As I’m writing my last column of the semester and realizing I have only two short weeks left in Italy, I must admit I’m at a loss for what specifically to say.

I guess I could describe some of the dozens of European cities I have visited-how I compared the cobblestone Medieval paths of San Gimingnano in the Tuscan hills to the well-paved and Ferrari-trafficked roads of larger-than-life Monte Carlo, or mentally juxtaposed the quiet electric hum of a street tram cutting through a frosty night in Heidelberg with the growl of cheap cars barking in the humid air of Nice.

Over the last few months, the four of us-Adam in London, Sarah in Heidelberg, Joe in Beijing and myself in Rome-have covered a lot of ground with this column, not just city descriptions that can be read in any travel guide. We have written about everything from the emotions of leaving home that first day to the unexpected stereotypes and social attitudes found in other cultures.

Some anecdotes of my best memories from this semester could certainly take up a whole column. These memories include: jet skiing on the Adriatic in Greece; watching the setting sun illuminate the Roman skyline in shades of violet and crimson; and enjoying a last meal with my German host family from the summer while they tell me, in German, of course, the ultimate compliment for a foreign guest: “You’re one of us.”

Or, instead, I could relate some of my most humbling experiences of the last three months, illuminated by the detachment that comes from living abroad.

I have heard “Go back to America” shouted from an angry crowd in line for the Vatican Museum; I’ve watched a friend cry silently in her hotel room after her passport, credit cards and 250_ were stolen; and I’ve been able to step back and witness the disquieting nature of America’s drinking culture and re-evaluate my own too-frequent participation in it.

And shouldn’t I explore one of the plethora of cultural instances I have observed? I’ve listened to diners sing folk songs late into the night at a restaurant in Southwest Germany.

I’ve waited at 6 a.m. for the metro with the “madrileños” after clubbing until the sun rose in Spain’s capital.

I’ve watched a smiling Parisian couple enjoy a romantic meal of “pommes frites,” cigarettes and bloody steak tartare in a Right Bank bistro.

On the other hand, maybe I’ll skip the culture and just write about the strange emotional mix of my life’s strongest desire to return home fighting my equally powerful reluctance to leave the history, culture, beauty and memories of this continent behind.

How can I describe the friendships I’ve created at Loyola Chicago’s Rome Center with people from all walks of life across the United States, combined with the realization that I will probably never see half of these people again?

Ultimately, the bottom line is that I can’t.

I can try and relate my experiences in a 650-word column, but in the retelling they always end up losing something. Despite this dilemma, I think it is the personal subjectivity that makes studying abroad special. My summer in Heidelberg and fall in Rome, with all the good, bad and ugly moments, have been everything I hoped for and have honestly matured me into adulthood more than any semester at SLU could.

So when I walk off the plane in Chicago on Dec. 12 and am bombarded by my family and friends asking the impossible question, “How was your semester over there?” I’ll simply and knowingly smile and reply, “It was great.”