Unless you're a destined chosen one, like Neo, Harry Potter or Peter Petrelli, studying abroad will probably be the greatest adventure of your life.
You're thrust into a different culture with strange-speaking people. And even more, you're traveling around the world like Carmen Sandiego - just without committing ridiculous crimes like stealing the head from the great Sphinx.
Of course, like Harry being stuck in the woods for 42 chapters, Peter's amnesia and the "Matrix" sequels, all adventures must have their bad parts.
It was 3:10 a.m., and the night had not been a good one. Around midnight, a simple call to STA Travel for a hotel voucher had put me on hold for over an hour. Struggling to find a way to get to the airport, I'd faced even more useless customer service lines. I'd found no opportunity to sleep in order to take a 2:30 a.m. bus to Victoria Station to catch a 3:30 a.m. bus to Stansted Airport for a 7:00 a.m. flight.
But the unexplained breakdown of my bus had forced me onto a different line, and, after a few obliviously missed stops (none of which mentioned Victoria Station), I was running late.
That's how I happened to find myself stranded in the middle of Pimlico, a residential area of London, with no clue where I was and no clue how to get to Victoria Station or my flat. It was still the middle of the night with no intention of changing any time soon.
As I walked down Lupus Street, praying I was going in the right direction, I found that, unlike good old New York City, London does sleep. The occasional driver who passes will not stop to help you no matter how hysterical you look. That goes for policemen as well.
Finally, the strain of the night got to me and, as I realized how screwed I was and that I would not only miss my flight but probably pass out in the middle of the street and wake up in a bathtub of ice with no kidneys, I broke down. If you were on Lupus Street at 3:30 that morning, you would've seen a grown man weep.
Thankfully, I was aided by a random biker (who bikes at 3:30 a.m.?) and made my way to Victoria Station. Naturally, though, I had forgotten my luggage on the bus in my sleep-deprived haze and became another screaming mess in the Stansted bus lot. After 20 minutes, many pleas, two closed info desks and a bunch of aggravated employees, I again had my bag and was on my way.
That's just one tale of going to the airport. The part I left out of that escapade was that, even at the worst points, a little voice in my head kept repeating, "As long as I get out of this alive, it's going to make one hell of a story."
And it's true. Due to space constraints, you've only gotten the Sparknotes version. But this has joined my "abroad ordeals" repertoire.
I'm left to wonder: How bad is bad luck if you get a story out of it? I went abroad to grow as a person, but I also went for tales that will last me a lifetime. I may not have wanted to get lost in Pimlico or yelled at by the Munich police (in German, mind you), but those will be some of the first yarns told at the dinner table come Christmas break.
That's the good thing about being in a different continent. In America, stuff happens and you deal with it. In Europe, you give yourself a minute to recover, then you laugh and ask, "You got more where that came from?"
Devin Toohey is a junior majoring in classics and studying abroad in London. He can be reached at Devin.Toohey@tufts.edu.
