My Study Aboard Experience

Clemson University → Santiago de Compostela, España

I applied to study in Santiago de Compostela for the same reason I first signed up for Spanish at Clemson: I wanted my world to feel bigger than any classroom could make it. After talking with advisors and reading every page Clemson sent about host families, coursework, and internships, I promised myself two things—first, that I would show up with curiosity instead of rigid expectations, and second, that I would say “yes” to the everyday chances to practice Spanish, even when it felt awkward. I reread the program guide, watched documentaries on Galicia and the Camino, and made a short list of what I hoped to do: enroll in grammar and culture courses, land an internship that forced me to talk to real people, and learn the rhythms of a Spanish home—not as a guest, but as a temporary family member.

Santiago welcomed me with stone streets slick from the Atlantic mist and the soft hum of gaita music drifting from a plaza. My host family met me with dos besos and an invitation that sounded simple but meant everything: “Aquí, estás en tu casa.” Dinner wasn’t a rush to the next thing; it was sobremesa—the long, meandering conversation that happens after the last bite disappears. Over tortilla española and caldo gallego, my host mother slowed her speech so I could hang onto every verb and idiom; my host father teased me into telling stories about Clemson football; their teen nephew, a rapid-fire talker, taught me slang I never would have learned in a textbook. We watched the late news, folded laundry, and planned weekend trips; it was ordinary life, and it became the most extraordinary classroom.

Academically, the program did exactly what I needed it to do. I enrolled in Spanish grammar, culture, poetry, and history—courses that forced me to move beyond filling in blanks and into arguing for meaning. In poetry, I learned to listen for music inside a line. In culture and history, I connected Galicia’s bilingual identity to the way people introduced themselves and switched effortlessly between castellano and galego on the bus. The professors expected punctuality, participation, and patience with ambiguity; there were fewer quizzes and more oral debates, fewer slides and more primary texts. It felt liberating and intimidating in equal measure.

My internship at Hostal México PR was the place where all of that classroom Spanish had to stand on its own feet. I rotated through reception, greeting tired pilgrims from the Camino and families in town for a weekend. I checked guests in and out, fielded last-minute changes, and learned to navigate the reservation system without panicking when the screen filled with tabs. I confirmed bookings via email and phone, coordinated with housekeeping when a guest needed an early room, and called maintenance when a heater groaned to a stop. I practiced the calm voice you need when a flight is delayed or a family arrives with two more people than the booking says. On busier days, I shadowed colleagues to review rooms before arrivals, helped rearrange a small event space, snapped photos for social media, and translated for guests who didn’t speak Spanish. The pace could be relentless at rush hour, but teamwork made it human: Andrés taught me how to anticipate questions before they were asked; Verónica and Rosa in housekeeping showed me what “attention to detail” really means when a guest opens the door; and the manager trusted me enough to let me make recommendations to travelers headed for the cathedral square.

Of course, there were challenges. I could hold my own in Spanish and English, but when French or German guests approached the desk, I learned humility—and the power of a friendly smile, careful gestures, and translation tools. The hotel’s booking software looked like a cockpit the first week. And, because I wanted to give great recommendations, I had to study Santiago like a test: which streets stayed lively on rainy nights, where to find the best tarta de Santiago, how to send families to the park while they waited for a room. Each small victory—solving a double-booking politely, or guiding a pilgrim to the pilgrims’ office without stalling—felt like a quiet affirmation that my Spanish wasn’t just “good for a student.” It worked.

Outside work and class, I traveled. In Madrid, I walked the Paseo del Prado and lingered in El Retiro, practicing an urban kind of Spanish that clipped along at the speed of a metro door. I tasted a bocadillo de calamares near Plaza Mayor and understood why it’s a classic—simple, salty, perfect. In Sevilla, the sun was different: orange trees, the shadow of La Giralda, courtyards inside the Alcázar where the tile makes you feel both small and somehow enlarged. I watched flamenco in a tiny peña and felt the guitar in my sternum long after the last heel strike. Barcelona was all angles and curves—Sagrada Família like a stone forest, Park Güell a mosaic wave. We ate pa amb tomàquet and grilled sardines by the beach, and I heard Catalan tumble around me like a cousin to the languages I’d been studying.

Galicia itself became the heart of my map. Vigo showed me the working face of the Atlantic—ferries, shipyards, seafood pulled from cold water that tastes like the sea itself. On the Cíes Islands, the sand squeaked underfoot like a new floor, and the water was a shock—blue like a secret. In A Coruña, I climbed near the Tower of Hercules and watched waves detonate against the rocks with a force that made conversation unnecessary. Back in Santiago, I ate pulpo a la gallega dusted with paprika, empanada stuffed with tuna and peppers, and pimientos de Padrón that turned tasting into a game—mild, mild, and then suddenly ¡pica! I learned that coffee is a ritual and a right; that bread appears at the table without ceremony and disappears with gratitude; and that you are always, always offered another serving.

What surprised me most was how quickly friends emerged from the seams of daily life. Some were Clemson students who became my travel crew, people who knew my “before Spain” self and watched the “after Spain” version form. Others were classmates who corrected my preterite with affectionate eye-rolls, neighbors who waved at me from behind café counters, and coworkers who invited me to a birthday gathering where I understood maybe 70% of the jokes but felt 100% included. My host family became a compass. On rainy Sundays, we cooked together and traded recipes—my attempt at Southern-style pancakes drew mixed reviews, but my host mother’s tortilla could stop time. When I left, the house felt less like a place I’d stayed and more like a place that would be expecting me again.

Looking back, applying to the Santiago program was less about adding a line to my résumé and more about consent to be changed. The coursework sharpened my Spanish; the internship gave it muscles; and the host family gave it a heart. I learned how to manage a front desk and a full inbox, but also how to manage a conversation when words run out. I learned that culture isn’t a museum you visit on weekends—it’s the way a city times its meals, the songs it sings in the square, the unspoken rules for queueing and greeting and lingering. I learned that friendship can be built out of missed articles and shared umbrellas and a thousand tiny acts of mutual patience.

If I had to sum up what the experience gave me, I’d say this: it taught me to be useful in two languages, to be curious without being careless, and to be at home in a place that was not mine until it was. The Cathedral bells of Santiago still ring in my head sometimes, especially when I’m back at Clemson hurrying across campus. They remind me that I carry those streets with me now—the map of Madrid and the heat of Sevilla, the curves of Barcelona, the blue of Vigo, the cliff-light of A Coruña, the mist of Santiago—and that the point of going was never to collect places, but to learn how to belong to each one for a little while.