MISTI Blogs

Bleary-eyed and fresh off my trans-Atlantic flight, I wheeled my nearly 50-pound suitcase across the stone walkway of La Rambla. It was 9 a.m., but I was running on my native East Coast 3 a.m. time, which explains why it took me a few painstaking minutes to fumble with my keys and open the door to the concrete staircase leading to my apartment.

After lugging my suitcase up three flights of stairs, I finally entered my new room and soon-to-be home for the next two-and-a-half months. The first thing I noticed was the heat. It was only 9 a.m., but already 80 degrees. I opened my balcony doors to let some of the fleeting early morning cool in while I began to unpack. Maybe it was jet lag, or maybe it was my eagerness to settle in, but in the fever of unpacking, I bumped the nightstand next to my bed and sent the lamp perched on top crashing to the floor.

Perfect. I had barely been in my apartment for ten minutes, and I’d already managed to break something—a lightbulb at that. I’m not one for superstitions, but I couldn’t help thinking this wasn’t just a coincidence. Whether it was sleep deprivation or some divine sign, it felt like a bad omen. I’d felt a little anxious on the taxi ride in, but that anxiety became palpable as I scooped up the amber glass shards off the tile floor of my new room. Maybe this shattered bulb wouldn’t mean seven years of bad luck, but could these next seven weeks follow suit with this unfortunate event?

The midday heat had begun to infiltrate my room, and I’d just finished sweeping up the last few bits of glass off the floor when I decided to take a breather. In an effort to clear my head, I went out for my first walk. I planned to do a lot of walking while I was in Barcelona; it was one of my goals to explore as much of the city as possible, and this felt like the perfect time to start. I made my way through the narrow streets of the Gothic Quarter toward the sea. I’ve come to appreciate how narrow the streets are here; everything feels much more intimate, almost like a physical manifestation of Spanish culture through architecture. I exited a winding walkway and continued my stroll along the waterfront until I reached the neighborhood of Barceloneta. There, I walked the grid-like streets toward the beach.

First walk through the city led me to Barceloneta. I’ve always been drawn to the water.

I was searching for the perfect spot to stop and sit, but the beaches were crowded, and I was in my Converse. I pushed further until my legs started to protest, and I finally settled on a bench overlooking the marina. It wasn’t the scenic, quaint Mediterranean view I had in mind. It was more of a fishing port. Boats coming in and out. Tourists and locals walking up and down the pier. A bit chaotic. I thought of continuing my search for a more tranquil spot, one that matched the picture I had conjured up in my head. But instead of chasing that idyllic coastal calm I had imagined, I paused, caught myself in the thought, and chose to sit with what was.

I realized I had set such high expectations for my time abroad. Lists, bookmarks, and starred locations occupied my mind and the notes app on my phone. It was becoming a chore to manage these expectations, and it was beginning to detract from my real-life experience. I had this desire to have a perfect summer, but in wanting that, I lost sight of genuinely enjoying the moment. I know this realization is a bit trite. And, to be fair, it was a lesson I thought I had already known by heart. I mean, you constantly hear about the importance of ‘living in the moment’. But I think this is arguably easier said than done. Especially today, when there is such a performative aspect to life and travel. I settled into my spot on that marina bench and surrendered to the sounds of the city. And, I’m glad I stayed. I got to enjoy a beautiful pink-orange sunset on my first day in Spain. I got my ‘picture-perfect’ moment by chance, not by incessantly planning every minute detail of my day. 

Of course, I’ve made this realization before, and I’m sure this time won’t be my last. Being in Barcelona has reminded me how easy it is to get caught up in an expectation, especially in places we’ve idealized from afar. I’ve encountered this situation time and time again during my first year at MIT. I struggled with feeling as if I wasn’t living up to the sky-high expectations I had for myself, that I wasn’t taking advantage of all the incredible opportunities around me. It took me some time to develop a relationship with expectation, and it is still something I am learning to navigate today. 

Ultimately, I believe having expectations for yourself is a good thing. But we can take them too far. They can become imposing and stifle the very growth and change we had hoped to achieve in the first place. It’s ironic, we’re often most surprised, most pleased, when we go into something with no expectations at all. Looking back now, that’s precisely what my first day taught me.

Breaking the lightbulb didn’t mean weeks of bad luck. Instead, it was more of a lightbulb moment. When I broke that bulb, I shattered the illusion of a perfect Spanish summer. It was a reminder that life is messy, imperfect, but beautiful and genuine nonetheless.