little room? That was exactly the kind of scenario I had set out to avoid when looking for apartments. I had gotten desperate and impatient. Well, I decided to fix it.

My only concern was that I’d already paid the deposit, which was 600 euros, and I didn’t know how much of it I could get back. I hadn’t signed any sort of contract, but I’d told them I’d be there until June, and there wasn’t any proof that that money had ever changed hands except for a hand-written, unsigned receipt.

I spent the next day calling my lifelines for advice and planning my escape, and my friend Rachel and her friends from the U.S., who are all doing the same program as I am, arrived that afternoon. I decided to talk to the Argentinians that night and tell them my school placement had been changed and then beg for my deposit back. Before I’d even seen them to talk to them, I started looking for a new room, and I agreed to look at a four-bedroom apartment with Rachel and her two friends, as well.

We saw the apartment that evening, and told the landlord YES without hesitation. The location was perfect, the apartment was cute, and the price was right. So I suddenly had two apartments, and I wasn’t freaking out at all…really.

Long story short, I talked to the Argentinians that night and told them I’d help them find someone to take the room. They said yes I would, and they’d try to get my deposit back to me as soon as possible. I put up an ad online that night, got a ton of calls right away, and also mentioned something to a British girl I saw looking at another apartment in my building. She ended up coming back to look at my room, and she took it that next day…and I took her deposit money. Problem solved.

Morals of the story: *Don’t get impatient or desperate when apartment searching in Madrid. If you have doubts, wait it out. New rooms open up every day, every hour, every half hour…And moving again after you’ve already moved is REALLY inconvenient. You always have to sacrifice one luxury or another, but remember your priorities and stick to them.

*If you do have to move again, finding someone to fill your room (unless it really is unacceptable and you shouldn’t have even thought about taking it in the first place) can take less than 24 hours if you put forth the effort. Use the internet, and talk to people on the street.

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As for what I’m up to, I just started working at my school last Wednesday. It’s a tiny school, with just more than 100 kids, and it’s in a pueblo about 10 minutes outside of the city. I explored a little bit on my lunch hour last week, and it looks like there are some nice running trails near the school. The kids are cute…they give me free hugs, and one little girl (she’s already my favorite) drew me a picture last week. It’s on the fridge.

This week, I’m starting a German class at the university. I’ve been saying how cool it would be to learn another language, so I just decided to do it. Granted, I don’t even know how to say adios in German, so the going will be slow. But I’ll be going to Germany several times this year to visit Jaime, so it seemed like a practical choice.

I’m also starting a couple of private English classes this week to earn some extra money. I’m not going to do as many as I did last year, and I may just do them until Christmas, but it’s nice to have that option. Being a native English speaker, whether or not you have teacher training, entitles you to get 15-25 euros/ hour for classes.

That’s about the end of my news for now, but I’m on the search for more activities to meet people, as living with three Americans means I don’t speak any Spanish at home. Like I said, you always have to sacrifice something.

Hasta luegoooo

Straight from there, after having traveled 19 hours to get from Tennessee to Madrid by way of DC and Philly, I bought a newspaper and started looking for apartments. I already had two appointments to visit places that day — citas I had arranged via internet before leaving Knoxville. I quickly realized my 2 euros spent on the newspaper had been a waste, as there were no individual rooms advertised, only entire pisos. I needed the internet.

After scouring Craig’s List-type pages like Loquo and Idealista, I came up with a couple more possibilities and called the contact numbers to set up more citas. Even though I speak Spanish comfortably, talking on the phone complicates matters quite a bit, as you don’t have the aid of gestures and facial expressions. Calling complete strangers to ask to come see their apartment was even more nerve-wracking, and I wondered how people who didn’t speak Spanish were able to find a place to live.

The first cita was a bust. It was a tiny room in a tiny piso with three trabajadores (workers) for 380 euros (about $570). I only met one of the roommates, but she could have been my mother. I tried to look around the whole place to feign interest, and told her I had her number and I’d call her if I decided to take it. Then I got outta there.

The next couple of places I looked at were similarly sketchy and in the same price range. One was in a weird, hostel-like place with a bunch of foreign students and travelers. It seemed like the girl who showed me around rented out the entire building, as she kept showing me more rooms when I voiced one complaint or another. She was charging too much for what she was offering, and I felt like it was a scam for foreigners in a hurry to find something, or unable to speak Spanish to look for something better.

At this point, I was starting to freak out a little. I realized my original precio maximo of 350 euros  ($525) with gastos incluidos (expenses included) was not going to fly, at least not in the area where I wanted to live. This was not Granada, where you can find a nice place to live for less than 200 euros ($300).

The next day, I got up early and started the process all over again. This time, I saw more no-no’s: a room in the house of two grandparents (they had to be at least 80), with no internet and I’m pretty sure no rights to the kitchen or living room. On the up side, the location was ideal, and it only cost 330 euros ($495), everything included. I said no, thank-you and bye-bye.

The second place I saw was getting closer — a pleasant room with a window in the house of an Argentinian couple that rents out two rooms to students. The woman seemed nice, and the house was livable overall. But it still wasn’t the young, social atmosphere I was looking for. I put it on the “maybe” list and kept looking.

Next, I visited an apartment where five Spanish guys already lived. The people were open and friendly, and they made it clear that they were looking for someone who would integrarse (integrate themselves) into the buen rollo (good atmosphere) of the piso. That aspect I liked because I was also looking to make friends, but the place itself was kind of dirty, and they seemed like big partiers. What’s more, they needed someone to stay until July, and that would leave me with two extra months to pay without actually living there. No, thanks, boys.

On day three (or was it four?), I came oh-so-close to signing a lease. It was a shared apartment with students — two Spaniards (including one from the Canaries!) and two Italians. The room was bright and sunny, and the location was sweet. The price, however, was a little less sweet at 440 whopping euros ($660), or about three-quarters of my monthly grant money. But I liked the place and was sick of looking, so I told the man I’d take it. He gave me a list of rules and regulations to look at and sign while he left to go show some other students a different piso that he owned in the same building.

This is when things started to get scary. Included among the rules was one that said overnight visitors had to pay 30 euros ($45) per night. Also, people were not allowed to come eat with us, and the landlords had keys to the apartment and would enter every day at various times. I called him on that one, and he said it was just to see that the cleaning had been done…riiight, I wasn’t liking the sound of this. The last straw happened when I said I’d talked to the other landlord, and she’d assured me that I could rent the room until June without a problem. He called her and said that, actually, I’d have to stay through July. I gave him back the rules and regulations and ran away fast. He was pissed, but I was relieved.

This is when I started thinking about the room in the Argentinians’ house again. It had been the best I’d seen, and I was OVER wasting money on calling people and time on seeing roach hotels. Plus, sleeping on the sofa bed was getting old. I called the couple that afternoon and told them I’d take it. I didn’t actually sleep there for another couple of days, however, as Jaime and I were staying with his sister while he was visiting.

The day I did move in, I met the Portugese student who occupied the other student room. And just a few minutes after that first encounter, he started poisoning my mind…

To be continued…

Things you think about during 19 hours of trying to get to Spain (a peek into my neurotic brain):

~Airport in Knoxville (around 7 am): noticed the signs that said the threat of a terrorist attack was “Orange,” which is like the second –highest level. It felt like a “fly at your own risk” warning. I looked around at the other people going through security with me, and none of them looked worried, so I figured I was OK.

~Airport in Knoxville (around 7 am): tried to psych myself up to get excited for my flight, but still only felt nervous, apprehensive and hopeful that I was making the right decision. Watched my parents walk away and thought how much easier it was to say goodbye knowing that I’d be home in three months instead of nine. Still felt a little sad to be leaving my comfort zone.

~Airport in DC (around 9:30 am):  Loathed the airport for not providing free wifi. (I just thought wee-fee, like in Spanish, when I wrote that. I accidentally said it the other day when I was talking to my mom, and then she couldn’t remember which pronunciation was correct.) Ever since I went to one U.S. airport (can’t remember which one) that did provide free internet, I’m spoiled for life. I could be getting ahead on my apartment search and attempting to contact my boyfriend, reassuring myself that he will be at the airport in Madrid tomorrow. But noooooo…I’m forced to write my blog post in Word and save it to be published at a later date. I’m hoping that Philadelphia was the airport I can’t remember, as I’m going there in about an hour for my next and last domestic layover.

~Airport in DC (around 10 am): recognized a US Airways flight attendant and felt like an airport “regular.” Wondered if she might recognize me like servers know their regular customers. Figured I probably hadn’t reached that level yet, but that would be cool.

~Airport in DC (around 10:30 am): planned on waiting until I got to Philadelphia around 1 pm to buy anything to eat, but got bored and cold so purchased a hot coffee and a coffee cake muffin. It wasn’t really worth it. Have a bad, burnt taste in my mouth and feel like I just ate a sugar bowl.

~Airport in DC (around 11 am): started to think about the people I met last year and looked forward to seeing who would become part of my life through this new adventure. Hoped I would have a better experience in the school where I will be working.

~Airport in DC (around 11 am): started to worry about money. Forgot to ask my parents if they would spot me for my apartment deposit. Will have to e-mail when I get there. Just hope I can make it until I get paid on Nov. 1. God, I hate borrowing money from my parents these days. But I’m thankful I have that option. I’m going to have to pick up some private English classes at least in the month of October, and I can quit when I get paid if I don’t like them. Don’t want to get stuck with too many like last year and be miserable.

~Airport in DC (around 11:15 am): I hope I get a room with a lot of light, and a balcony would be nice. I hope I like my roommates. The girl, Daniela, who responded to my e-mail yesterday about an apartment I’d like to go look at seemed nice. I hope that works out.

~Airport in DC (around 11:15 am): I’m going to see Jaime tomorrow. OK, maybe I’m getting excited now. Just a little. Thank God he’ll be there to meet me at the airport and help me with my bags…I hope he got my flight information and shows up on time instead of an hour late like me when I picked him up in Atlanta this summer. He’s a good boyfriend.

~Airport in DC (around 11:20 am): The economic crisis is the only thing they’re talking about on the news. I wonder what things will be like in the States when I return. Wonder who the new president will be. Kind of sad I’ll be missing all the hype this fall. Need to register for absentee voting. Crossing my fingers for Obama.

~Airport in Philly (around 1:30 pm): why are so many airport employees rude and/or incompetent? Drives me crazy. They’re there to do a job, and the people they’re doing that job for just get in the way and get on their nerves.

~Airport in Philly (around 3 pm): walked around everywhere looking for wifi. Found out students get it for free, and everyone gets it for free on the weekends. My student visa (with my picture and the word “student” on it) wasn’t good enough – you had to have a student ID card. ??!! I know, I know, I’m NOT a student…but if I’ve got documentation saying that I am, then what’s the problem?

~Airport in Philly (around 4 pm): walk the length of the airport to get back to my gate and think my back is going to break from the weight of my backpack. There is no cart in sight until I get to my final destination, where there are several unclaimed carts just sitting there. I’m starting to get pissed from being tired and having nothing go my way.

~Airport in Philly (around 4 pm): realize that if I weren’t traveling by myself, I wouldn’t be taking all of these things so seriously, and I need to chill out. I wish I had a traveling companion….someone to stay with my backpack when I need to go to the bathroom.

When I went to Wales in 2003, my sophomore year in college, I had never before left the country. The longest vacation I’d ever taken without my parents was for about a week. Luckily, a long-time friend was participating in the same study abroad program, and we had planned a two-week backpacking trip around southern England and Ireland to complete before the school year started. We bought eurail tickets, learned how to make them stretch for more trips than they were worth and had an adventure we would never forget.

I still remember that day when we found our hostel in London after having flown in from the states. With my two huge suitcases AND hardcore backpack, and my friend with an equally heavy load, we got our share of dirty looks and snide comments from the veteran backpackers who watched us struggling to transport our luggage from the hostel door to the storage room in the lobby. We weren’t stupid enough to think we were going to take everything we had brought for the whole semeser on our backpacking tour; we just had to get from London to our university in Wales, where we would store everything but our backpacks until we returned to start school two weeks later.

Even so, we had brought more things than we could ever hope to utilize in four months. Once the backpacking trip was over and I’d settled into my room in the student village in Wales, I didn’t even have the space to store my two suitcases. I wouldn’t have been able to make it from the train station to the place that would be my home if it hadn’t been for the help of kind Welsh strangers.

After that trip, I swore I would never overpack again. From then on, one suitcase would be all I would ever take anywhere.

Then came Spain in 2005. I was only planning on staying in Granada for a semester, but about halfway through I decided to extend my stay to the end of the year, as I wasn’t satisfied with the progress I’d made with my Spanish. I had improved greatly, but I had really only just begun to feel comfortable speaking and understanding. Another four months would help me solidify the foundation I had built.

That year, I did much better, packing-wise. If I got an F in Wales, I probably got a B- in Spain. With one suitcase and the hardcore backpack, I still brought too much (there was at least one drawer full of things, mostly T-shirts, I never wore), but my luggage was manageable.

When I decided to go back for another nine months in 2007, I was determined to get an A. I limited myself to ONE suitcase, however huge it may be and I strategized to pack only what I knew I would use. However, I knew I’d messed up again when, less than a quarter of the way through my time abroad, I grew sick of everything I owned but didn’t have extra money to go shopping. Having learned from the unopened drawer in my room in Spain the previous time, I had only brought ONE T-shirt. I grew to hate that T-shirt, wore my one pair of winter shoes until they became embarrassingly ratty and had to be thrown to the curb, and despised the handful of shirts and sweaters occupying my closet.

What’s more, I hadn’t packed a winter coat because it was too bulky, opting to buy a new one when cold weather came around. But cold weather came much more quickly than I had anticipated, and it took me a long time to find something I liked within my price range.

While I’ve been home this summer, I haven’t even wanted to look at any of the clothes I wore while in Spain. And as I’m packing now, although I know I have to pack many of the same sweaters and shirts or I will have no wardrobe, I resent the fact that I will be carrying around the weight of these things I loathe.

Not only was the lack of variety a result of my poor packing, but I had to pay expensive airline charges for the extra weight. It would have been smarter to have packed two smaller suitcases to distribute the weight, which is exactly my strategy for this year.

So far, I’ve decided on the clothes I want to take –selecting a wider variety to allow for more combinations–but am afraid of taking too much. As you can see by the picture, the clothes fit. But I still have to add the coat (yes, I’m taking one this year), toiletries, socks and underwear (I am a female. I have many.) shoes and scarfs (narrowing those down has been harder than the clothes.). Do you think I can do it?

I’m going for an A, so the pressure’s on.

Further examples of a once-stellar speller/grammarian gone mal: responsable (can never remember if it’s “ible” or “able”), “respond me” instead of “respond to me,” wondering if I was mistaken when I said “disorganized” instead of “unorganized,” saying “explain me” too many times to be excusable, forming my sentences with my subject following my predicate…the list continues indefinitely.

I made such mistakes embarrassingly often when I was living in Spain last year, but I was sure I’d quickly get over it when I got back into my routine at home. Well, no. At least it was semi-funny when it happened among fellow Spanish speakers, but when it happens when I’m, say, talking to a table I’m serving or chatting with people at work, it’s just weird.

The only way I can explain it is that I speak Spanish to Jaime almost every day. I really have no idea why I can’t shake it, but the insanity has got to stop.