The Study Abroad Experience Is A Social Construction

*Disclaimer* The title is meant as a joke, please for the love of all things that are great in this world, don't take it seriously. You know who you are.

So. Instead of gushing about all the crazy, wild, fun things I did this weekend, I'm going to muse on the questions we all ask ourselves when we go abroad. One I've asked myself a lot this weekend is if I'm doing study abroad 'right.' Having been fortunate enough to have lived abroad several times, I thought I knew what to expect when I came here. However, there's been a few things weighing on my mind, and after a heart-to-heart with my roommate M, I've come to realize a few things.

When someone says they're going abroad for school, a typical response is something along the lines of "say yes to EVERYTHING!" "make the most of EVERY MOMENT!" "get out of your comfort zone!" or "don't miss out on any opportunity!" While these responses are certainly well intended, I have to wonder what kind of pressure they're putting on the student going abroad.

To explain my tongue-in-cheek title, that's why I refer to it as a social construction. Or rather, the experience. Everyone assumes that a student going abroad is going to have the best time, and most likely that is true. However, it's fluid. Everyone - including myself - has good days and bad days, where they toggle back and forth between feeling a sense of purpose & belonging, or feeling like they aren't doing enough to take advantage of being here. If they don't post pictures of themselves appearing to have a wonderful time, are they doing it right?! If they don't gush to their family and friends back home about the cool things they're doing, are they really doing anything at all?!

It's been hard not to compare my own experience to those of others, whether they be friends who have gone abroad before me or friends who are currently abroad with me or elsewhere. There's a lot of pressure to go somewhere every weekend, to go out several times a week, to have a million friends and to be constantly doing something. But at what point do I have to take a step back and say, hang on: this isn't what I want. I don't want to be pressured into doing something I'm not interested in, just because I'm afraid of missing out. No one should feel obligated to do things they don't want to do, just because they're afraid someone will say they weren't taking advantage of being abroad.

Let's take, for example, our three day weekends. Ah, what a beautiful thing. I've wished for three day weekends pretty much every day since elementary school. It's a great advantage here as well, when it comes to planning trips. This weekend I could make no alternative plans, because I had an archaeology 'field trip' in Perugia that prevented me from going away. While at first I was a little salty that I had to stay here, I actually think it ended up being a good thing. I don't have that many weekends in Perugia left, and I got a chance to explore the archaeological museums. Today I went for a beautiful solo ramble and toured a monastery. So...why do I feel like I should have done more?

Because I keep comparing my relatively low-key weekends to those of my fellow students who have already gone to Prague, Switzerland, Greece, London, or Spain.

It's important for me to remember - and for anyone else who has or will study abroad - that there is no rule for it. Everyone who comes back to the States looks back on their time so fondly that they are eager for others to enjoy it just as much, hence the 'say yes to EVERYTHING!' But let me put a stop to that right now. There simply isn't time. While I'd like to do as much as I can, and will certainly try, it's only four months, which goes by a lot faster than it seems. Secondly, I have to remember that pretty much everyone I know who has gone abroad has probably had these same doubts and moments of panic where they wonder if their experience is full enough or if they're not taking advantage of it enough. Third, I must remember that I chose Italy for a reason. While it's certainly easier to travel around Europe and I do plan to go out of Italy, I came to Italy...to explore Italy. So why doesn't that seem like enough to me?

Because I am wondering those things. Am I doing enough? Am I taking advantage of it enough? Am I doing it right? Do I even deserve to be here if I'm not going to say yes to everything?

There's nothing wrong with any scenario. Truly, I believe that. But I also think the urge to do anything and everything eclipses the mental health side of it. For introverts like myself and my roommate M, it takes us a little longer to be comfortable, to settle into a routine, to find firm friends (try saying that four times fast!). Other people are quicker at it. Doesn't mean they're more adventurous or braver or anything (though I do wish I could be more like that). Doesn't mean I'm a coward or that I'm not doing it 'right.'

Now, seemingly conversely I do think that it's important to get out of one's comfort zone and to take advantage of opportunities presented to us. But everyone has a different threshold, and one person's version of 'taking advantage of opportunities' does not translate to someone else. To reiterate my earlier point on choosing Italy for a reason, I have to remind myself that, just because I haven't yet left Italy, that doesn't mean I'm not taking advantage of my time here. And it's okay if everything is not always sunshine, to quote my roommate M.

There is somewhat a sense of expectation that one only has good experiences; however, no one - absolutely no one - has a perfect time. Everyone has things that they wish they'd done and didn't (this applies to 'normal life' as well, now that I think about it). There will be things that I won't do, and thus will regret not doing, I know that already and I've only been here a month. But I also don't want to dwell on what won't happen and try to focus on the things that have happened that I have enjoyed. And to remember that it's okay to not have everything be perfect and wild and adventurous all the time. Sometimes you just need to sit in your room with a book and have a night (or two) to yourself.

So here's the final word on the subject: there is no 'right' way to do abroad. As long as you're safe and happy where you are, it's okay if your version of adventure means wandering around in your city. It's also okay if your version of adventurous means leaving your host country to go to Switzerland or something. Everything is okay. There is no rule to study abroad. So if you find yourself in the same boat as me, tell yourself that you're here, aren't you? I'm here, aren't I? That's brave enough by itself.


*Further disclaimer* I'm not trying to complain or sound whiny; I just think this is something that should be considered but that's one man's opinion, that's all, have a great day BYE*

The Gryffin

note: this was an assignment for my creative writing class. I had to describe Perugia using sensory details, and this is what I came up with!

perugia crouches like some ancient elegant creature on the the hip of a jeweled valley. it breathes pearly mist upward to wash over the city walls in the morning, and silver olive trees lurk behind it and then burst forward when it is lifted by the sun, still cold in the january mornings. the light washes over medieval brick walls, illuminating centuries of dirt and dust that has become embedded in the stone, leavings of etruscan lives that have become further settled in the skin of the earth. at sunset the ruddy light spills like ripe berries over the walls, staining everything pink and copper and gold. the gryffin settles in for the night as purple sweeps over its back, pinpricks of stars of cities across the valley wink in companionship to their brother city, comfortable in the knowledge that it will wake in the morning to spread its wings over the valley once again, casting shadows on the thighs and knees of umbria.

in the veins of the city, the alleyways, one’s nose will fill with smell of the cold and damp of an italian winter. blue woodsmoke drifts over the walls, blends with the threads of garlic and onion coming from a nearby kitchen. the apartments smell of dust, the washing machine that hasn’t been opened in about five months, and the pizza place down the street. it’s the mingling odors of present, everyday life and the shades of ancients who walked where people are now strolling along hand in hand or alone with a takeaway pizza box. there’s a greek place on the corner that always smells faintly of fried fish; the owner stands outside in a blue membrane of cigarette smoke, if he’s greek, maybe he’s wondering how he got from his dry and sun-burnt homeland to this mist-shrouded creature to the north. if he’s wondering he doesn’t say anything. the city closes its eyes and inhales the scent of just woken humans and the smell of leftover dreams on their pillows, the new bread and cornetti, spirals of steam off coffee that curl like smoke.

if you stick your tongue out, the freshness of the mist settles and soothes; one can taste the oncoming rain in the air sure as sugar. someone’s home cooking is thickly pouring from a window two floors above, tart red wine and a hint of basil, something that sticks to your bones in that good traditional italian way that your mother inherited by way of a smear of flour on her cheek from the fresh pasta and then passed on. there might be a hint of romance in the air, not the kind between two people but between a person and a city that lives and breathes, there’s a taste of longing for time travel in the back of their throats. in the morning perugia opens its golden eyes and tastes of honey that spreads over the walls.

protruding from the fog like the bow of a ship, perugia’s eastern ear leans toward assisi, another glowing receptacle of the sun and its song. a cacophony of sounds parade through its streets, sung awake by doves and cars that clatter on the cobblestones. there’s a woman shouting across the square as she hangs her laundry, it snaps in the breeze and shutters clap their hands. the city has awakened and with it its people, moving through its veins to the heart of it where a fountain chatters on warm days. its voice is notably absent when the chill of winter sets in, but no one wants to hear the crack of 4th century stone. a man catcalls a woman and her heels stalk on the stone, an ominous, furious cracking that she wishes was lashing across his face. a car horn shrieks annoyance at a tourist dashing across the streets with seconds to spare. nighttime brings with it the bright young things, dressed up in their glitter and lipstick, loud and drunk on youth and wine and independence. cheers erupt, yellow and bright, from some pub where a group has gathered to watch a football game. 

there is this way of worshipping old things, a delicate form of fingertip worship: pressing the very end of your fingers to a stone at the very edge, the very corner of a wall or a building without the knowledge of the last human to lay hands upon it. for all you know, you could be layering your handprint on top of one that has been there for centuries, untouched. the walls hold onto the cold, they grasp it with gryffin’s talons and let it spread over the souls that pass through the sun drenched archway into the shadowed alleys where secrets of the ages have come to roost. perhaps the grip of the talons lingers on yours shoulders. but we are touching the innermost nerves of the city, a hive, we can feel its skin and its veins vibrating with life. and this. this is the way we worship our city, by pressing our hands to its walls and letting it absorb our skin cells along with the billions of others. this. is how we live here.