“Where did you transfer from again?” It’s understandable that people would assume I transferred in, considering it’s the second semester and I’m new.
“Nowhere, actually. But I did just get back from Spain.” “You went to Spain?! Through a program or something?! That’s so cool, but why?” My college admissions process was not like that of any of my peers, and at the end of the day I was left with a seemingly simple but ultimately life-altering choice – go to a college I was not a huge fan of and couldn’t afford in a million years, or drop everything and just go live. And, as you could probably tell by the title of this article, I chose The School of Life, as I’ve grown fond of calling it. I’m so glad I did.
A first-generation American, I grew up in a family who spent much of our time abroad, especially summers dedicated to visiting family. So, from birth I was what one might call a “world traveler,” and I suppose it was this comfortable memory of all the adventures I’d been on with my family that gave me the confidence to take the leap and go on my own for the first time at eighteen years old.
The trip there was very stressful and full of unexpected challenges – but I made it! After almost a full twenty-four hours, I finally plopped down into the hard dorm-like bed I would call my own, which was housed in the center of my beautifully yellow room. A gracefully dwindling clothesline’s hung over the tile-floored balcony, almost perfectly matching the curves and edges of one of the pink-and-purple mountains nearby. I pulled out my journal and I began to write. As I did, it finally began to sink in – I was in Spain. I was in Spain. And there I’d stay for the next few months, a new place to call home.