New Friends & Family In Cadiz

Two American students—foreign to both the country in which they were living, and to one another— take the opening step towards a journey of transformation and change. The Spanish homestay mom, Pepi, did not speak a word of English. Cultural differences; brimming, fights and tension; soon to come, a new family’s love: forever embellished with the click of a camera.

A Very American 4th of July: Man-Thongs, Beach Kegs, and ExtraNoise.

For the most part, the group’s daily schedule remained unchanged: lunch back home followed long tedious mornings of in a set of hot classrooms, then an entire country’s economy gets put on hold, as Spain takes their cultural afternoon “siesta” nap—which proved contagious to anyone living in Spain, and then—at last—the long-awaited walk to “la playa,” (the beach). For six-weeks straight, every single person met at the same time, in the same spot. One group of fifteen American college students protrudes the Spanish seaside as should a loud party of some seventy-five Spaniards. On about every other arm hangs a recently purchased cooler-bag—overflowing with ice and cups; filled with beers, sangria, and other cheap liquor. The first several days of Spanish living drew a perfectly accurate embodiment of Holland & Huggan’s assertion against tourism; claiming it “causes ecological damage and destroys indigenous culture”. Unfortunately, many young tourists—especially those traveling to Europe for the first time— feel a thirsty need to take advantage of the far more lenient rules and regulations, with respect to the U.S. drinking-age.

With time, rude exploitation and disruptive mannerisms soon dropped as do most bad habits. Within a week, Cadiz introduced us to a new and diversified type of opened friendship; befriending one another, accepting other kids studying abroad with various different worldwide schools, and learning to enjoy one aged glass of wine with the locals instead of throwing down cheap shots of vodka by ourselves.

Buongiorno Bologna — A Tourist In My Own Home

Edified into beautiful mansions, the Villas in the hills stand majestic and breathtaking. Old entrances made up of pebbles have been replaced with brick-driveways and luxurious automatic gates, with inviting tall columns and lighting. Small European cars sit in the driveway, awaiting their next voyage down the windy road that leads to the city.

The hills will strike any observer as nothing short of gorgeous. Atop the surrounding hillside that towers above every Villa, lives nothing but nature and peace. Enveloped with silence, a rugged wooden panchina, or bench, sits sturdy; unable to escape the decays of time.

During the warm summer months, there blows a comforting breeze throughout the encircling hilltop marvels. Flowers blossom; fruits ripen; and the beauties of Bologna remain fully exposed.

Ask Italians which city they prefer most and Bologna will invariably top the list, yet most foreign tourists have never even heard of this cultural gem, as its charm subtly glistens the Northern region. Bologna exists within two main parts: i colli (the hills) and la città (the city). In the hills, there stands centuries’ worth of countryside remnants: vast acres of farmland, old pitchforks, bundles of hay, and the beautiful Villas—once the home to some of Italy’s most prestigious nobility. However, below the old countryside, there lives a thriving city, home to countless students, Bolognesi, rich historical monuments, and some of the most exquisite dishes in the entire world—from tagliatelle, to ragu (meat sauce), or tortellini and lasagna. Living in New Jersey for the past twelve years of my life and attending Villanova University (named after the Etruscans; founders of aboriginal Bologna)—I live a stranger to my own home.