On June 27, I left my hometown of San Jose and catapulted myself into a lively month-long stay in Barcelona, Spain. As I honed my documentary filmmaking skills at the Universitat Pompeu Fabra, I also captured my Spanish excursion on paper. Here are four glimpses into my personal travel diary:
I found myself lost in a sea of troubles yesterday. My loose snorkeling mask weighed down my right hand as the magnitude of my mounting panic threatened to pull me under the menacing waves. This was no friendly excursion to the Mediterranean.
My new friends in Barcelona from the University of California Education Abroad Program planned this kayaking and snorkeling trip an hour northeast of the city. So, just a few days after landing in Spain, I traveled to the coast with nearly a dozen UC students studying at the Universitat Pompeu Fabra.
Tingles of excitement and apprehension surfaced as I set out for what was not only my first time snorkeling but my first adventure outside the United States.
By the late afternoon, we arrived in the small coastal town of Sant Feliu de Guíxols and discovered the breathtaking Mediterranean shore populated by dozens of boats. Rows of people laid out across the sand, basking in the beating sun, while others ventured into the shallow waters. However, we were set to go far beyond the shore after smooth kayak rides along the coast – it was snorkeling time.
I had always been a goggles kid in the swimming pool, so it was no surprise to me when I reached for my snorkeling mask as soon as I entered the aquatic oasis. But affixing the snorkeling apparatus to my face proved an immediate issue.
My companions swam with haste, sans goggles, into the open ocean as my fingers fiddled with the snorkeling mask. I quickly gave up, gripping the mask with one hand as I proceeded towards my friends now paces ahead of me. By the time I caught up with them, I felt the tug of gravity pulling me deeper into the ocean.
My rusty swimming burdened and embarrassed me to the point that I didn’t want to ask for help outright. I knew that was a mistake. I couldn’t recall the last time I had actually gone swimming – the Sunset Canyon Recreation Center pool on the Hill had closed early the one time I showed up – which somehow made me even more embarrassed.
I finally got the mask on properly, but I was too startled by the sinking sensation to enjoy a peaceful snorkel below the surface. I hurriedly swam back to the crab-filled rocks where our ships had docked, barely catching my breath. I had officially reached my limit of exhaustion after nearly half a day in perpetual motion.
The kayak ride back to the main shore was painfully rigorous for my kayaking partner and me, leading us to fall far behind the group.
I had awaited a trip to Spain ever since I first saw Barcelona depicted in The Cheetah Girls 2. Throughout the film, I saw some of my all-time favorite Disney Channel characters escape their comfort zones and take risks all over the city, and I wanted to do the same. However, I never anticipated how quickly and dangerously I could overexert myself.
Today, I arguably under exerted myself after my 3 p.m. wake time, but maybe it was just what I needed. Perhaps moderation like this is the key to smooth sailing on my trip?
¿Sois pareja? – Are you a couple?
I’ve now asked that question more times than I can count. It’s been essential for filming the final project for my documentary film class, which was my main motivation to study at the Universitat Pompeu Fabra.
I long anticipated the arrival of filming day. I desperately wanted to become more immersed in a city that prides itself in its strong community, and I quickly realized how to make this happen.
Just a few days ago, my groupmates’ faces brimmed with excitement as I pitched the idea of covering Barcelona’s Pride festivities in July. I was relieved to find classmates who felt equally intrigued about filming the citywide celebratioons and forming a collective creative vision.
The team immediately knew we had to make Barcelona’s Pride – or Orgullo in Spanish – feel as personal to our audience as possible. We set out to interview a few couples about Pride’s deeper significance to them, beyond the glitter and glamor.
Before arriving at the first night of the Pride festival, I made one of my most worthwhile purchases of the trip: my unlimited use, month-long Metro card. I had chosen to walk everywhere up until this point, but my heavy filming equipment would now make that strategy impossible.
As my group gathered our cumbersome camera bags, we began to search the Plaça de la Universitat to find potential interviewees. We shuffled past the scattered resource booths, the never-ending bartop and the streams of endless Pride goers, searching for interviewees.
After two hours of searching and fielding constant rejections, we finally found two couples willing to commit to an interview. The first couple was quite shy but still incredibly friendly, while the second couple and their friends were loud and cheery. One of the members of the second couple was thrilled to learn we were international students at UPF as she had studied there herself. It truly felt wonderful to realize how interconnected people can be in a home away from home.
By the end of the night, my "¿Sois pareja?" rang out with increasing courage and cheerfulness across the plaza. All nagging doubts in my Spanish, despite years of class, couldn’t hold me back anymore. The warmth of the blown kisses and beaming smiles soon submerged these worries and further opened me up to the welcoming community at Orgullo.
The murmurs of graceful adagios fluttered through the walls of the Ballet Ruso Barcelona studio as I approached the building for my first – and last – day of intermediate ballet.
My legs shook with nervous excitement and slight exhaustion – I had just stretched for the first time in a while, a near daily routine at UCLA that now triggered more pain receptors than usual. As soon as my final business class ended, I bolted to the Metro station with my now wrinkled Metro card in hand, traveling solo for 40 minutes from Poblenou towards the Eixample district.
I arrived nearly a half hour before class began, eager to find the right studio. But this wasn’t my first time searching in Eixample. The week before, I had traveled after class in my casual dance attire to attend an intermediate ballet class that didn’t exist – it hadn’t been removed yet from the summer calendar. I had slid through a side entrance from the street into a dim room, greeted by rows upon rows of tutus whose charm and sparkle hid beneath a patchwork of shadows.
This time, I was greeted by a friendly receptionist who kindly led me to the changing room, immediately recognizing my nationality and switching to English. I think my UCLA hat gave it away.
I then descended the staircase to the dance studio with a nervous gait. I quickly glanced across the room and realized I stood out like a sore thumb – there were no other young people in this class of five. Clearly not many men attended this class either. The instructor laughed as she repeatedly corrected "chicas" to "chicos" solely due to my presence. Despite my odd appearance amongst these Spanish regulars, I held my head up high to the Tetons, as my UCLA ballet teacher likes to say.
Within minutes, the majestic language of ballet transported me back to a state of confidence and discipline. I only grasped so much of the instructor’s words, yet I still understood her directions. Each plié, tendu, glissade and assemblé felt so natural, as if I was back in UCLA’s Kaufman Hall, until the instructor issued an unexpected challenge: the fouettés.
My nerves gripped me again as I set out to attempt a movement far removed from my repertoire. To execute a fouetté, imagine turning continuously, with one leg alternating in and out with the precision of a compass. I knew almost immediately I couldn’t execute a move like that.
The teacher knew I couldn’t do a fouetté either. Her eyes drew towards the talents of another student as my eyes gazed at the mirror in front of me. In my reflection, I didn’t see myself weighed down by my so-called failure. I wasn’t filled with my usual self-doubt in moments I struggled with ballet at UCLA. And once we moved on to the adagio, I proudly regained my momentum.
As I waited to see Georges Bizet’s famous opera Carmen on my final night in Barcelona, the chilling melody of "Habanera" could not escape my head. Every shower in this green bathroom stirred up an urge to share the aria with the whole world, an urge I needed to stifle almost immediately.
Singing somber arias and ballads in the shower as quietly as possible had been my most reliable musical outlet so far in Spain, but suddenly I craved more. At this point of the trip, I had enough confidence to sing in front of the friends I’d made along the way. Mere walls separate the apartment my friend and I shared from our sublessor’s apartment, and her terms and agreements stipulated no parties. So, I had reluctantly repressed my music.
I felt ready to sing almost anytime and anywhere, even though music tended to be extremely personal for me. I had many songs I could only listen to or sing alone, and I sometimes felt uncomfortable sharing the full range of my music taste when it often felt so odd and disjointed.
It helped that my roommate and close friend, Wes, also happened to be studying musical theater at UCLA. There had been numerous long walks home where Wes hit me with the dramatics of Hedwig and the Angry Inch and I responded with the fury of Jesus Christ Superstar. We soon learned there were other students on this trip who shared musical cravings, though they reserved their performances more for the likes of Adele or Beyoncé.
Of course, my cohort had to make a stop at Touch Music Barcelona, a karaoke bar located only a few blocks away from my apartment, last night. Our frenzied excitement hushed as soon as we arrived outside the bar and were immediately shushed by the security guard. I almost thought she would kick my 20-year-old self out, even though I knew I could enter bars here legally. Faint lights splotched the surfaces of the buildings surrounding us, cascading the street in a stark silence that subdued our rowdy group even more.
But upon entry, the bar was abuzz with reverberating voices, high-octane lights, and endless chatter.
I immediately redeemed my bottomless karaoke tickets for the chance to sing "Heartbreaker," the classic Pat Benatar hit, onstage. As per usual, my nerves kicked in immediately before my performance as the screen continuously blinked "UP NEXT: MATT." The nerves were inexplicably intense this time. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it onstage, but I knew I had to share my talent with my friends. After this trip, would I ever get to see them again?
My worries vanished the second I approached the mic. I felt incredibly in control of my performance as I shifted between multiple dynamics. I let myself ascend into another world as I dropped down to the floor during the song’s bridge, riling up the crowd.
I had now connected not only with my departing friends but also the entire front row of karaoke bar visitors. I made so many connections throughout my month in Spain, traversing language barriers and overcoming nerves when interacting with the couples at Pride and my classmates at UPF.
Maybe my confidence had been ready for takeoff the whole time.