My host mom takes me on a walk around the city. Everything is old in the historic sense and gleams with beauty to the modern, American eye. The city is connected by small alleyways that lead to plazas where people hang out with their families and friends. The plazas house everything from cathedrals, museums, and government buildings to older women selling bunches of colorful flowers and vendors rolling handmade churros that pop in bubbling oil.
The city is quiet and loud. Cars squeeze through tiny streets forcing people against the sides of buildings to make room. Everyone seems to be going somewhere; to drink café con leche with friends, walking their kids with SpongeBob backpacks to school, to get fresh bread from the panaderia, to shop in the many tempting boutiques that line the streets. I ache to talk to the locals and get to know their lives. In my head, I feel different standing in a city of Spanish people, but they don’t notice me at all. They simply pass by me as another person on the street. With my dark hair and eyes, I might not even be recognized as American…that is until I talk or whip out my pink I-phone for pictures. Now that’s when I get the looks.