“Feliz cumpleaños, Sam!” My roommate, Marisela grinned as she stood over my bed. She held a traditional Spanish pastry, which she had decorated with twenty-one candles. She seemed pleased with herself.

“Gracias, Marisela,” I replied, still half asleep. I blew out the candles and smiled. I had spent years dreaming of this day, and now that it was here, I wasn’t sure that I felt any different. When I was underage in Spain, I could still do all of the things that I wasn’t able to do in the United States. I could drink wine with dinner. I could get into any bar I liked. I could rent a car. I felt free. I wondered if I’d still feel this way when I returned to the United States. In Spain I was outgoing. I was confident. I was adventurous. Nine months ago I was a shy midwestern girl who had only ever lived in Wisconsin. I was afraid of leaving home, of living in a small town where few people would speak English, of attending a Spanish University. My only fear now was that when I returned to my old life, I would lose this confidence.

“I’m going to get a tattoo.” I shouted into the computer. Everyone in the Internet café stared at me. I could feel my cheeks flush. 

“A tattoo of what?” My best friend asked. I liked her response. I liked that she didn’t ask me why I wanted one. I imagined having the same conversation with my mother. “No you’re not!” She would yell, and then she’d probably fly to Spain and try to stop me.

“The charro. It’s the symbol of Salamanca. I want to always remember my time here. A tattoo will remind me. Even when I go back to the U.S., the tattoo will be with me.”

“Yes, it will. That’s what permanent means.” She laughed. “I’m going back to sleep. It’s 1 AM in some parts of the world. Good luck, and make sure they use a new needle!” She hung up. I left the Internet café and walked toward the tattoo parlor that I pass every day on my way to school. A group of teenage boys sat outside the front entrance, in a cloud of smoke. They had pierced ears and noses and faces and their arms were covered in ink. Despite their rough exteriors, they greeted me with smiles as I approached the front door. I wondered why they had chosen to cover their bodies with tattoos. Were they trying to remember something, like me? It didn’t seem like it. Were they trying to appear tough, wild, nonconformist?  Was that even possible if they all looked the same?

Javier, the tattoo artist, handed me a book of images. I already knew what I wanted, but I looked through the book anyway. I was curious. “This one’s my favorite!” he exclaimed, pointing to a black Celtic pattern. In the picture, a girl had gotten this tattoo on her lower back. In high school, all of the cool girls had tattoos like this. I didn’t want a tattoo that everyone had. In fact, I wasn’t sure that I wanted a tattoo at all.

As Javier filled out some paperwork, I analyzed the tattoos on his arms. On his left arm, he displayed several cobras, and the initials “JPS.” His right arm was covered with a scene of a dragon spitting out fire. I wondered why he had gotten these tattoos. I wondered what was so important about a dragon, or a cobra, that he wanted it permanently inked on his body. “You could get this one,” he pointed to a tattoo of a skull. “That would make you look tough!” He flexed his muscles and laughed.

 “No thanks,” I replied. “Maybe I should think about this a little more. I’ll stop back later,” As I walked out the door, I knew that I wasn’t going to come back later. I didn’t need a tattoo to look tough, or unique, and I didn’t need a tattoo to remind me of my time abroad. Living in Spain had changed me, and I didn’t need a tattoo to prove it. I knew it, and that was enough.