How Facebook changed the face of Study Abroad

At the risk of sounding like an old biddy, “Back in my day.. (2004) there was no internet.” That’s a lie of course. The world wide web had the globe in its silky grasp, but had yet to slip into every home. I left for Spain without a laptop and went to live in a flat with no internet connection. Not even the whirring, beeping cacophony of dial-up.

I don’t remember this being a life-altering detail at the time. The computer lab at the Center for Modern Language was the size of a bedroom, with three old dinosaur PCs. The hard plastic chairs in front of them were consistently full with a rotation of students, basking in the monitor’s blue glow. I settled for a nearby Internet cafe for my online needs -  which back then were 75% uploading photos and the other 25% sending emails.

Yes, emails. No status updates or tweets or instagram photos of my every waking minute overseas. Just long awaited hellos to friends and family, and the sending of photos to share my travels.

Last year when I visited with my former Resident Director she told me, over a plate of churros, that every host family now had wifi. This blew me away. Every house? What a terrible idea! It reportedly stemmed from a significant list of parents who demanded that their children be awarded the necessity (not the luxury) of connectivity at home. No more walks down to the Internet cafe, and you can forget going online at school. Sit in your señora’s flat with your earbuds in, chattering away on Skype from your bedroom. Almost like you’d never been gone at all.

And you haven’t.

courtesy of gadgetsteria.com

If you spend the majority of your time overseas plugged into your American life, you are missing out. On everything.

Picture yourself a giant: standing tall, straddling the Atlantic. One foot is cushioned in the US – with news of home, drama from school, TV shows and local sports crawling up your leg. Your other foot is perched carefully on the Rock of Gibraltar, scaring away the tourists, not speaking the language and slowly crushing the immersion out of your study abroad experience.

We teach our students about culture shock. Up with the honeymoon stage – joy and bliss abound. Down with the rejection stage – depression and homesickness lie in wait. Then you adjust, adapt, and re-enter. When do you think students are inclined to log on the most? Think of it as a budding relationship. You will gush to your friends about the new and wonderful in fits and starts – you are so consumed by your love that you hardly have the time. Then when it starts to fade, your friends hear countless sad tales and horror stories, so that they soon echo your sentiments: “its awful” .. “how terrible” .. “you must hate it.”

Do you? I didn’t. But living abroad last year there were times when it was just easier to crack the open the mac and Gchat with my mom, or Facebook my best friend about my woes. No longer was it about getting news from home, but a lifeline. I’m in crisis – hang on to me, via this internet connection. Instead of seeking support from those around you in times of need, it is so much easier to reach back to where you came from, and the comforts of home.

Social media is not the downfall of study abroad. If you know me at all, you know its one of my major platforms. I will tweet, post and blog to my heart’s content in an effort to share study abroad with anyone that cares to listen.

Social media is not the downfall of study abroad, but it has changed the way we do things. For the better? Perhaps. But the next big challenge is in the balance – teaching students to be socially responsible with their media (and fiscally, if they tend toward that $700 iPhone bill).

So put your phone down, and close your mac. My blog will be here when you get back. So will your parents, and your cousin’s new house, and your friend’s engagement ring. Disconnect yourself for a while, and you’ll see just what you’re missing.

[guest blog]: a vegetarian abroad

The summer after I graduated from college, I went to England for the first time.

Well—I say “for the first time,” but really, I had already been there, many times, in my mind and heart (if not in my actual physical body). As the daughter of ardently Anglophilic parents (who reared me on a steady diet of bitterly caustic British sitcoms and dizzily pretty British costume dramas) and as a long-time Charlotte Brontë fan-girl (like so many other shy, plain girls, I read Jane Eyre when I was twelve, and was lost ever thereafter), I felt as though I knew England before I ever actually saw England.

But mercy if seeing it in the flesh wasn’t a revelation, nonetheless.  As Kelly has written elsewhere on this blog, your first foreign country is something like your first love—it slides into your blood, embeds itself within your nerves, imprints itself on your brain, never to be entirely removed or forgotten.  (My first love, for the record, proved to be something of a disappointment—I was nine, and he never even knew that I existed—see my reflections on why I love Jane Eyre, above.) But England—England was not a disappointment, at all.

For the seemingly endless month that I was there, I roamed about wherever my inexpert grasp of the baffling British railway time tables, and my own distinctly rickety sense of direction, would take me.  I went to restaurants with weird names like “Toad in the Hole,” and ate things with weird names like… toad in the hole.  I paid multiple visits (sometimes, over the course of the same day) to the fish-and-chips cart perpetually parked outside of my hotel.  I ate steak and kidney pie at the very pub where Branwell Brontë drank himself to death.  I wonder if I have ever been as happy since.  I very much doubt it.

After my enchanted (if also distinctly culinarily unwholesome—and perhaps unwholesome in some other ways which we need not discuss in detail here) post-college summer, I (in no particular order) a) vowed that I would go back to England as soon as I possibly could, to enjoy the dazzlingly old buildings, the ludicrously beautiful town squares, and the bizarrely mundane soap operas to which I had become addicted, b) betook myself off to grad school to begin my long, arduous trek towards professor-ship and historian-hood, and c) (most importantly, for the purposes of this post) became a vegetarian.

Another cheese sandwich in the UK

Now, it is a tricky thing to at once love England, and not to love meat.  And yes, I know that in any English city worth its salt, you can find untold numbers of amazing vegetarian (and even vegan! Somewhere, Queen Victoria is spinning in her grave…) restaurants.  And yes, I know that dotted all over the English countryside are truly remarkable Indian and Pakistani restaurants, boasting an impressive array of vegetarian goodies (the plus side of Britain’s incredibly ugly colonial history.  Well, that, and A Passage to India, I suppose.)

But the fact remains:  The backbone—the basis—the heart—the center of most English food is still meat.  Meat, meat, meat, and more meat.  And when I romped about that small island as a fresh-faced, flesh-consuming twenty-one-year old, I gave this not a single, solitary thought.  Sausage with breakfast? Why not! Blood pudding? Heck, you only live once! Roast beef for dinner again? Sounds delicious!

When I returned to the land of the Union Jack as a hollow-eyed (from grad school, dear reader, not from vegetarianism), green-salad-loving, mid-twenties-year-old, however, things were somewhat different.  I had the dickens of a time finding a pub where I could safely have lunch (the plus side of which was that I was sometimes “forced” to have lager for lunch, instead.  Just in case you still thought that vegetarians have consistently good eating habits. We do not.) I had to read every menu outside of every restaurant that I wanted to eat in, before daring to go inside.  When I went to conferences, I inevitably had to create my own space on the registration forms, stressing my need for vegetarian fare.  (I ended up eating a lot of weird cheese sandwiches at said conferences as a result.  Who puts mayonnaise on a cheese sandwich? Oh that’s right.  The English do.)

I branched out a bit in my traveling adventures, after my (questionably triumphal) vegetarian return to the United Kingdom, and felt distinct trepidation about doing so—about heading overseas as a member of the Non-Meat-Eating Tribe.  But as it turns out, I needn’t have worried.

Spinach & garbanzos in Seville

I went to Sweden and had no problems whatsoever (this, in the land that gave us reindeer kebabs, Swedish meatballs, and herring-laced everything.) I went to Spain and ate something splendid, amazing, and entirely meat-free at every darned meal.  This may be because 1) I was in the wondrous, cosmopolitan city of Sevilla, and 2) every day, I either had Kelly circling restaurants which I had to go to, and dishes which I could safely try, on maps and menus, or Kelly actually by my side, ordering safely vegetarian fare on my behalf.  I went to Australia and found vegan fish and chips on my very first day there (which, nota bene, horrendous as it sounds, is the best darned thing I’ve ever had in my life.  Should the opportunity to try it arise… I would strongly suggest that you do so.)

It was only England… dear, bonnie old England which inevitably frustrated and baffled me.  Not that I didn’t keep coming back, because, of course, I did.  Charlotte Brontë’s wedding dress is there, as are Maltesers, British Vogue, and all the old churches you could ever want to gape at.  I will never stop going back.

But how much I did wish, on those initial return visits, that things were just a little bit easier for me.  That I could stop into Marks and Spencer, and know that I could reliably find myself a sandwich.  That I could go to the Cornish pasty shop on the corner, and not have to make them do a special order for me.  That I wasn’t forever picking bacon bits out of my “vegetarian” salad, and encountering (authentic) gristle in my (ersatz) vegan sausages.  I adored England, but found eating there a total headache—a constant test of my patience, ingenuity, and persistence.

Fish & Chips in Oz

And perhaps there’s something in that.  Perhaps in travel, as in life, the universe forces us to learn the lessons that we need to learn, when we need to learn them.  (However much we may kick and scream in our efforts to avoid learning them, at the time.) Throughout grad school, I kept returning to England, and learned to read every label.  To ask lots of questions.  To not stand for going to a pub which had one lousy vegetarian option when, around the corner, there might be a pub which had two, slightly less lousy ones.  To ask for things.  (Could the pie be made without pigeon? No? Well, then, could the bacon be taken out of the bacon and cheese sandwich? And could I get extra chips on the side, to balance out the all-important Unhealthiness Scales? Many thanks.)

When I came to England as a girl of twenty-one, I wanted to disappear—to fade into the woodwork—to slip into and out of every place that I went to unnoticed, and unseen.  I dreaded, above all things, being conspicuous—I just wanted to be a fly on the wall—to come, see the sights, and then go—leaving nothing behind me but an illegible signature in the guestbook—the faintest trace of an American accent in the air.

But when I go back to England now, as a woman of thirty, I have no choice—I can’t disappear.  I have to be conspicuous.  I have to talk to people, to ask questions, to make noise.  Unless I want untold globs of undesired meat to slide down my gullet during my stay, I have to make my presence felt—have to articulate, out loud, to other people, what it is that I want.  And I guess that that’s not such a bad thing, to know how to do.  I reckon that England’s meat-obsession has taught me that if I don’t like things the way that they are, that I have to try to change them—that when I want something, I have to strive for it—to fight to get it—rather than wait for the universe to simply float it down to me, as if by magic, from out of the sky.

Also, I live in the Midwest now.  And if navigating the Meat Minefield that is the United Kingdom isn’t the best possible practice for that—then I don’t know what is.

——–

Holly Kent is an extremely newly minted History professor in the gorgeous Midwest.  She is pleased to report that her new town has an amazing local health food store, positively crammed with vegetarian goodies.  (Midwestern Myth #435—officially exploded.)  She writes about her experiences re-watching Sex and the City from a feminist perspective on her blog, Back on Carrie’s Stoop (backoncarriesstoop.blogspot.com).

the madness of multitasking

This is never something I thought I would say out loud, never mind broadcast it to the wide world via my blog. But here it is, folks, write it down: I have discovered that I don’t like multitasking.

Bogus, right? Let’s think about this. Where is the #1 place you see the words “ability to multitask,” “must be able to multitask“? Job posts, that’s where. All of those potential employers work long and hard on their wish lists for the almighty position description and each one wants you to be able to juggle projects, people and paperclips like a street performer. Here’s the funny thing – this used to reign supreme in my cover letters and job applications. I worked in a fast-paced, higher education institution for four years and multitasked with the best of them. I had to, if I wanted to survive.

In fact, in my former life I used to THRIVE on fast-paced, highly charged situations. Out of necessity? Yes. Did I want to live this way? I think so. I have always said I prefer being busy, rather than idle. This is still true today, I haven’t totally shed my American ways. But here are some of the ways that multitasking is really flipping me out:

1. driving. I love driving. I love my car. I don’t love traffic. I don’t love other drivers. I have had some moments in the last few weeks where I have been in complete disbelief about the drivers around me. Everyone is in a big, fat hurry and they’re all on their cell phones. For the love of the road people, focus. I don’t care who you are, you’re probably not that important. If you are, get a damn chauffeur. See #2.

photo credit: davesblogcentral.com

2. cell phones. A new addition to my automotive world is the big red stop sign car magnet that reads: STOP TEXTING. Here’s what I recently discovered and confirmed: talking on your cell phone is NOT illegal in Pennsylvania. Fact! A year ago I would absolutely be guilty of this, but now that I am not using a cell phone I am fully conscious of how often I used to reach for my phone while driving. What an idiot!  I’ll be the car driving in between the painted lines, at the prescribed speed, without my phone in my ear, dodging everyone else.

On a local note, I’d like to applaud the Lehigh Valley Health Network for their recent collaboration with Coca-Cola to get the Stop Texting sign on 20 of our local trucks in the area. Do I think it will solve the problem? No, but I thank you for efforts. Now build us a railway system!

3. eating. The average duration of a meal in the country of Spain is approximately 3 to 4 hours (or 12, if it’s a first communion). How many times have I watched tourists freak out about their waiter ignoring them or having to wait an extra 30 minutes for their check? Where’s the fire? This is Spain – we don’t rush anywhere unless it’s to 100 Montaditos on a Wednesday or to the stadium for a fútbol match. And our waiters don’t work for tips. Sabes? Once you get over the initial panic you might realize there IS no rush. Enjoy your glass of wine, eat a bit slower and actually taste your food. Just don’t try it in America. I have no problem with the To Go culture, but I’ve learned to say no to To Go. Coffee tastes so much better when you’re standing still.

I appear to be a bit more patient, more conscious of my surroundings and a lot happier when I can focus on one thing at a time. Don’t all of these things deserve my undivided attention? Don’t you?

joé que caló

Cazalla de la Sierra, Sevilla

I’ve been thinking that maybe Andalucian Spanish is cut so short in syllables and letters simply because it’s too hot to talk so much. It’s a miracle I can talk at all when the Sevilla sun creeps into the city and bakes it dry. Our apartment responds like an oven and gets hotter as the day goes on. Our laundry dries in approximately 2 hours when left outside on the drying rack (a miracle after this humid winter of 3-4 day drying cycles). And what do I do? I melt.

I will take shelter from the sun in the shade of buildings, buses, street signs, lampposts and anything taller than I am. I will cross the street 3 times to avoid the gaping patch of sunlight steaming off the cobblestones. I will walk heel to toe on the single stone sidewalks to stay in the shade provided by overhanging terraces. I will endure the same series of exclamations about my fair skin from Spanish friends, colleagues and desconocidos (unknowns):

“Hija, que blanquita eres!”
— “Girl, you’re so white!”
“Hay que usar la crema del sol, vale? Cuídate bien.”
— “You have to use SPF, ok? Take care of yourself.”
“Sabes que cuando tienes 50 años tu piel será mejor que la nuestra.”
— “You know when you’re 50 your skin is going to be better than ours.”

Now for an East Coast girl who doesn’t like the heat, I’ve been commenting on the temperature since April. Only now that the native Sevillanos are starting to complain am I reassured that everyone else is equally as miserable as I am. I thank my lucky stars that I will not be here in “the summer” – that is to say July and August. I remember searching for an apartment with my roommate in late September in 100 degree heat .. I have no desire to repeat such an experience! Once you add the levante winds from the Sahara, there is no escaping. Paulo Coehlo wrote that the levante brought the Moors from Spain, but it is sure to drive this girl back to the States in the summer months.

Since mid April we’ve had some temperatures that convinced me there is no Spring in Sevilla. The season may exist but on the thermometer you can rest assured there is no real in between. One day it’s raining and the temperature settles in the 60′s – the next day it’s still 83 degrees at 6 in the evening. The amount of sunlight we receive here in Andalucia is shocking. When I wake up to go to work the house is blissfully cool and the sun is just starting to lighten the sky (sunrise is currently 7am). Fourteen and a half hours later at approximately 9:40 pm, the sun slides down behind our terrace. The hottest point of the day does not come at high noon but at 4 or 5 pm, and the city simmers well into the night. Siesta lengthens by several hours and you simply cannot leave the house between 2 and 7 pm.

A mere 1 hour east of Sevilla lies the town of Écija, Spain, a place which is affectionately referred to as the sarten de Andalucia or the frying pan of Andalucia. Without fail every year local bars prepare huevos fritos a la calle and fry eggs outside simply with the heat of the sun. But as the old men in the interview say: “Estamos acostumbrados” or we are accustomed to it. I wonder how much ice cream is consumed in these dog days of summer?

* side note. I drafted this in a fit of heat rage. Today is frescita and beautiful .. my last day at school! Thank you, Sevilla, for this glorious despedida del tiempo!

park it in the parque

One thing I have tried to reflect on while here in Spain is my obsession with time. As evidenced by not one but two previous posts about Countdown Syndrome, I still need to mark time over the long term. I am a planner at heart (ENFP), but I’m learning. I can go to the park on a Sunday afternoon without a watch. This is huge. I can stay up and talk to friends and go to bed when I’m tired, whether it’s 1am or 5am. This is also a big deal if you know me, and know how much I like my sleep.

There are many foreigners here trying to keep pace with the Spanish schedule. I am not one of them. Ok, I will eat lunch at 2 pm and start making dinner around 10 pm but that’s where I draw the line. I really don’t need to be out until absurd hours of the morning. I prefer to sleep like the dead and then wake up and make the most out of morning, taking advantage of the siesta later in the day. I will also eat whenever the hell I feel like eating, but that’s a post for another day.

This idea of leisure time is startling: la cultura del ocio or the leisure culture. Since there is no such thing as free time in the U S of A, it’s no wonder that I’m shocked by the whole concept. At home it seems like there is always something to be done, somewhere to be and some great sense of urgency. Just last night we were out walking in a big group and as usual the tall Northeasterners pull out in front.

“Es que … tenemos prisa. Somos del noreste” my roommate says (We’re in a hurry, we’re from the Northeast).

Our friend Sam (a West coast native) wants to know why that is. ¡Relajate! (relax). What IS the big rush? The truth is I have no idea. Is it the old Fear of Missing Something Good? or a little bit of Keeping Up With the Joneses? I like to call it Social Guilt, a blend of both of these. It’s when you can’t leave your phone at home, multitask just to survive and it takes a serious breakdown for you to go off the grid. But at the end of the day… does it really matter?

“¡Cállate, rubia!” - Spain says – “Go to the park and leave your watch at home.“