I bought a CD in Spain that reminds me, with simply its opening chords, how I feel about the country. Now, when I struggle to find the words to answer the often-repeated question, "So, how was Spain?" I think of the music and, in an instant, I'm hurtling through six time zones and over an expanse of ocean, beyond the invisible language barrier and into the depths of my memories. Overwhelmed by the melodies and the recollections they bring, I return to Toledo, my home for the three and a half months of Fall semester 2000.

Without buying a plane ticket or packing my bags, I find myself arriving in the heart of Toledo again, the way I always did, bouncing up the steep, slanting roads on one of the many ubiquitous city buses. Suddenly, the maze of streets opens into a clearing and the Plaza Zocodover comes into view ahead.

To the left side, a string of cheerful marzipan shops flanks the familiar plaza, beckoning to tourists and natives alike with endless rows of almond-scented treats. Clusters of yellow-tinged buildings and cafes with plentiful outdoor seating form the semicircular border of Zocodover. Busy at all hours, the plaza offers the observer a broad spectrum of Spaniards; elderly couples who have seen generations come and go in this old city, boisterous youth who spill into the streets as they shout out their plans for the evening, and middle-aged women who expertly sidestep the crowds en route to the local bakery to buy the bread of the day. Except for the whining pitch of the occasional youth-driven motorcycle, the town center of Toledo appears much as I'd imagine it did a few hundred years ago.

From Zocodover, I'd navigate the winding cobblestone streets effortlessly, making sharp turns and finding shortcuts to a pleasant plaza, where the crowds fade away and paved roads and tourists are only memories. In this quiet, persistently sunny corner of medieval Toledo is the Fundacion Ortega y Gasset, the school for international students where Notre Dame students spend their semester or academic year. I remember clearly the central courtyard where we danced to the music of a Spanish band under the open night sky, and the daily anticipation of our 2 p.m. lunch, Spanish-style, which always seemed to take too long to arrive.

All of this, these familiar places and swirls in my mind, as I open my eyes and find myself at Notre Dame once again; the music in my mind dissolves and I'm faced with a friend awaiting my answer. "How was Spain?" he'll repeat.

"It was incredible; it changed my life," I'll always respond, unable to put into words my muddled thoughts. And my friend will nod and smile, confident that those seven words are a fair representation of my experience. I'm only sorry that I can't take everyone I know back there, for no words on paper can capture the color and vitality of the semester abroad, and no descriptions can do justice to the place I called home while I was away.

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