Study abroad is a life-changing experience for those lucky enough to take advantage of it.
The dust from galloping horses hangs in the shadows. The sky stretches for miles without a cloud in sight and the sun heats the granite boulders punctuating the green rolling hills. A round building of white stucco and a red-shingled roof desperate for repair practically glow.
This picturesque landscape reminiscent of verse by poet Federico Garcia Lorca was my morning view, every day, for three and a half months. As dawn broke, I lifted the shutters and let the sun creep into my second-floor room, filling it with a heartwarming sensation that reminded me every day of where I was, and how far I had gone from whom I was before.
I told myself at every waking hour it was a life I could never have imagined. I was living and studying in Trujillo, Spain.
Each morning I strolled past the coliseum, where in May, hundreds make their pilgrimage to watch the bullfights of Spain. The fighters in their traditional green, gold and red move around the large ring measuring the bulls, like partners of a passionate dance. The crowds roar as blood is shed.
A Moorish castle sits atop the hill with its patron, the Virgin of the Victory, standing behind a glass casket guarding Trujillo since its Christian takeover in 1233. The walls protecting the ancient part of town have remained intact despite the Extremaduran wind howling over the lush Spanish countryside. The Virgin kept her keen eye on me as I hiked the hill known as Cabeza de Zorro, or Fox's Head, to get to my classes in La Coria, a restored 17th-century convent where vines sprawl across the walls and columns and arches surround a secluded garden.
Down in the Plaza Mayor, the conquistador Francisco Pizarro sits atop a saddled horse overlooking the restaurants and outdoor patios where men and women break for tapas and beer, and talk in Castellan accents as heavy as the bread they sponge in olive oil. They spit olive seeds on the granite patio and sip the beverage of choice, sangria.
Behind Pizarro is the Church of San Martin. White storks fly above, clacking their beaks.
Friendships are forged every day in bars such as el Patio de Toros. The men talk soccer and the women boast about their children. Tomas Casillas picks up his 4-year-old daughter, Miriam, and tickles her as she squirms in his lap with high-pitched giggles. Casillas' brother, Antonio, hangs his 9-year-old nephew, Arturo, upside down from his ankles. Their laughter is drowned out by the others in the bar.
Another man taps lightly on his friend's shoulder. His friend turns to the right to check who tapped him, but there's only the black-and-white-checkered floor. His friend smirks. The laughter is contagious.
Everyone piles cured ham and sardines onto bread and drinks regional cerveza.
On Sundays, families pack the bar to watch futbol. Cigarette smoke fills the air as Real Madrid fans jump in the air, singing their victory songs in belligerent unity. Fists of triumph pump high in the air. These are the moments when body language says it all, when fans wear their national pride on their shirts and the emotions of victory and defeat on their faces.
Every season, the people of Trujillo accept a new Americano. And in the spring of 2008, the quaint rural community of central Spain, known to itself as the Cradle of Conquistadores, opened its doors and its history to me, a 19-year-old native of South Carolina, on the verge of becoming a man.
I never imagined that leaving my parents' home for the first time would mean me living on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean with a family I'd never met, in a culture I'd never known.
Until then, the scope of my world had been limited to the steeples of Charleston's skyline, under which I'd lived until my sophomore year of college. Despite a strong education and the invaluable influence of a loving family, I was still limited in my world view.
For me, Trujillo had been nothing more than a dot on the map, a romantic notion whispered by distant voices. Spain was only written about in history textbooks. I knew nothing of how the people of this history-rich city would accept an introvert from South Carolina. What would become of a shy teenager from the Bible Belt? It didn't take long for me to find out.
Immediately, I felt welcome. My host parents waited patiently as I spent minutes to string together simple sentences. They corrected my grammar when I fumbled words. They answered every question with care, with sincerity.
They taught me everything. From the history of Trujillo to new words, they made sure I learned something new about the culture every day.
My host parents saw their own parents every day. My abuela, or grandmother, welcomed me with open arms as if I were another grandson. She was kind and gentle, always pinching my rosy cheeks when I arrived and then giving me kisses when I left.
Lunch was even better. My host mom, Sonia, never made a mistake in the kitchen. There was something about her yellow rice with peas, chicken and shrimp that made my mouth water. The sangria quenched my thirst and took the edge off the spicy paella.
Toward the end of the trip, I was spitting out Spanish left and right. The words floated off my tongue like I was a native. I spoke swiftly with my host dad, Tomas, and sometimes I spoke faster than the locals. What I thought was just an improvement in my capacity for a second language was so much more than that. I was confident. I was able. And soon I would be back "home," applying this newfound sense of self to another journey that was only just beginning, aware all the while of the world that lay beyond my borders.
Before I knew it, three and a half months passed and I was back in Charleston, but not before Trujillo had changed my life.
My eyes now wander beyond the rocky terrain of Trujillo.
My ears rejoice and hear more than the prideful songs of Real Madrid soccer fans. My mind stops time as I taste more than just the sweet sangria and sizzling blood sausage. I can see an open road that invites me to experience other exotic cultures around the world.
From crowded market streets to desolate, dirt roads leading into the great beyond, it's the perfect adventure I long for. The stone walls that stretch for miles and have surrounded aged towns like Trujillo for hundreds of years have only inspired me to take the road less traveled.
I'm now a sojourner and the journey is far from over. 