Coming home American

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Everyone who has studied abroad (and those who have found themselves the unsuspecting subjects of the Study Abroad Office’s onslaught of advertising) knows the selling points of an overseas experience.

“Engage in the world!” the office’s Web site screamed at me. “Learn to appreciate another culture!” the study abroad alumni students nobly preached. “Broaden your horizons!” encouraged my study abroad adviser.

So, I checked yes in the “send me more info” box, filled out sheaths of paperwork that likely amounted to the size of a small forest in Singapore and three months later found myself strolling the streets of Seville, Spain.

I had traveled abroad before and had loved it. For me, London and Paris felt more like my home than Colorado. I viewed myself as a high-minded individual who had achieved an in-depth understanding of our global neighbors because my high school education had been internationally focused – that, and because I had spent a grand total of three weeks abroad up until that point.

I had even concluded that I would someday live abroad in another country, any country other than the United States. In high school, I decided that although I agreed with the values of our founding fathers, America had grown into a nation that would hardly be recognizable to the men and women who had created it. We were no longer what we claimed to be, and we were all hypocrites.

I began to mentally prepare myself for not wanting to come back to the U.S., for never wanting to leave after I had set foot in Spain.

The first couple of weeks abroad were just like my previous travel experiences. Everything was novel, everything was wonderfully foreign and unique. The demonic Spanish drivers were good for a chuckle as I attempted to repeatedly cheat death as I dashed across the street on my way to class. The fact that barely anyone spoke English provided a fun and challenging opportunity for me to struggle through with my sub-par Spanish. The gypsies who accosted me outside the legendary Seville cathedral offering a fortune for a crisp Euro note were just a part of the charming Spanish culture.

It was all quite lovely for the first couple of weeks.

Then things began to change.

The drivers who had been quirky and amusing were now dangerous and rude. The lack of native Sevillanos who spoke English made me feel alienated and alone. The gypsies were a nuisance, and made for walking past the cathedral square during prime tourist time a real chore as I was forced to dodge and evade the beggars instead of basking in the beauty of the cathedral.

At first, I thought it was the typical depression that begins to set in after the initial excitement of a new place has worn away. However, as I continued the study abroad program, I found that this (dare I say it) homesick feeling did not go away. Instead, it continued to intensify.

I began to compare European life with the American one I had lived for 20 years. In doing so, I began to realize what it was about the United States that makes it a land many people so desperately seek to reach.

It’s everything.

It’s the fact that today, the stereotype of the Western cowboy that once defined America can still be found in the lone rancher who rises with the sun to care for his cattle. It’s the fact that here, we respect one another’s space unlike in Europe where everyone lives on top of one another. It’s the fact that the European aesthetic of constantly strolling about with a cigarette in one’s hand is viewed as potential death in the U.S. It’s the fact that animals here are treated as if they are valuable and worth something, a stark contrast to the bag-of-bones dogs standing at gas stations and stray cats lurking behind apartment buildings. It’s the fact that Colorado mountains are second to none.

I don’t think people realize how wonderful this country is until they leave it and live elsewhere for a while. I used to be embarrassed to call myself an American.

Living abroad made me feel lucky to have the ability to call myself by that name.

I expected to fall head-over-heels for a foreign culture. I expected to open my eyes further and gain a deeper cultural understanding.

And perhaps I did. My trip was still worthwhile and meaningful, just not in the way I had been told it would be. The cultural understanding and the appreciation I gained was not what I expected. I discovered that Americans aren’t the only hypocrites, and that everyone has a dose of hypocrisy no matter what history and nationality they call their own.

Maybe that cultural understanding and appreciation was not about the Spanish culture or even the European culture.

Perhaps it was about my own.

Contact CU Independent Managing Editor Kate Spencer at Katherine.a.spencer@colorado.edu.