I’m sitting in a pleather chair in my studio apartment, drinking mediocre Chianti, smoking a joint, getting hype to leave for Paris in the morning, and, finally, avoiding a single excruciating thought: why the fuck do I have to go back to the States?
I leave Europe in three weeks. I don’t want to leave Europe. In fact, whenever I think of my looming departure, I get acid reflux.
I’ve been here — based in Amsterdam — for a little over three months. In those three months, I’ve gone to Munich, Prague, Edinburgh, Barcelona, and Berlin. Between each of those hugely unforgettable trips, I’ve hosted almost all of closest friends here in Holland. I regret not electing to study abroad for the full year.
I’ve given it some thought, and I’ve yet to figure out what I should lead with when asked, “how was it?” Do I open with kicking it with T-Pain after his show? Or with unintentionally hosting a party of pro-soccer players we met at a club? Or with the art and the food? Truth is, I’ve had too much fun to tell. And I apologize if that sounds completely douchey or self-important, but, yeah — this semester has been the most revolutionary, extraordinary time of my life. And the fact that it’s almost over oppresses me.
I have family and friends waiting for me on the other side. They — along with New York — will soften the blow. Still, the luckless reality is that I have to go back to school — a school I love, but a school to which, at the moment, have nil desire to return.
By May, I was exhausted. I had spent two draining years at Williams that left me stiff with stress from my classes, defeated by horribly unsuccessful romantic pursuits, and unfilled by a lacking social life. I felt small.
Recently it occurred to me that virtually my whole life led up to Williams. I worked my ass off since elementary school to get into a elect college. Everything — every test, every extracurricular, every internship and summer program — paved the way for Williams. And I don’t mean to generate sympathy — I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I’m proud of my achievements, and it’s unlikely that I would’ve achieved them had I not been working towards them since I was eight. But now I’m 20, and I’m over it. School’s fine, and I know I’ll miss this age of relative blitheness once it’s history, but being abroad has me itching for the world…and not for Williamstown.
I want to start a tremendous career. I want to see all the places I couldn’t see this fall. I want to drink mediocre Chianti with my fabulous friends in my absolutely unfabulous closet of a first apartment. I want to cry about anything — except how shitty my English paper is. I want to find love.
I don’t doubt that all those things will happen, and I hesitate to rush their happening. But I can’t help it. Because as I polish off this bottle, buzzing with excitement for my final vacation on vacation, the thought of weekends spent between the library and the town’s single bar has me tempted to hurl.
So here’s to you, my last three weeks. You’re bound to be divine, and I fucking hate you for it.