This time of year I always get a bit nostalgic, this year more than most. Fifteen years ago this month I left for a 12 week trip to England. Where I went to college, the Education department had a unique program where you could do half your student teaching overseas (in an English speaking country of course – I tremble at the thought of trying to teach English in German – the horror, the horror*). Our curriculum was so tight – it made the study-abroad experience difficult to fit in and still graduate in four years; this was a happy middle ground. Some of my classmates traveled to more adventurous locales like Kenya or St. Vincent; but for me, England seemed just right. Familiar enough I wouldn’t have culture shock, and foreign enough I still had my horizons broadened. England was little bear to my Goldilocks – just right.
That tripped changed my life in a million different ways I didn’t understand until later. At the time it was my great adventure which faded into a haze of memories. Thankfully, I kept a journal – one of the few times in my life I’ve done so. The trip was full of first. First time in a different country, first time I ate broccoli, lamb, and curry, and first time I was truly on my own. Sure, at college I lived on my own, but my mom lived 45 minutes away. While I didn’t go home much, the proximity created one strong safety net I didn’t notice until I flew 4000 miles away. Hell, my husband’s daily commute to work is longer than that.
I recall arriving at Gatwick airport, jet lagged and disoriented. My traveling companion’s family waited with a sign to pick her up and bustle her off to Cornwall County. I needed to find a train to take me to Southampton. Dragging a large suitcase, a small backpack, and a large hiking backpack, I managed to find the depot where I proceeded to ask the conductor no less than five times when the train to would arrive. He spoke perfect English, but in my befuddled state it sounded like gibberish and I couldn’t remember his answer longer than two minutes. But I made it to my destination and called my host family to pick me up. I’d officially arrived.
During my alone time (which happened a lot at first) I reflected on what I wanted out of life – I already knew I didn’t want to teach middle or high school even though that was my degree (I just wanted to graduate and venture into the big world). I knew I wanted more traveling, more adventures, and the money to do so comfortably. I liked doing things on my own; taking a trip to London to see a musical, riding the train to Exeter to take my GRE’s a second time, strolling through the grocery store, and walking the ancient walls in Southampton on a beautiful sunny day.
Looking back at the journal, I wrote a lot about being homesick. I was confused; I didn’t know what I was doing at school (I made more than one spelling error – to the student’s great amusement), and no one else seemed to know what I needed to do either. Tragedy struck my host family during my stay, leaving me to fend for myself even more while they dealt with great sadness.
And then my journal entries stopped. A casual reader might assume I returned home, lost my journal, or disappeared entirely. In reality, I found myself. I stopped dwelling on what I didn’t have and started experiencing what I did. I made friends with other teachers, wrapped my head around the lessons I needed to teach, and planned my backpacking trip through Europe after the teaching finished. I lived, so I didn’t have time to write anything more than a list of my activities. I had learned to take control of my situation and make it into what I wanted. I wasn’t waiting for someone else to show me a good time – I would make my own good time (which included getting lost in London at two am – I cringe to think of the neighborhoods I may have walked through).
Looking back, that trip gave me confidence to tackle anything – which brings me around to where I am today – writing a book, freaking out about how much it sucks, that no one will want to read it, let alone publish it. Currently I’m panicked with how much I need to do before the conference in New York. I have an actual deadline now with so much time and (now) money invested. What if they tell me I have no business writing, my story is too cliché, my sentences drab?
At moments like these, I remind myself that if I can get off a train in England without a clue, only to have an amazing 12 weeks – well, what’s a little rejection.
*Two points for A Heart of Darkness reference.
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