Translating English to English

England: Sorted

America: Finished/Worked out

England: Trousers
America: Pants

England: Pants
America: Underwear/Panties

England: Fag
America: Cigarette

England: Snog
America: Make-out

England: Pudding
America: Dessert

England: Chips

America: Fries

England: A society

America: A school club

England: Crisps

America: Chips

England: Fringe

America: Bangs (hair)

England: Half seven

America: Half-past seven or 7:30

England: Brilliant

America: Wonderful/ Great

England: Dim

America: Stupid/ Slow

England: Wicked

America: Awesome

England: Flat

America: Apartment

England: Fit

America: Hot/ Attractive

England: Garden

America: Front or back yard

England: Social

America: Any social gathering

England: Football
America: Soccer

England: American Football
America: Football

Click here for more Translating English to English.

Regret's Greasy Bone

Have you ever seen someone, and in that moment, everything stopped except your heart spinning in your chest?

That is what happened last Sunday at 11:00am, standing in a crowd of people in Hyde Park Corner, waiting for the London walking tour to begin.

I’m standing there talking with my brother and his friend, looking at the sky, hoping it doesn’t rain, shuffling papers in my notebook, when I look up, and I see him.

Dark hair. Bright eyes. Soft smile. Angular jaw scruffed in 5 o’ clock shadow. Brown leather jacket.

That’s him. I have no idea who ‘him’ is; I just know that is him.

“Anna, run right up to him and say something. Run up to him right now or regret this moment.”

But I just stand there, watching him get his yellow ticket, lining up in the queue, being placed in the same tour group as me.

“This is your chance. Go up to him!”

But I don’t go up to him. I just go with the group.

And for the next three hours, I watch him in stolen glances, eyes flickering from tour guide to my notebook to him to some statue or building back to him. With each glance I feel the lost seconds slipping past, and I do nothing, chatting, smiling, talking to every person in the group except him. We make eye contact four times. We stand next to each other five times.

“Anna, what are you doing? Talk to him!”

Silence.

The tour ends outside Westminster Abbey. After a round of applause for Ed the tour guide and after paying our tips, the group begins dispersing. My brother, his friend, and I take a picture with Ed, and in the second before the camera flashes, I promise myself that when I turn around I will walk right up to that boy and talk to him. What will I say? I’ll decide when I get there.

Smile.

Click.

Flash.

I turn around, and standing in the green grass of Westminster Abbey, he is nowhere to be found. I rush to the sidewalk, looking right and left. I turn around, searching the courtyard. I go back to the street, scanning the other side, straining for a glimpse of a brown leather jacket.

Nothing. Gone.

I walk back to my brother and his friend, punching myself inside, regret burning my mouth, hot and bitter.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just a willed fantasy. But maybe, just maybe it was something.

We go to a pub for lunch, and sitting there, sipping my water, I let it go. Because what else can you do? But before I release it, I promise myself that if I ever see him again, then without hesitating or thinking twice, I will walk straight up to him and talk to him.

But there may never be a next time.

But if I met him once, then doesn’t that automatically increase my chances of meeting him again? These paths of life we walk are not straight lines. They are swerving, twisting highways, diving and intertwining in dizzying webs. And since our highways have crossed once, then they must be close-by, and even if they are heading in opposite directions, then they are at least connected now, and life has a way of pulling us full-circle.

If nothing else, it was a lesson learned, the only scrap of kindness given to us by regret.

At the meeting point for the London walking tour. Don't try looking for him. This picture was taken in one of the minutes before he arrived.

6 Things England Can Learn from America

6. Driving on the right side of the road

Come on, England. Stop trying to be special.

http://www.parenttalktoday.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/girl-in-car1-300x199.jpg

5. Less CCTV

CCTVs are closed circuit television cameras that the English have decided to wire the entire country with. They are everywhere— campus, underground stations, subways, trains, museums, churches, streets, shops. A police officer told me that in the Birmingham city center (or what Americans call downtown), if I moved 20 feet in any direction, then I would be on a different CCTV camera. Basically, unless I am in my flat with the curtains shut, then I am under recorded surveillance. Civil liberty violation? George Orwell 1984? Does this really not disturb anyone else?

On campus

4. Southwestern Food

England does not contain Southwestern food. Literally, it does not exist within its boarders. This is a problem, because Southwestern food is my favorite food. I can eat Southwestern food every day for lunch and dinner, and I have gone through numerous 3-month spurts over the past five years where I have done exactly that. Does it ever get old? No. Do I ever desire something different? Never.

When I came to England, I naturally planned on continuing my love affair with Southwestern food. So I went to the grocery store to buy the necessary items only to pay for foods of disappointment. I went to restaurants labeling themselves Mexican or Southwestern only to pay for foods of lies. 

Since Southwestern food is not difficult to make and since I do not believe that the English are utterly incompetent, I have come to the conclusion that the necessary ingredients do not exist within the English boarder. Moral of the story: globalization is a myth.

http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcR4PMbuvoxutd9aCyg0dca8kSbC9WmU3kmU5TEGUTg-cgCyROK7PQ

nom! nom! nom!

3. Thanksgiving
The greatest holiday of the year—a day of thanks, family, friends, rest, and food. Few concepts more beautiful exist in this world.

http://www.internetmonk.com/wp-content/uploads/thanksgiving.gif
cheese!

2 & 1. Water fountains. Believe me; this is worthy of two categories.

The first week here, I feared that I would perish from dehydration before the month ended. I could not find a single water fountain. They were not near the bathrooms or in the hallways like they are in every public building in the United States.

After a few days, I asked a girl where a water fountain was. She directed me to a large fountain in the middle of a courtyard with a mermaid statue jumping out of its center. Not exactly what I was looking for. Undiscouraged, I continued my search, but after a week of not finding even a broken pipe sticking out of a wall, something inconceivable began forming in my mind. After trying to distance myself from the reality-tilting thought for a few days, I couldn’t avoid it any longer. Turning to a flat mate, I asked:

“Does England not have water fountains?”

“Water fountains?” she asked, confused.

“Yes, water fountains.” I said, talking faster. “You know, you press a button and water comes out and you drink it.”

“Oh, you mean drinking fountains? I’ve never seen them here. I thought they only existed in American movies and television shows.”

Sucker punched.

As survival dictates, “adapt or die.” So I have adapted, filling my water container in bathroom faucets and discovering the English water machine, which is like a water cooler without the big tub of water on top. But the tale does not end there. Something unexpected, something magnificent occurred this Sunday in London at the British Museum.

While looking at larger-than-life statues extracted from the ancient Greek Parthenon, I received a call.

“Hello,” I answered.

“Hello, Anna.” The familiar voice replied. “This is Nature. I’m going to need you to respond to me within the next hour. Okay? Your welcome. Talk to you in a few.”

Bossy as ever. I thought, hanging up.

Thirty minutes later, I followed a sign pointing down a set of stairs to the toilet, and as my foot left the last step and turned the corner, I saw it. Beautiful. Gleaming. Right outside the bathroom entrance. Angel choirs sang and time slowed down. A water fountain. I just stared at it, mesmerized. Slowly, I approached it, reaching out my fingertips to stroke its smooth, shining surface. Then, moving my hand around the nozzle, I pressed the button. Clear liquid shot forth, a perfect arch, softly splashing the surface, pooling in ripples. I lowered my mouth to its stream, cool liquid hitting my lips, and drank.

Afterwards, I wondered since almost everything in the museum is a stolen artifact from another culture, was that water fountain a stolen artifact from the United States? Don’t tell them I touched it.

http://i1.squidoocdn.com/resize/squidoo_images/590/draft_lens4964962module37457012photo_124397372830024559_bubbler.jpg

6 Things America Can Learn from England

6. Metric System.

Come on, America. This just makes sense. Stop trying to be special.

[Image Source]

5. Electric Kettle.
A brilliant invention that I did not know existed until I came to England. Fill with water. Flick a switch. Vavoom! Instant boiling water. Not a tea drinker? No problem. Use it to boil water for pasta, oatmeal, hot chocolate, rice, a warm bath, chemistry experiments, medieval castle defense reenactments.

It's amazing!

4. “I can’t be bothered.”

The single greatest line in the English culture. Examples of its usage:

“I was supposed to write an essay last night, but I couldn’t be bothered.”

“I need to go to the gym, but I can’t be bothered.”

It is a brilliant line, because it is not an excuse and it is not a complaint. It simply states the facts, “I can’t be bothered.” America, please take note.

[Image Source]

3. Tea Time
I cannot count how many times I have been invited over to someone's house "for a tea and a chat." It is a beautiful tradition-- just taking time out of the day to enjoy a warm mug, community, and conversation. America, we have a lot to learn.

[Image Source]

2. Public Transportation

In the United States, unless you are in a big city like New York City or Boston, a car is necessary to get to one place to another. In many cases, if you do not have a car, then you cannot have a job, because you cannot get to a job. But without a job, you cannot earn money to buy a car. Vicious cycle. I have been in England for two months now, and I have not been inside a private car or even had the need to be inside a private car. I get everywhere by bus, train, subway, taxi, or even, yes, on foot. Walking 30 minutes one way is not uncommon here. It won’t kill you; it will actually make you healthier. I hope to add bike to my list soon.

Walking to class. I place safe walking paths under public transportation.

1. Harvest Morn Cereal

Is it legal to marry cereal? How about a civil union?

True love.

London Part II of IV

Sunday, October 24, 2010

“This is the Central Line terminating at Ealing Broadway. The next station is Bethnal Green,” the mechanically paced woman’s voice broadcasts over the tube.

I sink deeper into my seat. My body trying to process why it is not horizontal and further why it is not cocooned inside a warm duvet. It is 7:00am, and even though I am underground, I know it is still dark outside. I look around. There are more people on the tube than I expected on a Sunday morning, even if the majority of seats are empty. No one stands. No one talks. Most read newspapers or nod off to their ipods.

“Arriving at Liverpool Street.” The woman announces, the only one fully awake.

Closing my eyes and resting my head against the humming window, images of yesterday flicker through my mind.

Standing in the opening of the Mile End station, stealing a few minutes of its faint warmth in the dropping temperature of the London dusk, I wait, looking around.

Where is he?

A group of boys trip out of the fast food chicken restaurant next to the station, laughing, pants sagging. A bus rattles past. A woman in a red coat, arms crossed, waits on the other side of the street in front of a  faded brown building. In the dying light, worn houses can just be seen through the gaps between the low buildings. Sparsely trafficked road. Homogeneous lights. The glamour of the London city center seven tube stations behind me. The shift is tangible.

Where is he? Did I miss him? Dialing his number, the ringing goes straight to voicemail. He must still be on the tube.

A man wearing a tweed hat walks out of the station. He spots the woman in the red coat. She smiles, waving excitedly. Barely glancing at traffic, he runs across the street to her, suitcase flying off the pavement. I see him make it to the other side. A bus drives in front of me, metal and glass blocking my view.

“Anna!” Voice booming, the boy I have been waiting for jumps in front of me, and I scream, laughing, throwing my arms around him. The boy who I met running cross-country with in eighth grade. The boy who was the only person other than myself who did every theatre class and play and musical in high school. The boy whose house I regularly crashed at before rehearsal, watching bad MTV and talking with his parents. The boy who made me laugh every day until my abs ached. The boy who got to experience with me and with six other people what friendship really means during those make-or-break-you years of high school. The boy who I stood next to when we threw our graduation caps into the air. The boy who the last time I saw him we were sitting in Moe’s restaurant in Tennessee, USA eating tortilla chips and talking about the fear and excitement of leaving everything known and established behind to cross the ocean and study abroad— him in London, me in Birmingham.

I am now hugging this same boy on a London sidewalk 3,500 miles from that Moe’s.

“The next station is Bank.”

From the Mile End station, we walk to his flat, laughing, falling into the easy banter of old friends. And for the first time in a month, I am with someone who knows me. I mean really knows me, and I know him, no small talk or introductions or explanations of why I am here or what I am studying. We have been friends since we were 13. We are now 20. He has been to my home; I have been to his home. He knows my family; I know his family. We share the same friends, inside jokes, and a thousand memories. And it feels so impossibly good. It’s like putting on an old, bally sweatshirt (or jumper as the English say) and curling next to a fire with a comedic book and a hot cup of tea.

“The next station is St. Paul’s.”

We eat dinner at his flat. Pesto pasta for me. Turkey sandwich for him. And then we walk to the movie theatre (or cinema as the English say) and see The Social Network for a bargain 3 quid. Walking back to his flat, he asks me, “Can you believe that we are walking down a street in London together? Isn’t that crazy?”

“I know! I can’t believe it,” I say, squeezing his arm, making sure that all of this is real. That I am in London. That I am studying abroad for nine months in England. That I left the college that I love as though it were a best friend for the unknown thousands of miles away. That somewhere inside me breathes a courage that I am just now discovering. That in this moment I am living all of that and walking down a London sidewalk with someone who I met when I was 13 at a small school in Tennessee, someone who became a best friend those seven years ago and remains one to this day. No. I absolutely cannot believe it.

“The next station is Chancery Lane.”

Back at his flat, we talk, eventually falling asleep, and then wake up early to catch the tube—him to Bath, me to the heart of London. Now, standing inside the Mile End station, we are back where we started, full circle.

“Take the Central Line to get to Tottenham. Westbound.” He tells me pointing to the platform.

“I will. Thanks.”

“It was so great to see you.”

“I know. It was great seeing you. I still can’t believe it. Have fun in Bath. Be safe.”

“Have fun in London. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you then.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

We snap a picture. Hug. He takes the Eastbound tube. I take the Westbound.

“The next station is Holborn. Change here for the Piccadilly Line.”

It still doesn’t seem real.

“The next station is Tottenham Court Road. Change here for the Northern Line.”

Josh Ritter

Josh Ritter is one of those rare artists where every moment I spend listening to him, the world becomes better and I become better. I extend my already 40 minute walk from class just to listen to him for a few more minutes.

Here are some of my favorites. Have a listen.

Girl in the War

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o4vWbRylLX4

Kathleen

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JbCPDHZG2W4&p=C3E1D7DDD7A35D97&playnext=1&index=13

Snow is Gone

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q5wHtyE9Sok&feature=channel

Bright Smile

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ifJ3wzI1OHc&feature=related

For another great artist, see my tribute to Damien Rice here. 

London Part I of IV

Saturday, October 23, 2010

This is not a good idea. This is not a good idea. This is not a good idea.

Clenching a lidded bowl of cereal in one hand and a spoon in the other, I am running from my flat to the university train station, backpack jerking my entire body from side to side with every step.

This is not a good idea. This is not a good idea. This is a terrible idea.

I look down at my watch. 7:45am. Shit. 

Awkwardly cradling the bowl and spoon in the crook of my elbow and running like a three-legged dog, I manage to buckle the chest and hip straps of my backpack. Straightening up, I see the apple tree next to the roundabout. Almost there. I keep running, backpack now only slightly swaying.

Winded, I stumble into the train station.

“I’m here!”

“There you are,” Wren* says.

“Hey,” Tom* says.

“I’m so sorry I am late! I’m…” then I notice that we are the only people in the station. Wren is standing near the wall. Tom is leaning against the counter. The metal barrier behind the ticket booth is down.

I take a breath. I didn’t make anyone late.

“So…how do we get out tickets?” I ask a little too casually.

Wren shrugs. Tom points to the metal barrier.

I settle against the wall to wait. Opening the lid on my bowl, I find what was once strawberry crunch clusters has blended into soggy crumbs floating in pink milk. That’s what you get for sleeping in. Breakfast of champions, I think to myself, raising the bowl to my lips and tilting my head back.

Finishing the bowl and stuffing it into my backpack, I pull out my ticket voucher. £10 for any midland train. There is still time to turn back. You would save £10. Shut up, Anna. You are in England. You need to travel. Stop wringing your hands.

I have such a bad feeling about this.

With a grating noise, the metal barrier rolls up, revealing a balding man sitting behind the ticket counter.

“One ticket to Euston,” Tom says, handing the man his voucher.

“One ticket to Euston,” Wren says, handing the man her voucher.

“One ticket to Euston,” I say, shoving my voucher under the glass before I can grab it back.

Without a word, the man hands me my ticket.

I take it and walk through the barrier towards the platform and onto the train heading to London.

Wren sits next to me. Tom sits across the aisle.

What have I gotten myself into?

I pull out Strindberg’s Dream Play, congratulating myself on beginning my Modern Drama homework earlier than three hours before the class. But before I open the book, I rest my head against the window as the train pulls out of the station, watching the university shrink until green fields start flying past.

“Anna Rose, wake up. We’re here.” I hear Wren say, nudging me awake.

I open my eyes to find my cheek attached to a foggy window and a tangled bird nest of hair surrounding my head. Strindberg lies unopened on my lap.

“We’re in London!” she says, smiling excitedly.

Detaching my cheek from the window, I push my hair out of my eyes and expectantly look out the glass but only a stonewall stares back.

Gathering our bags and me attempting to tame my hair, we maneuver off the train and through the station. Then walking out the doors, we step into the city. A tall white building rises above a wide street bustling with people and cars. Black taxies and red buses motor past. People stream in and out of the station and down the sidewalk. Green trees sway in the slight wind and pigeons fly against a blue sky.

Maybe it is the fact that I just woke up, maybe it is the street exhaust, maybe it is the warm sunshine or the musical notes of English accents, whatever it is, the energy of the city hums through my body, and in a rare moment, I know that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

Buzzing from the vibes and looking around, I know that I am going to live in this city one day. I do not know how. I do not know when, but one day, if only for a year, I am going to call London home. I have been here two minutes and I have never wanted to live in a city, but love at first sight just became a reality, sweeping me off my feet.

“Where are we going?” Wren asks, breaking me out of my trance.

“Where are we?” Tom echoes.

Suddenly, I realize what they have already grasped. We have no idea where we are. We stare at each other for a moment and then turn around and walk back into the station to search for a map—something that none of us thought to bring to a massive city that none of us had ever been to.

What we did from there on our first day in London:

Ate lunch (yum)

Took pictures

Natural History Museum— Word to the wise, use the side entrance. There was a three-hour queue (line) at the front entrance. There was a thirty-second queue at the side entrance that we found only after we gave up on the front entrance. Moral of the story—quitters can succeed.

Navigated the underground

Took pictures

Saw the London Eye

Bought postcards

Took pictures

Saw the Parliament building (which includes Big Ben)

Saw Westminster Abbey—the most beautiful building I have ever seen.

Took pictures

Got snacks from Tesco—the store was composed of a single aisle. I had never seen anything like it. When I took a picture, I was asked to leave.

Parted ways until the morning—I went to meet my friend Michael*. Wren and Tom went to a hostel.

*Names have been changed.

Outside the Natural History Museum

Inside the Natural History Museum

Buying postcards-- just doing my part to support the tourism industry

Outside the Parliament Building

Outside Westminster Abbey

Just So You Know

I have been informed that my posts are depressing and anyone reading them will now never chose to study abroad.

Yes, some posts were sad, because for the first two weeks, I was not happy. And I have not posted much since then.

But I have been here four weeks.

The third week I felt myself warming up.

The fourth week I realized that I cried when I got here and I will cry when I have to leave.

Today, I am the luckiest person on earth, and I just might never leave.

Happy posts to come. There are so many stories to tell.

Do not let my first two weeks discourage you from studying abroad. They were rough but necessary, and it is important for people to know that the beginning might be hard. But getting through them is worth it.

Studying abroad is one of the best decisions I have ever made. I am living one of the happiest moments of my life. Come join me. Everyone should experience this.

(Fyi: "Clarity" is a very happy post. Life opened up after I realized what it is trying to say, and it was realized many days before it was posted.)

Clarity

Let it pass

like a missed punch

Let it slide

like a hand down a back

Let it be

like a child falling asleep

Let it go

like a handful of leaves

It was so simple

Let it pass

like time on a walk

Let it slide

like pink tongue over ice cream

Let it be

like holding a friend

Let it go

like regret held too long

That I laughed

Let it pass

like a hand through hair

Let it slide

like rain off a broken wing

Let it be

like a Beatles song

Let it go

like jumping out of a swing

Out loud.

Let it pass

like breath over lips

Let it slide

like a first mistake

Let it be

like silence

Let it go

like laughing for no reason at all

Stop trying so hard.

Living on the Edge (cue Aerosmith)

Studying abroad is constantly standing on the edge of my comfort zone with my feet halfway over the edge of a cliff with nothing but a thousand feet of air below. For the first two weeks, I was so scared—so scared of falling. But after two weeks, I discovered that I am not standing on the edge. I am walking, and not along the rim, but forward. With each step, my toes land on air, only to curl over the edge and push off again. I have not fallen, because every time I step forward, the cliff juts out to catch me, but never fully, never enough to catch my whole foot, but enough to stand halfway on solid ground.

I cannot fall. I know that now, but I still get scared. But more and more, that fear is converting into thrill. Teetering on the brink triggers an adrenaline rush, so instead of closing my eyes and whimpering in fear like before, I stand on the rim, arms wide, yelling, “AHHHH!”, my whole body rippling with echoes.

Even if the edge cannot hurt me, it does exhaust me. I can walk forward for only so long until I have to turn around, crawl back to the soft, comfortable center, curl up, and rest. I have increased my stamina, but I still get physically exhausted constantly meeting new people, learning a new place, understanding a new system, going out, and pushing myself to socialize. I am perpetually adjusting, bobbing, weaving, contorting, trying to create a life here. So often, I just want to curl up in my bed, not even to sleep but just to be in a place where I do not have to try.

But as my mother tells me when I am sick, “The bed will kill you. If you want to get better, then you have to do those small necessary things like get up, walk around, feed yourself, bathe yourself, and wash your sheets.” I have repeated those lines to myself many times since I landed here. I have to do those small, necessary things every day like smile at someone, say “Hi,” ask someone a question, walk back from class with someone, and say “yes” to an invitation. As small as those actions are, they are so important in creating that human contact, so important in not being alone for those few minutes.

If I can fly halfway around the world, leaving everything and everyone I know behind, then I can be confident; I can assert myself. I have liberated myself, because nothing I can do here will ever be as crazy as the action that brought me here. So go to that party, walk up to that person. Even if there is a 100% chance forecast for awkwardness, do it.

Now that you have given yourself this pep talk, Anna, actually go do something with your life instead of typing on your bed.

Thought of the Day

How can I spend so much time thinking about a person who I know so little about?

First English House Party

Friday, October 8, 2010

9:00pm

Boy who drew me the map: “So why didn’t you come to that really awesome party Friday night?”

Me: “I was making vegetable stew.”

Boy: “So you had a dinner party?”

Me: “No, just me…making vegetable stew.”

Boy: Silence

Lamest excuse ever.

8:30pm

I am sitting in the holding room for the Henry V callback when a girl turns to me and says, “Hey, you should come to the party tonight.”

“Yeah,” a guy from across the room calls out, “you should come.”

Images of awkward staring at people I do not know flash through my head.

I smile in acknowledgment and then lock my eyes onto the Chorus’ monologue in my hand.

Internal dialogue:

“I can’t go to a party tonight. This is my first free night to make that vegetable stew I have wanted to make all week.”

“It’s Friday night. And it’s not free anymore.”

“I don’t know anyone.”

“Get to know people.”

“I’m scared.”

“Shut up.”

I walk over to the boy who called out from across the room. He has a kind face, and I don’t feel uncomfortable talking to him.

“So tell me about this party.”

“Hi. Well, it’s a costume party, but the theme is anything. It’s the first big drama party of the year, and the first time everyone will be together since spring, so it’ll be really great. Here, let me draw you a map.”

I hand him a piece of paper and a pen.

“Thanks,” he says, turning around and starting to draw…and keeps drawing. I am starting to worry that the party is in a different county when he turns back around. “Here you go.”

I take the paper from him.

It is beautiful. Labeled streets in a perfect grid bisect the page. Tiny shops with little signs on top line the roads. Little arrows point the way along the streets and end at the house circled in dark ink. *44 Trivet Lane.

“Thank you. Wow. Thank you.”

“So I’ll see you there?”

“No promises,” I say with a smile.

“Anna Rose for the Chorus,” the director calls from the door.

“Thanks again,” I tell the boy who drew me the map, and then turn around, take a deep breath and walk towards the audition room.

9:00pm

Walking to my flat, I pull the map from my coat pocket. He drew you this beautiful map. Can you really tell him you were making vegetable stew?

9:20pm

I get to my flat and lay the map on the kitchen counter. It is quiet. All my flat mates must be out.

I pull out onions, carrots, bell peppers, lentils, potatoes, beans, tomatoes, and spices. After soaking the lentils, I begin chopping the onions, tears blurring my vision.

Slice—straight across my thumb. Red spurts over white onion. Shit. I stick my thumb in my mouth, warm metallic hitting tongue. Now, I definitely cannot go. I am injured and unfit to engage in social activity. The burning of onion acid in my open wound feels like relief.

I imagine a new conversation:

Boy who drew me the map: “So why didn’t you come to that really awesome party Friday night?”

Me: Holding up my blood-soaked, bandaged thumb, “I was attacked with a knife and had acid poured on my wound. The lost of blood and pain sent me into delirium. I was lucky to survive.”

Boy: “Oh my God! Who attacked you?!"

Me: "Um…me?"

Boy: Silence

First, you are lame. Now, you are crazy. The sting of the acid turns back to fire.

I wash my thumb, bandage it, throw away the bloody onions, and continue with my stew, feeling the map staring at me.

10:15pm

Slurping the remains of my stew, warm and spicy, I congratulate myself on making the best vegetable stew I have ever had. Then looking around the empty flat, my eyes land on the map. I wash my dishes and stand in the kitchen. I am feed. The kitchen is clean. The dishes are washed. It is 10:15. It is Friday night. My eyes land on the map.

“Do something every day that scares you,” I say out loud, grabbing the map off the counter. I throw on my coat and scarf, and as I’m reaching for the door, I remember, I don’t have a costume. I came here with two suitcases, filled socks and toothpaste. I can’t go. “Shut up, Anna,” I tell myself, slamming the door behind me.

11:00pm

Loud music blasts from behind a stained glass door darkened with silhouettes wearing Native American headdresses and top hats. Above the door I read, 44 Trivet Lane. I look at the map in my hand, 44 Trivet Lane. I keep walking.

Five houses later, I turn around.

And keep walking.

Five houses later, I turn around.

And keep walking.

After ten minutes of walking up and down the street, I realize that I am going to get arrested for stalking.

“Do something every day that scares you,” I whisper, gritting my teeth and walking up to the door, knocking three times, loudly. “Find the guy who drew you the map, thank him, and ask him to introduce you to people,” I am telling myself as the door opens.
Ten heads turn.
Silence.
My intestines shrivel as I step inside. The door closes.
Silence.

“A fresher!” screams a girl three inches from me, shattering the palpable awkwardness.

“No, I am in my third year. I am an exchange student from the United States.”

Silence.

I keep walking.

At the end of the hall, I make a 360, and do not see anyone I know. I peek out into the garden, and do not see the boy who drew me the map. I turn around and walk straight out. This time, the people in the foyer are not silent.

“Where are you going?”

“I just came to look for someone.”

“Did you look in the garden?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll help you find him.”

“No, he’s not here. Thank you.”

Bang. The door closes behind me.

I walk away, telling myself, “At least you can’t say you were making vegetable stew.”

*Address changed so you, too, will not be arrested for stalking.

(For the record, I have gone to many parties since this particular night where I have actually stayed longer than thirty seconds, interacted with people, and started to think that I might not want to leave in June.)

Loneliness

I came to England for friction. I was gliding at BSC, too fast, too wildly, like Chevy Chase on his greased sled. But in gliding there is no feeling and in speed there is no absorption. I needed friction, sharp and hot like match striking rock. What I forgot is that friction also causes things to stop completely. And when I landed in England, I slammed into a brick wall and then cried when it hurt.

In my first two weeks here I learned that loneliness is an all-consuming, black reality. It is very possible that you too will go there when you study abroad or travel or just live day to day. If you ever go there, into that cold seemingly inescapable darkness of loneliness, please do what I refused to do—reach out. Stick your hand out of that black pit and let someone hold on. Even if they cannot pull you out, allow someone to hold on. It is too scary to be down there alone.

The following are journal excerpts from my first two weeks here. I am no longer in this place. I am posting this entry, because it is what no one told me about studying abroad. If someone had told me, then perhaps I could have prepared myself for the blow:

I am lonely. So lonely. It was not supposed to be this hard. I am the outgoing one, the animated one, the one with what people say “too many friends.” Since I arrived, my family and friends have told me over and over, “I am so proud of you.” I lie and say, “Thank you,” but I am nothing to be proud of. I am lonely. I am scared. I am lost. And I do not know what to do.

I have been here two weeks, but it feels like I have been here two months. Two long, long months in which I have been so completely alone. I have cried almost every day since I have been here. Until I got here, I cried no more than five times a year, always in private, always a few tears and then I was done. “No more.” I would tell myself.

Today I have cried three times, and each time wasn’t just a few tears. No, they were racking sobs with ragged breaths, streaming tears, shuttering chest, and pathetic noises like a dying walrus. During one of these sob-fests I had to walk from my flat to the Student Guild, a twenty-minute walk through sidewalks filled with people. I found that if I just ducked my head and walked straight, no one would stop me, no one would reach out to me. I do not even know if anyone noticed me. At one point I doubled-over on the side of the road, my whole body shaking. But if you look pathetic enough, people choose not to see you.

I need to talk with someone, but there is no one here for me to talk with. Sure there are student mentors and a student hotline and a Catholic nun who I could go to, but I want to talk with a friend, a flesh and blood friend, someone who actually cares about me and will listen and hold me and let me cry. I don’t want to be just another sad face walking into a room, talking to a person who will forget me once I walk out.

Oh God, I feel so alone. My chest hurts, and I don’t know how because it feels so empty. To every person walking near, I think to myself, “Please be my friend.” But they just walk past. Down the street. Over the hill. On the bus. Gone.

I know that my family and my friends from home love me and care about me, and I cling to that. But there is no one here who does, and I need someone here.

My parents said to call if I ever felt alone, but I can’t call them. I can’t have them worrying any more than they already are. But I know that they would be hurt if they knew I thought this way. Children try to save their parents just as parents try to save their children, and in the end, we both end up hurting each other. Truthfully, I don’t feel like I can call anyone—parents, siblings, or friends. What can anyone do but say, “I’m sorry” as I whimper on the other side like a pathetic victim of an amazing opportunity that so many will never have. I don’t want pity. I don’t want anyone worrying.

I have learned that no one is going to come out from nowhere and comfort me or ask me how I am. The world doesn’t work that way. I have to assert myself, and at times I have. But it is hard. So hard to start all over. I do not even have a foundation here to build upon. My own country has been ripped from under me, and I am the one who tore it from under my feet.

I believe that happiness is a choice. I have to believe that. And I have tried to choose happiness, but sometimes it doesn’t work. Sometimes you are just sad.

The only good that can come from this is compassion. Where are all the lonely? Why can’t we find each other and not be lonely anymore?

First Morning in England

September 25, 2010

It is 10:00am, two hours after landing in England, and I am standing outside the Birmingham airport shivering with forty other international students, all of us waiting for the shuttle bus that will carry us to the university. I am watching people walking in and out of the airport when, slowly, the cobblestone walkway begins to tilt. I place my hand on the pillar next to me, steadying myself. Then the ground jerks sideways and my stomach heaves.

Before I can fall down, I fold into a ball at the base of the pillar. Feeling like I am on a rocking dock, I put my head between my knees, repeating to myself, “Don’t faint. Don’t faint. Do NOT throw up.” All the while, my head starts inflating like an overblown balloon, light, airy, like it could float straight off my body and into the clouds.

Suddenly, I realize I have been bitch-slapped by Jet Lag.

I sway in my little ball for a half hour until, with a screech of metal on metal, the bus pulls up. A wiry, man trots out and begins loading the bags into the belly of the vehicle. I hand him mine. Step onto the bus. And sit next to a quiet-looking man who talks to me the entire way to the university.

45 minutes later we arrive. Hundreds of people mill about, and I am shuffled into a corner of the parking lot with my backpack and two suitcases, clutching my messenger bag to my stomach. Accents I cannot place shoot from my left, now my right. Someone squeals. Someone giggles. A car passes. I squeeze my eyes shut. “Don’t faint. Don’t faint.” I whisper.

“Hello!” A cheery English accent quips. I open my eyes to see a blond, plump girl smiling four feet from me. “Just leave your bags here. They’ll be safe.” I look at the three bags lying at my feet, seeing everything I own in this country. Then I glance down at the messenger bag still clutched to my stomach, my most important possessions pressing against me, solid, heavy, and so easily taken away. “You can bring that one with you,” she says.

Nodding and clenching my bag, I follow her. She leads me into a room circled with booths. I walk behind her like a lost child. A man hands me a key, saying something about a fine. Another man hands me an Ethernet cable, saying something about a fee. A woman pushes a handful of paper towards me, shouting “Insurance!”

“Take this.”

“Remember this.”

“This is important.”

“Do this before this date.”

Names and dates and prices swirl around me. Hands shove papers into my fists. My head feels lighter and lighter. My leg muscles quiver.

“Don’t faint. Don’t faint.”

Finally, the booths end. “We’ll get your bags and go to your room,” the blond girl says. Hey, *Sam, help me carry her bags,” she yells to a boy standing a few feet away.

“I’ve got it,” I say, bending to pick up my backpack and swaying when I lift it off the ground.

“Why don’t you just carry the one you’ve got,” she says, glancing at my messenger bag and then nodding at Sam.

They lead me to my flat and set down my bags. I say, “Thank you,” shut the door, fall into bed and straight into sleep.

All too soon, I wake up. I look at my clock—only two hours. At least the edge of the nausea wore off. I walk out my door to see a Chinese guy walking into the room next to mine. Then I notice that the same guy who helped carry my bags is now standing in the hall holding my flat mate’s suitcase. Tall, wavy hair, big smile, attractive. How delirious was I before to have missed this? I smile, suddenly wide-awake.

*Name changed to reduce creepiness

Landing in England on September 25, 2010

The little plane on the television in front of me of me scoots across the screen pixel by pixel as the minutes in the corner count down. “Almost there!” I whisper as the plane nears the island labeled ENGLAND. Beside me the first gray of morning light begins to color the glass, and pressing my nose against its coldness, I look out.

I did not pack for this.

Frozen ocean spreads beneath me, cracked and windswept. It must be sixty feet frozen through and packed with fifty winters of snow. We are not supposed to be this close to the Arctic. Where are we going? Why are we off course? “28 Minutes Until Landing” flickers in the corner of the screen as the little plane nudges the island. It is broken. The screen was only programmed. We’re lost. We’re never going to…

I gasp. What I thought was frozen ocean drops away, and hundreds of feet below silver water crashes against an emerald coast. Pink morning rays turn the tips of the waves from silver to molten gold, and soon green countryside quilted by wobbly hedges sweeps below. Eeeeeee!!! I squeal like a piglet with my nose turned up against the fogging glass. “Isn’t this so exciting!” I screech, turning to the stranger beside me just waking up. She looks at me with startled eyes. I turn back to the window and press my face against the glass again. Eeeee!!! I continue squealing under my breath.

Harry Potter, Pride and Prejudice, The Importance of Being Ernest, and every English movie I have ever seen unrolls its film beneath me. Tiny brick houses, completely identical, and tightly built together appear. There is 4 Privet Drive! A grand house overlooking vast grounds passes beneath, and I whisper, “Pemberley.” The green countryside continues, and I wait for Jack’s Manor House to appear.

Flying into the sunrise, I watch the colors change from pink to red to orange to gold and then, finally, to a bright, clean, new blue.

I pull out my camera and begin snapping pictures like I am making an aerial flipbook of England, all the while intermittently turning to the woman next to me to shriek, “Isn’t this exciting!” She just nods, eyes wide.

My finger continues snapping through the descent, landing, and does not stop until the plane attaches to the terminal. The moment the plane attaches, as if on cue, every person inside begins pulling scarves, sweaters, and jackets out of literally nowhere. Reaching into purses and overheads and seat pockets, winter wear overtakes the plane like an inventory turn around at Dillards. “I missed something here,” I think to myself, looking down at my Chacos, summer skirt, and short sleeves, remembering the weather report promising 70 degrees Fahrenheit next to a picture of a cartoon sun. Turning to look out the window, I see the ground crew wearing thick coats, gloves, and hats. All I can think is, “This cannot be good.”

Hope

Anything precious that can be dashed is a dangerous thing to hold, making hope one of the worst.

Hope is like a baby. You conceive it, birth it, look into its wide, bright eyes and see nothing but a future of beauty stretching ahead. And as you’re staring into those bright eyes, someone comes along, grabs the baby by the ankles, swings it over his head, and dashes its brains against a rock.

For that reason, I decided not to hope to be cast in Laramie Project. Also, because I am not happy with the memory of my callback audition.

A truly good audition is rare, but when it happens, it is undeniable. You focus your eyes, open your mouth, and like entering the eye of a hurricane, silence and stillness descends. The director forgets about the long line outside the door, about the months of stress ahead, about the pen in his hand and the chair under his seat. He forgets to assess, forgets that you are speaking words that are not your own. You feel all of this. And when you finish, inhale, and look back at the director, you share a moment of honest human communion like two souls standing alone in a room. And in this small moment, the hush and stillness softly vanishes, and you’re back in the world again, slightly wiser than you were before you walked through the door.

I felt none of that during my Laramie Project callback. “Nope. No hope for this one,” I told myself, shaking my head in disgust as I relived the callback in my head. An hour later I decided. “You will make the best of this. Whatever happens, you will make the best of this.”

And at 2:00pm this afternoon, I opened my email to read:

Hello,

So sorry for the lateness of this email, we've not had internet for the past night so contacting you has been a nightmare.

However, we're very pleased to say that your auditions really inspired us and we'd love to offer you a place in the Laramie Project Cast.

Congratulations once again, and we look forward to working with you!

Pat and Sarah.

I got in. I got in. Oh my God, I got in!

All the stress from the past week drained out of my body, leaving me like a limp noodle at the bottom of the colander, praying, “Thank you, God,” feeling a stability I had not felt since I landed.

P.S. I used the masculine pronoun for the director in this post, because for the past two and a half years, every show I have auditioned for has been directed by a male. No sexism here, guys and gals.

Rejection

(Please understand that I hold full conviction that the directors cast the people who will do the most lovely job, and I also am fully aware that rejection comes hand-in-hand with acting. This post is about needing the solid ground of theatre in a place that feels so unstable.)

Angles in America. Rejected.

The Room. Rejected.

Henry V. Rejected.

Laramie Project. Unknown

In the past five days, I have auditioned for four shows. I have received a callback for four shows. I have been rejected for three shows. I am awaiting the results for the fourth show, Laramie Project, which I auditioned for tonight at the callback.

I walked into the first of the auditions last Monday, Angles in America, and I felt a peace I had forgotten. It lasted less than two minutes, but it was like standing on solid ground again; it was like waking up; it was like running into the arms of my best friend. I was acting and I was alive, and for the first time since I arrived in England, I didn't feel lost. And even though every audition has lasted less than two minutes, each one of those minutes have been my happiest moments in the past two weeks.

Rejected.

Two days later, I auditioned for the Chorus in Henry V. From the Chorus’ first line, “O, for a muse of fire that would ascend/ The brightest heaven of invention!” I fell in love. For the entire play, the Chorus has six monologues. I read those monologues. I wanted those monologues. I knew I could do those monologues. I began to have visions of the potential for this role. Of the heightened level of audience interaction. Of reducing the audience to putty in my hands. Of the grand gesticulation and range of body and vocal levels. I threw myself into the first audition. I got a callback. I threw myself into the callback audition. The director complimented me. I could taste the savory sweetness of the role.

Rejected.

I cried. I cried because I need theatre back in my life. I need that foundation, that company relationship, that character empathy, that process, that release, that escape, that feeling that I am doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing and loving it. Even if I was not cast in these shows, I know that I could do them. The directors will disagree. That is fine, because in acting I have had to learn that my self-worth cannot come from an external source. I cannot hand over something so precious and so vital and so private to another human being, because that human being will inevitably smash it. And then where would I be? Broken in a million pieces on the floor to be walked on with dirty shoes? Irreparable? No.

Rejection hurts. There is nothing nice about it. It says, “No. You were not good enough.”

But after crying and after auditioning again for Laramie Project, I have decided that I am not giving up. I love acting too much to quit. Maybe I will not be cast this semester. I will go on. I will hate it. But I will go on. I will audition again next semester. And if I do not get cast this semester, then I will write my own play.

Leaving on September 24, 2010

The four days before I left I spent in my room packing. The four nights before I left, I tossed in bed, fretting that I had not packed correctly. The night before I left, I did not sleep, tossing instead, watching the sky lighten through the blinds, fretting that I did not pack what I would need, eventually sleeping a few broken hours.

At 7:00am I took my little sister to the bus stop, hugged her, kissed her, told her I loved her and would miss her; then I watched her get on the bus and be carried away, praying that I would trust God’s hands to protect her because mine are not big enough to stretch across the ocean.

At 9:30am I loaded my bags into the van, hoping I had packed what I would need in the months to come. From behind me my Dad ask why exactly I was going to England. I turned around, hugged him, and stood in his gripping embrace a long time as though if he held on long enough then I could not fly away, and if I did fly, then he could attach his body to mine to protect me against the world I was venturing into that was far away from him. “I love you, Rosie.” He said, kissing the top of my head and laying his just shaved cheek against where his lips had been. I knew that prayers to St. Michael and the Virgin Mary and his guardian angel and St. Joseph and God were streaming through his mind, wrapping around my head like a crown of daisies. Silently, I joined him, praying for his and Mom’s peace of mind, knowing that no such peace could exist for as long as I was so far away. “I love you, Dad. I’m going to miss you.” “I’m going to miss you, too, Rosie,” he said with a sigh.

Sighing again, he let me go. I kissed him on the cheek, and climbed into the van. My Mom started the engine, and we drove away. At the end of the street, I turned around and saw him standing in the driveway in the same place we had left him.

“No tattoos. No piercings. You will be living with boys and girls. I know that temptation exists. Be careful. People will try to take advantage of you. When I was your age, Busia would tell me the same thing, and I would think that the world isn’t really like that, that people were good. Well, many people are good, but at my age I’ve seen how the world works; I’ve been on the other end of it. And many people will steamroll right over you to get what they want, because they have an agenda and they are going to follow through. They don’t care if you get ripped off in the process. And the people who make the world how they want it are those with a plan. Be careful. Please be careful. Be safe. Be aware.”

“Mom. I will be okay.” I said as she stopped the van in front of the airport. “Really, Mom, I will be just fine.”

My Mom does not hug. I love hugs and annoy her with my constant attacks. Keeping her elbows at her side, she kind of squeezes me and then taps my back until I let go. If I hold on longer than three taps, then she pushes me away, saying, “Okay, come on,” so she can go do the next thing. Because she is a doer. The weeks before I left, she left me lists every day of stuff that I needed to do before I departed. She took me shopping for shoes and long-sleeved shirts. She checked my packing and called the bank even after I had called them three times, because that is how she loves—through doing. But standing outside the airport, after many of my needy hugs and after many kisses and “I love you’s” and “I will miss you’s” and even a picture together in front of the Continental Airlines sign, I hugged her, and instead of kind of squeezing, she just let me hold on with her hands resting against my back, and she didn’t even start tapping until three seconds later. Pulling away, she raised her thumb and drew a cross on my forehead, saying “God bless you." I raised my thumb and did the same to her. Then with two suitcases, an overstuffed backpack, and a messenger bag, I walked into the airport.

10 Best Things I Brought to England

I have been here in Birmingham, England one week, and the ten best things I brought are:

Money:

When you arrive in a new place, the first thing you should do is find out where you can get food. I made the mistake of not doing this and ended up not eating real food for two days. Money helps actually getting the food once you find it. Toilet paper and a blanket are also nice. I used my peacoat as a blanket for four nights.

Umbrella:

The weather really is as crappy as everyone says English weather is. The sky is perpetually gray, and it is either raining, about to rain, or just rained. I might be developing a vitamin D deficiency as I write.

Backpack with chest and hip buckle:

To get anywhere requires a 20-45 minute walk. A backpack of any weight kills the shoulders and arches the back after your second 30-minute walk in the past two hours. Chest and hip buckles transfer that weight to your hips and allows you to walk upright. Plus, you feel like you on an adventure, always a plus.

Leather hiking boots:

Keeping your feet dry, toasty, and supported during those long, wet walks. Word to the wise, break the boots in before trekking. Again, something that I did not do.

Clothes:

Not fun being naked when cold and rainy outside. Plus, England and I don’t know each other that well yet.

Cajun spice:

Cajun spice should have its own cooking show and shove salt and pepper off tables worldwide. There is no meal plan in my accommodation (yes, it is called “accommodation” here, not “housing”), so I have to cook all my own meals. Cajun spice makes everything addictive. I swear the ingredients list lies and it is really just orange crack. Also, the spice warms the body.

Skype:

Landing in a strange land and being able to talk to family and friends from home AND see their faces? Priceless.

Day Planner (What the English call a diary):

It’s like carrying sanity in your pocket even when you have lost your mind.

Prayer beads:

It is something solid to hold onto when clenching my fists in anger, throwing them up in euphoria, or reaching them out in loneliness—three emotions I have gotten to know very well this week.

Knowing that people at home love me:

I had never been out the USA until Saturday, and within a few hours, I was very far away from home and everyone I knew. There is no one here who genuinely knows me or cares about me. Knowing that family and friends back home love me pulls me through. Plus, if I made friends at BSC, then I should be able to make friends here at UB. Right?

The Day Has Come

September 24, 2010

No amount of excitement, dread, anxiety, stress, or restlessness can pull a day closer or push it farther away. 24 hours after 24 hours slides by, and then that certain 24 hours I have been waiting for for ten months arrives. I expected a blare of trumpets announcing its entrance into the world, but it just slipped into time, quiet and bright, like so many days before it. Today is September 24, 2010. A date circled in red on the calendar for almost a year. Today is the day I fly to Birmingham, UK to study abroad for nine months.

How do I feel?

Excited? Terrified? Stressed? Relieved? Confused? Tired? Crazy?

Yes. A smoothie of all that is churning in my stomach.

But, more than anything, I am curious.

What’s going to happen?

What will it be like?

Who will I meet?

What will I do?

Did I pack everything?

And the big question, the question chirping like a nightingale caged in my brain all summer, is who will I be?

Whenever my environment has changed, I have changed. Always for the better. Always coming closer to the person who I want to be.

Remembering 7^th grade, I remember a trap. I had unknowingly sewn myself into a puzzle piece in kindergarten. I was 13 now, but I was still caught in that puzzle piece. I had grown; I had changed. The puzzle piece was too small, too tight; the shape was all wrong. But that puzzle piece was how I fit into my friends, my school, my team, my life.

Then in eighth grade like the Hulk, I transformed, growing huge, shredding my puzzle piece with a primal yell. In other words, I transferred. And away from the only place I had known since kindergarten, at this new school, in this new city, with these new people, I became the person who I wanted to be.

Again it is time for me to change, but it is hard to change in an environment that stays the same. Though it felt like I became a new person every month during my two years at BSC, I plateaued towards the end. Maybe it’s because I settled; maybe I got lazy. I never felt trapped, but it is time to leave, and today I am gone, heading towards a country that I will live in for nine months, never having set foot on its soil.

I am flying over the Atlantic right now. Who am I going to meet in the mirror on the other side? Who will I meet in the mirror when I return home?

But, of course, the real question that I am asking that I probably should have answered before I got on this plane is what the hell am I doing?!

I have no idea, but I am so excited to be doing it.

But seriously, Anna Rose, what the hell are you doing?!

Pro/Con: Studying Abroad

“You want to travel. Why are you not studying abroad?” my brother asked me last Thanksgiving.

“What! Because… and …I…no” I sputtered. The thought was ridiculous. Yeah, it would be cool. But I had this, and what about that. Too much. No.

…then came the list.

I am a fan of the pro/con list. I like the visual, and I like writing things down. So when I made the list for studying abroad, I had fifty reasons not to go and about three reasons to go with one of the three just being the word “Awesome!” Obviously, I should have quit there. But that whole annoying “how great of an opportunity” thing nagged me. Looking back at my list, forty-nine of those reasons were lame excuses, and crossing them off would mean that I would have to work harder than I wanted over the next two years in order to graduate in May 2012. Biting the bullet and wishing that I could punch that annoying nagging in the mouth, I painfully crossed out the lame forty-nine reasons not to go, leaving me with one reason that even the nagging shut up about— people.

I love my family more than my breath. I love my friends from home more than my sleep. But I do not see either of them during the school year; so “people” on the list were my friends at BSC. Studying abroad for my junior year is a once in a lifetime opportunity but so is living at BSC with my friends for that year. I did not want to go a year without being with them, laughing with them, hugging them. And if I left, then I would miss out and maybe fade away to return to a place where I was forgotten and therefore no longer wanted. That scared me. I like to think that I hold an importance in people’s lives, that the campus would drop a few noticeable degrees in energy in my absence.

But the truth is that most people will not notice my going and the campus will not be affected by my absence. And a bigger truth is that a friendship that cannot withstand nine months apart now, will not withstand past graduation. But there are a small number of friends who neither them nor I will toss each other into forgotten memory after we toss our hats into the air. Realizing who these people are is liberating. It allows me to focus. It allows me to leave, knowing that some things even the Atlantic cannot erode.

I will miss them. They will change. I will change. Life for both of us will continue. And that is okay. It diminishes nothing.

So I ask you, “Why are you not studying abroad?” Remember that with an exchange program, you can study abroad for the same or less amount of money that you are paying to study at BSC.