Musings on my Year Abroad so far

When people would ask for advice on coming to university for the first time, I would arrogantly tilt my head back and confidently give them a long-winded spiel about how you should “never expect perfection.” I'd slink back into my chair like an age-old philosopher, pondering questions of ethics and morality. So much so, that I can’t quite believe I didn’t start fondling a comically long grey beard and talking purely in riddles. I’d turn to my friends and say how “the most crucial bit of advice I can give about going into your first year, is to have low expectations. Low, low, low. I mean be positive, but like, you won’t meet the love of your life in the first semester, and you won’t suddenly become a shining example of perfect independence. No, no. Don’t get me wrong. It is fun. But, it’s more like an eating frozen pizza's and being able to come back home at 4am without feeling guilty sort of independence, though.” I would then proceed to recount all the worldly advice I’d learnt after two long and gruelling years of university. Turns out, I am the world’s biggest hypocrite. I would give this said ‘advice’, after having just daydreamed about my cute new imaginary boyfriend and glamorous apartment in Stockholm that I was sure I’d get on my Year Abroad. In hindsight, of course, I wish I’d have a pseudo philosopher friend to warn me that a Year Abroad is simply just ‘First Year: The Sequel’.

The initial hurdle came when I realised that to live in the sort of apartments I’d been yearning after, it would cost about half a million pounds and my first born son. And that’s only for the first week. It was a sort of “I know I’ll be mostly living off a student loan and Erasmus Grant, but can I justify spending four grand a month to live three hours away in an Ikea catalogue apartment?” The answer, of course, was no. So I did what any respectable and pragmatic adult would do—cried for two weeks and started fleshing out this boyfriend daydream instead. It then occurred to me that you can’t live in a city without having a place to stay, even if you had a boyfriend who meets you after lectures with an iced soya latte (that you didn’t have to ask for). I turned my attention to shared houses, although I got rejected by every potential roommate. I’m not sure if it was because I was vegan or Welsh, but I’m pretty certain it might be one of those things. Or, maybe, because they could see that my heart really wasn’t in it. All I truly wanted was to be in student accommodation with my friends, although I wasn’t assigned any. The final straw was when I finally got accepted into a shared place, but upon closer inspection of the photographs provided of the interior, my mum apprehensively said “are those… handcuffs… hanging from the ceiling?”

Luckily enough for me, I was then granted student accommodation and placed with all my friends. I’m not saying that it was the 30,000 emails I sent to my university, explaining how my only potential living option was either with a man who literally had a skeleton in the corner of his apartment, or to commute from Wales. Whatever it was, everything was finally coming together. Cut to me moving into my student room, of which I can only really describe as ‘beige’. Beige curtains, a beige sort of floor, beige looking wooden desk, beige bed, beige lamp and beige bookcase. The only object breaking up the beige, was a bright green chair that looked like an antique family heirloom that nobody wants, but equally feels too guilty to give away. “I love it, this can work” I thought, as I slammed my bags down on the floor. My friend and I had just transported all my bags up two flight of stairs, and I was genuinely considering whether or not my arms were now longer than they were prior to lugging all my prized belongings from one place to another.

“Can you speak any Swedish?” people would ask me. “Yeah, I can” I’d say. By that I meant I could speak about three words, all of which being ‘tack’, ‘så’ and ‘mycket’. I can also say “I love dogs”, but I haven’t found a chance to use that in a daily conversation yet. Which, and I’m not being sarcastic here, genuinely does surprise me. I was under the false pretence that re-watching SKAM — which is Norwegian — every two months, was sufficient. It didn’t take long to realise that these two languages are in fact quite different, and it’s a bit rude to move to Sweden and speak some broken Norwegian and then confidently say “I’d say I can speak a bit of Swedish, yeah. Yeah, no, definitely a bit.” In fact, I think I could speak more Swedish before I moved here than I can now. There’s something about knowing that people can actually understand what you’re attempting to say, that suddenly makes the whole act of "speaking Swedish" off-putting. It’s all well and good shouting “I LOVE DOGS!” in Swedish to a room full of English people, but in the actual country things become tricky.

I know what you’re all wondering—how did the boyfriend daydream turn out? Well firstly, BUGGER OFF. Secondly, turns out you don’t suddenly become more attractive to boys when you move to a different country. Unless you’re my friend Em, who got chatted up at a bus stop whilst carrying a bag of shopping. She claims she doesn’t get this sort of attention at home, but who truly knows. All I know is that a man once tried chatting me up by saying “well you’re not really my type, but your friend Em is.” So it’s nice to see that at least one of us gets to live in my fantasy. I’m alright pining after Hugh Grant in Notting Hill for a few more years.

It turns out that, as I so often tend to catch myself doing, I was pining after the wrong type of love. When I was picturing romantic snowy walks with a partner, our glove covered hands being intertwined, that this picturesque romance wasn’t really what I wanted. Instead, I should have pictured staying up until the early hours of the morning, laughing uncontrollably whilst tucked up in bed with my closest friends, or dancing to unidentifiable music in the basement of a damp club. The people I’ve met here make the even the mediocre fun—I feel my stomach getting tight from laughing so much at the most insignificant things at a crowded metro station with them, or as we make ourselves dinner, even as we sit in the library trying to start writing our 3,000 word essays two hours before the deadline. It's the friendships I’ve made that make this entire decision worth it. It has taught me to dive right in and just love people, for all they are, despite being constantly aware that you only have a little bubble of time to spend together until you all head back to reality.

So what is my advice about your Year Abroad? It’s simple. Remember that no matter what country you move to, you remain the same. This is not a bad thing. You don’t need to be a polyglot, live in a huge fancy apartment or have some sort of gorgeous Viking boyfriend to be lovable. You already are. Your year abroad will make you realise that the things to daydream about, the things to cherish—they are what you already have, what you hold close to your heart. It’s not the things you don’t have, it’s what has always been there. I have never in my life been so in love with my friends, my family, my pets, with my hometown, with myself—until now.