Dear College, thanks for the memories

College – the highly coveted four years that most every middle/upper class kid experiences. Attending is not a possibility, but a requirement to make proud parents prouder and to prove the level of one’s education. Sure, school choice matters – Harvard and Yale, or the University of Florida and Florida State. But we all continue our education for the same reasons: the college years provide the perfect canvas for the transition to maturation – four years (or maybe more) away from home, an excuse to procrastinate a real-life job, a time for self-discovery, and perhaps, a place to acquire a more concentrated skill set.

People always refer to their college years as “the times of their lives.” They warn you to enjoy every moment, promising that the four years will fly by. They urge you to stay summers and get involved. They tell stories from their hay day, which must be missing the essential details that make the stories funny in the first place. They can’t help but reminisce. Is it because of the great educational experiences they encountered? No. It’s because of the friendships they created, the places they went, the bad choices they made, the independence they gained, the tailgates and football they watched.

Everyone seems to know, but no one really seems to care that college life is more about self-discovery than it is about higher education. Memories of sorority functions and weekend away trips to football games fill the spaces in our brains where statistics and comparative politics knowledge should be. Still, we leave our university, diploma in hand, only slightly smarter than we’ve ever been, but with more confidence, self-esteem and stories than we knew possible.

I sucked the life out of orange and blue. My time at UF can been categorized as anything but dull. Summer B, I took advantage of meeting new people, ordering pizza and pokey sticks for late night snacks and adding a second major (political science) after thoroughly enjoying my first international relations class. By the time fall semester arrived and rushing a sorority took priority over classes, I was well acquainted with the campus.

My journalism major made it acceptable for me to be curious about every hidden nook and cranny in Gainesville. I traveled to High Springs, Starke and Alachua looking for stories to write and people to meet. The only “A” in my entire collegiate career that I didn’t receive was, ironically, in Intro to Journalism (B+). I learned never to skip extra credit assignments, no matter how solid I thought my grade was.

Odd jobs defined my time not in class – a Texas Roadhouse hostess for two days before I quit (who likes to clean bathrooms?); a door girl to collect money on Thursdays at a downtown Gainesville club, where I’d watch bloody brawls take place; a beer tub girl at Gator City, where the lower my top meant the greater my tips; a tutor for Advanced Learning Centers, in which I tutored a first-grader twice a week in reading; a freelance food and restaurant critic for Examiner.com that allowed me to try each and every Gainesville restaurant my heart desires; and an ice-cream seller at the Gator football games in the alumni section, with weekly regulars. Attending games meant selling ice-cream, not watching.

I studied abroad – twice – with a greater emphasis on the “abroad” than on the “studying.” On my journey spring semester of junior year, I ended up on a fourth-floor “piso,” or apartment, in Barcelona, Spain, for four months. I lived with a host mother who spoke Spanish a-mile-a-minute – the most apropos breeding ground for misunderstandings. Dinners consisted of my broken chit-chat and offensive slurs. I would say accidentally that I was pregnant instead of embarrassed, or talk about my anus instead of my age. Despite my inevitable flaws, I practiced, and my trip became an on-the-go education. Spanish class took place in cabs and small boutiques. Home economics occurred mid-afternoon as I watched a woman scale fish in an open market, and my new Spanish friends taught linguistics – more aptly Profanity 101 – as we enjoyed tapas. By the time I shared my final meal with my Senora, Spain had become my home, and my educational experience became part of my life lexicon. I traveled to Paris, the south of France, Italy, Amsterdam and all around Spain on weekends, learning there’s more to life than school. I returned from gallivanting halfway around the world to realize that the love of my life was my best guy friend, and we would begin a relationship that makes others envious.

My second journey, 10 days in Icapuí, Brazil, with Pulitzer-Prize-winning photojournalist and professor John Kaplan for the coveted, invite-only Florida FlyIns class taught me the wonders of international journalism. I combined my love for travel and writing while producing a story on a Brazilian fisherwoman and getting class credit.

Internships, the mantra of UF faculty, became my goal. Us Weekly, Universal Republic Records, the Guardian Ad Litem program, Vertical Textiles, The Gainesville Sun, a stringer for The Independent Florida Alligator, and a freelancer for Tea Time magazine each became bullet points on my ever-growing resume.

The rest of my college experiences were a potpourri of this and that that I somehow found the time to accomplish/do. I was president of my sorority, a member of the prestigious Freshmen Leadership Council, a campus diplomat. I won an AT&T scholarship for three years. I was named the John Paul Jones, Jr. award winner for excellence in writing, as nominated and voted on by the journalism faculty and administration. I became an Anderson Scholar for the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences because of my stellar GPA. I graduated Summa Cum Laude (highest honors) and paid $45 just to wear the three cords at graduation. One of my professors dubbed me "a human highlighter." I created my first two blogs: KP in the City and Fork First Spoon Later. I went on a road trip to South Carolina for a Gator game. I spring breaked in Coast Rica. I “dated” my TA.

Only once I’ve cleared my head of each life-changing experience that has already become my college story, can I remember the classes – classes like food politics, in which I wrote and published my first book, "The Taste of Culture," and MMC2100 (Writing for Mass Communication) with an instructor who, to this day, remains one of my most valued mentors. I can think back fondly on once-dreaded papers and projects that have made me expand my personal boundaries while helping me to discover myself.

With a tear in one eye and a wink in the other, I pop the college bubble that I’ve been living in and prepare to tackle real life – Teach For America in Baltimore - where waking up at a normal hour is socially acceptable, working anywhere other than a bar or a club is smiled upon and going out nearly every night of the week is impossible. I leave feeling scared, yet ready to face those challenges ahead. Nostalgia for years past sets in and I long to relive it all over again. I wish I could go back to college.

Why We Travel: Fashion statements in Venice and Paris

Right about now, I am desperately longing for my European days. It's not the day-to-day occurrences or the nightlife promising to keep me out until 5 a.m. that I miss the most, but rather it's the ways of life. Sometimes it's the passion, other times it's the food. Today, it's the fashion. 

As such, I have decided to choose a photo (or two or three) that I took and write a detailed caption about what it does for me in relation to the lifestyle I miss. Photos, in addition to just being "pretty" or "cool," have the ability to still life and to tell so much more about place or an item. My "Why We Travel" blogs from here on out will be photos related to topics that leave me longing to travel.    

If gondola rides were sins, then black-and-white pinstriped, collared shirts would be whispers in the confessional. Every gondolier dons one. Every tourist wants to buy one. And you’d be hard-pressed not to see children walking around Venice wearing one. 

In this photo, gondoliers converse as they try to fit under a narrow bridge off of Venice’s Grand Canal.  At the beginning of tourist season, in the midday heat, on some of the tightest canals in all of Europe, gondola traffic jams are common. Tourists, perched atop a centuries-old bridge, can’t play “Where’s Waldo?” because every gondolier appears identical. They can, however, beg their loved ones for a shirt and stop by any vendor in any piazza to purchase one.

Public transportation uniform turned fashion statement defines this European city based in canal travel. 

The children of Paris are exquisite. In the dead of winter, this child looks either like a porcelain doll or a little adult. Her matching fur hat and coat belong on the runway or on a mannequin instead of outside in front of a street-corner crepe stand.

But parents will still dress their children like wealthy angels, even though they know children will be children. This little Parisian girl, despite her mother’s glares, couldn’t resist playing with leaves that fell on the icy ground while her mother ordered a breakfast crepe.  

Watching this child makes me wish there were 11 more of her so that I could chant one of my most favorite childhood-story lines: “In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines, lived 12 little girls in two straight lines. They left the house at half past nine. The smallest one was Madeline.” 

This picture-perfect, real-life Madeline goes to show that they don’t recognize Paris as a fashion capital for nothing.

Au revoir, ciao, arrivederci, good-bye, but above all, adios.

I miss taking normal showers. I miss my bed. I miss making phone calls without thinking how much it will cost me. I miss clubs closing at 2 a.m., forcing me to go home before I make bad decisions. I miss driving and my car. I miss manicures and pedicures. I miss peanut butter. I miss elevators. I miss the gym. I miss giant to-go cups of iced coffee with Splenda and skim milk. I miss eating dinner at 7:30 p.m. I miss having WiFi whenever I want it. I miss supermarkets and normal-sized bottles of water. I miss electrical outlets in which I don’t need to use a converter. I miss my straightner, I miss humidity and afternoon rain showers. I miss doing my own laundry. I miss cheap shopping at Forever 21. I miss planning trips months before I take them so I can get really excited about them. I miss writing news articles. I miss the hassle of running my sorority. I miss my friends who have known me for years and years. I miss my doggies. I miss the other half of my wardrobe. I miss normal television. I miss reading a hardcopy of the New York Times. I miss my big-little brother. I miss leaving my bag unzipped as I walk around. I miss spending important holidays with my family. I miss going to the movies. I miss shopping dates with my Grammy. I miss massages, giggle fests, tea dates, dance parties and crazy stories.

I guess that means it’s time to go home.

Hasta luego, Barcelona. Grácias por las memorias. Yo echaré de menos a ti. Tu tienes un parte muy especial en mi corazon para siempre. Yo nunca seré la misma. Grácias por todo.

Some days

Some days you wake up and you know. You immediately start to worry. Nothing in particular is wrong. You just feel like the forces had been aligning when you were sleeping and there’s something brewing. Today was one of those days.

Though I had every good intention to go to class all day long, Monday is my longest day. Class straight from 11 a.m. to 7 p.m., sin pausa (without a break), and I awoke without my usual fervor. I showered to wake myself up and I listened to Spanish guitar on my iPod during my 45-minute hike to school from my apartment, in hopes that I would feel like my typical, eager self, ready to seize the day. No such luck.

By the end of my first class, Spanish, I was half falling asleep. My second was so painful that I began to bargain with myself in order to keep my eyes open. The idea of focusing was more of a joke than a reality. When my third class rolled around my heart was begging my body to bolt, and the thought of a fourth class made me nauseous. The snip bits of class I did catch in between my heavy-lidded blinks weren’t making it easy for me to sit still.

In Spanish, we reviewed grammar and prepositions. As always, my professor had us play games as memory aids and today, she had us create sentences about our dreams – the dreams of our childhood, our current dreams and the dreams we have for our futures. While students in the class elected to write about their desires for 10 cats, to become ballerinas or to have a small house with flower-filled terraces, I chose a slightly less superficial approach. The sentence I wrote to read aloud was: “Ahora que tengo 20 anos, sueno con disfrutar mi vida cada dia,” or “Now that I am 20 years old, I dream of enjoying my life each and everyday.” [Thought to self: Great KP, good thing you are stuck here in this classroom.]

My second class, Comparing Media in Latin and Anglo-Saxon countries, preached the growing role of the Internet for media sources. One of the pluses (or to some, the negatives) of the online world is the ability of the reader to customize the news he or she chooses to receive. We read a New York Times article called “The Daily Me” about how mass media is becoming individualized media because people’s intentions these days are more selfishly driven and they only want to read what they chose. [Thought to self: Go ahead, KP, be selfish. It’s the direction of the world.]

My third class, Advanced Spanish Oral Expression, consisted of my class playing a game about the history and “gems” of Barcelona. Because I have been just about everywhere in this city and have gone on at least ten tours (some guided by professionals, some guided by my guide books), I knew just about all of the answers. [Thought to self: Well KP, you wouldn’t have won the game if you didn’t explore and ask questions to waiters, policemen and locals on the streets.]   

So for once, I decided to apply what I learned in school: Today was going to be all about me and me alone; I was going to enjoy the day to the fullest; I was going to discover some new gems. After this past weekend of exploring the little streets in Gracia, biking along the beach at Barceloneta and randomly hoping on a Renfe train simply to get off where my friend and I felt like it, I was itching to get out of the classroom. Fourth class, Society and Politics of Spain, simply didn’t stand a chance. So I walked out. Out of class. Out of the building. Out of campus. And I decided to explore Barcelona by my lonesome just for the fun of it.

I took the Metro to Jaume 1 and began to walk. I walked down every single street that I wanted, without having to ask anyone if they minded. I found a beautiful store called IVO & Co. that sells kitchen goods, a coffee shop called La Clandestina, whose boho feel inspired me, and then I found Caj Chai (pronounced Chai Chai) – a tearoom unlike any other I have ever been to, whose hip drum music in the background was matched only by its young, avant-garde clientele.

Caj Chai’s dim lighting was sexy, the stonewall along one side of the narrow café had character and the loud chatter produced by the guests told me immediately that this was nothing like the tearoom you find in England. 

The mix-and-match rattan chairs coupled with high tables and low tables and bar stools provided a yard-sale-inspired atmosphere, and the twinkling Christmas lights hinted at a majestic air. The menu, enveloped by flimsy bamboo, offered a lengthy list of teas – from China, Japan, India, Korea, Nepal, Russia, Taiwan, Morocco and Turkey, with every flavor and color imaginable. With so many choices, I asked the waiter for some suggestions – something sweet with natural sugar, something with no milk added and something a little fruity. He and I selected a black tea from China with leeche nuts.

 For the fun of it, I also questioned him about the interesting looking desserts. I told him I wanted to try something I had never tried before and so he brought me “daifuku con fresa y nata,” or “daifuku” with strawberries and cream. Turns out this delicacy is a Japanese dessert made from very sticky rice, called mochi, jacketing chunks of strawberries and sweet cream. And though the consistency was something like a really soft, incredibly sticky gummy bear, it was absolutely delicious and the perfect pairing for my tart tea.

After a few sips followed by a few bites, I decided it was time to reflect. I believe today marks a milestone in my life: KP’s first day of “playing hooky”….ever. And while I would love to say it was my first and last, I’d be lying.

Some days the forces are aligning. You’re inspired to do or become something. To get up and go. To explore for the sake of exploring. To get lost because you can. To eat for the sake of eating. To sit alone in a café. To escape from the world for a split second. To write.

Today was one of those days. 

The way back home

Where the white, straight lines in the crosswalk meet the puny metal sign shivering in the cool March air, a red-and-while people-mover with windows like staring eyes rolls in. Doors open.

The doors flap like lips to take in the next group of people. The linoleum floor has been gently aged by people – old and young - scurrying around. It has seen hundreds of passengers today alone. I, of course, make myself at home in the middle and sprawl out across the back seat where I can people watch. 

“Would you like to sit?” a 30-something-year-old man questions a woman well into her 70s whose skin hangs as low as the gold chair around her neck.

“Yes, thank you,” she huffs as her smoker’s voice scratches her words.

The man shrugs and takes a different seat, higher up and toward the back.   

Doors close, and the bus glides to a start, leaving as inconspicuously as it arrived, like a butterfly fluttering from plant to plant.   

“Ding.” It comes to a quiet halt. Doors open, and its passengers exchange “Adeus,” “Llamames,” and two-sided “besos.” Doors close.

A woman dressed in black fur carrying her baby papoosed around her body takes a seat next to her husband, chatting a mile-a-minute on his Blackberry and trying to hold on to the baby stroller. It looks more like a rolling bed with a miniature-sized comforter than it does a baby stroller. Two gossipy, high-school-aged-girls strike poses as they hold onto the pole near the door. An old man hacks loogies into his never-been-washed handkerchief, after fumbling for his T-Mes. And some young punk with a faux-halk and piercings in his face sits across from me.  

“It’s Saturday. Where should we go out tonight?” one girl questions.

“I think Razzmatazz will be fun, but we’ll have to go to a bar first,” the other responds.

“Yes, that will be fun,” the first girl responds. “Tonight is the last night I can go out for the next week because I have exams and need to study.”

My deep concentration to understand their not-so-private conversation is broken. “Watch you’re purse,” the sickly old man tells me, and uses hand gestures to indicate I should move my purse to my lap. He must have seen metal-face too.  

These people are really something else, I think. This bus represents a pretty solid spectrum of Spain.

Then, a soft buzz comes almost a moment too late and the driver screeches to a stop.  Placa Catalunya. Everyone exits except for me.

And then silence. It’s me and me alone. My bottom buzzes on top of my worn plastic seat, and the monotonous chug-chug-chugging of the engine serves as my lullaby, promising to put me to sleep if the next stop in front of my front door weren’t mine. 

The beauty of the world...or Spain, at least

Barcelona is "una cuidad con mucho ritmo," or a city with a lot of rhythm. And while I love to write, sometimes the only way for me to capture the beauty of the world is through my third eye - my camera lens. 

On La Rambla, street performers dress up in extravagant costumes in hopes that people will drop them a few pennies. 

Park Guell has the most fantastic architecture. Gaudi makes everything look like a cartoon brought to life. 

La Pedrera, another of Gaudi's works, is simply magnificent on Paseo de Gracia. 

A fun sculpture by Barceloneta, or the port of Barcelona. The Ferris wheel on top of Tibidabo. Some of the detailed work at El Valle de Los Caidos, where Franco is buried. 
A view of Toledo. 

This brought to you from 33,002 feet up

I am suspended somewhere between 10:56 p.m. and 4:56 a.m., (a God-awful time of night, let me tell you) going 560 miles per hour and wishing I could go 10 times faster. By the end of the first hour, I had lost my nerves; by the second I was in deep conversation with the Spanish man named Luis who goes by Louigie sitting next to me; by the third, I was attempting to eat soggy pasta drenched in oil (no such luck), and by the fourth, I was watching Vicky Christina Barcelona. Now, at hour five out of nine, I am ready to pull my hair out. I’d love to sleep, but I took a Mucinex to clear up my recently stuffy nose and my eyes burn from staying open so long. Perhaps it would be better if last night weren’t New Year’s, but it was. I am drunk on lack of sleep and no matter how hard or how long I try to close my eyes, my brain is still buzzing. Did I mention that my seat won’t go back because it’s broken? Woops, sorry, forgot that little detail. So even though the dimly lit plane is conducive to sleeping for everyone else, little old me is typing like a maniac, hoping someone will inject me with a tranquilizer so I can sleep.

My wit and personality have all but disappeared as I stare blankly at the neon white light exuding from my Word document. With more than four hours to go and more turbulence to endure, I figured it’s probably be a good time to flip open my computer and “escribir” (or write). While I should probably be practicing my Spanish, I am tightening my grasp on the English language (or so I tell myself so that I can justify procrastinating studying for my Spanish exam, which will determine my placement for my classes in Barcelona.)

Caught up in my lousy mood, I realize I have forgotten to even mention that I am embarking on another fabulous adventure. For four months (plus change), I will be “estudiando en Barcelona, Espana.” A girl should only be so lucky, eh? I will be living with a host family and a roommate from St. Louis as I take 12 credits and explore Europe.   

With a renewed sense of excitement at the near mention of the word “Barcelona,” I suppose I can’t complain, not even for a minute, about my long flight. Soon I will be in the land of romance languages, beautiful scenery, top-notch nightlife and “vino.” Wish me “buena suerte,” or “good luck.” In the meantime, however, a mere glance at my watch reminds me that I still have three more hours to go. I have discovered a new form of torture. Plane rides. Long plane rides. Because being stuck in a seat for nine straight hours is hell….even if Barca is only an ocean-ride away and the tapas are calling my name.