I'm Going to Go Back There Someday

This is it everyone, the night before I fly home to the United States. It’s hard to believe that it’s been fourth months (well, close enough) in Europe. I’m still not entirely sure that I had classes. I have a few memories of wasted hours spent staring at a blank document for some “assignment” to remind that I did have academics demands on my time.

Now, as I sit in my room, all of my very heavy luggage waiting downstairs for the morning bus to Milan, I keep thinking back on all the things I’ve done, the things I have yet to do, and the changes that occur within a single semester.

Living in Riva has been very much like living in a bubble; news from the outside world reaches us through the internet and e-mails from home, and none of us are terribly rigorous about reading the news, much less talking about it. I see the same group of people everyday; 27 other students, three teachers, an RA, and sundry architects circle around us, but this group of 27 was together quite often. Too often some might say; I’m surprised by the way this semester has ended or the friendships that exist. I have learned over the years that pledges of parties and constantly hanging out and eternal friendship usually end as lovely memories and broken promises. High school taught me that lesson three years ago.

In the end, I don’t truly think much about the changes of group dynamic or friendships made and broken over a given span of time. I’m thinking more about how I have changed since January. I remember visiting Nice that first weekend in February; that was the first trip I took while here, and the first time I had ever arranged for a hostel or train transport. I was travelling with two people, and I couldn’t say I knew either one very well. Looking back, I was so tentative about that trip, and so ill-informed.

At dinner the conversation tended towards packing; I have never taken a trip in the United State without a reasonably sized suitcase for checked luggage, no matter the duration of the trip. Now, the thought of taking something larger than a backpack for a weekend, or even four days seems so excessive. How could I possibly need so many clothes for such a short time? Even while packing today I had to throw away my normal pack-rat tendencies. I’m still wondering if I should go back and throw out more items.

I know that the "me" going home tomorrow is different from the one who left in January. There’s nothing quite like a semester in foreign lands to force the maturation process in humans.
I know that Saturday morning I will be thrust back into reality with acres of paperwork and other responsibilities and pressing concerns. Until that time, I have a full day of travel to isolate myself with the in-flight entertainment, and the rest of tonight to consider the semester that has passed and the person I have become.

Here’s to hoping that British Airways doesn’t strike tomorrow.