The study abroad experience makes your years at Dartmouth worthwhile. There, I've said it. It's just undeniable fact, a kernel of truth that can only be known by the select few -- or rather the majority of Dartmouth students -- who spend 10 weeks somewhere else for a change.
Thing is, it isn't the time abroad that changes you. It's how you spin it. The actuality of living in an international youth hostel in London for three months is something more than suspect and only faintly less than terrifying. You're roomed with Italian girls who take more than a passing interest in your passport photo, you're called a "fine mama" by a large night guard named 'Chubby,' and your closest companion is a small Eastern European woman with bad teeth who pointedly calls you "friend" every time she dumps soggy chips on your plate. If you dealt with any of this in the States, you'd think your life was in danger. But in Europe? Sure it's dodgy, but it makes you the one thing every 20-year old wants to be: worldly. Did you notice my subtle employment of "the States" and "dodgy?" Their use here in Hanover is a badge of my cobblestone street cred. But I'm just getting started. Let me make this easier. Below is my itemized list of "Things I Acquired from Studying Abroad (that most likely I could not live without)":
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A kick-ass hair cut. Just a year ago, I had long, rather disheveled, Earth-Mother blond hair. But after being kidnapped to be part of a hairdressers' graduating class fashion show (no lies), platinum highlights amped up the sun-blond dye job. An asymmetrical fringe -- the word 'bangs' means nothing to the Irish -- cut across my eyebrows and down my cheek. Three-quarters of my hair now ended at my jawbone, the rest flipped in the opposite direction to my collarbone. And man, did I look cool. If I got the fringe right, I looked like a Labrador. And if they got toussled in with the rest of the hair, I totally pulled Japanese school-girl chic. I've tried to keep it up since I came back, but I'm a ghost of my former self.
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The grime-goddess look. In Ireland, 20-something girls don't bathe too often. Their hair is always the perfect combination of teased and greasy in order to create a rat's nest Amy Winehouse would envy. When applying thick, black eye makeup, they put on enough so that it lasts a couple days. The look only improves with each night spent in post-drinking, post-clubbing, post-smoking sleep for three hours. All this, paired with Ugg boots, makes you the epitome of cool. And hell, I endorse it.
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An expanded wardrobe. All my denim is now from Topshop. And I really wish I was exaggerating. I bought a keffiyeh too, way before Vampire Weekend name-dropped that particular scarf in their lyrics. And various mini dresses for clubbing round out the new euro-drobe. In case you didn't know, all this makes me an entirely new person. All of these pieces are completely inappropriate for Dartmouth frat basements. But don't worry, I rock it anyway. And those weird looks I get when I wear a butt-grazing tunic with sky-high heels in Phi Delt? They're just jealous.
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A new vocabulary, to be employed at moments opportune and otherwise. The guy that scored with a different young one last weekend? Absolute wanker. The new film at the Nugget is feckin' deadly. The queue at the Hop Cafe on Sunday mornings is rubbish. And a 10A-2A schedule is absolute shite. Runners-up include: ginger, grand-so, gutted, bollocks, have the craic, tosser, manky, uni and bugger off. I'd like to say I never use any of the above unless I'm taking the piss, but that'd just be a lie.
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Confused but pretentious spelling. Along with this new vocabulary come alternate spellings: "z" (pronounced zed, of course) becomes "s". "Ou" replaces just about every "o" in the middle of a word, and dates become inverted. You can pull this out whenever you please, and look confused when your friends pick on your use of "favourite" and "realise," before smiling airily and saying, "Oh, I'd forgotten. We don't spell it the right way stateside..."
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A string of foreign romances. By far the most important aspect of your abroad education. Preferable if the relationship is short, intense and in a language you don't know. But the best part is when you break up -- the expanse of the Atlantic Ocean prevents your Casanova, Don Juan or Don Giovanni from observing your frequent Grill Line excursions as part of the grieving, "eating my emotions" process.
I'd write more but I'm pretty busy right now, researching my visa application and all. You see, after those months of doner kababs, Glaswegian bands and Barry's tea, I realise I'm not fit for any other life but that of an expat. And though I can continue to define myself as a "citizen of the world" in front of every large lecture class I take, I think the next logical step is emigrating. As soon as I'm sick of pong, that is.
Amy is a staff writer for The Mirror. Her favorite place to 'take the piss' is in the Hop lobby.
