The final term of final year has been a hectic one, and besides the obvious workload I’ve been trying to make the most of university life, of living with my housemates and being part of societies and teams here. For all the deadlines, it’s been a fantastic term, and I’ve enjoyed the movie nights in, clubbing nights out and meandering chats about life and the universe with various friends in-between.
Alongside that, there’s been Other Concerns that have taken up more thinking time than I care to imagine.
Or, as my best friend likes to put it, ‘the Future with a capital F’.
Specifically, there’s been a lot of headlines recently that while previously may have passed me by have been commanding my full attention as of late:
2017 began at midnight (as I’ve been told most new years do). Shoulder to shoulder with my German friend, as we hopped from foot to foot trying to keep warm, bundled up in front of the Canadian Houses of Parliament, half-singing/half-yelling along to Carly Rae Jepsen and squinting up at fireworks through the snow. Earlier that day I’d said a tearful goodbye to my family, who’d made the trip over the Atlantic to see me for Christmas. Earlier that evening I’d laughed as a home-friend facetimed me from the new year in the UK, tipsy and giggling and telling me she missed me.
It feels like eons have passed since that day, that night. Now, I’m back at home. Sitting at my desk, in the room that’s been mine for 15 years, procrastinating working on my dissertation. The draft sits ominously on my desktop – a constant reminder of ideas that need refining, reading that needs doing, notes that need compiling.
But it’s the 30th of December, and I’m allowed some time to reflect. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself anyway.
Because it’s been a hell of a year.
It’s been one of incredible highs, but also of lows too. Trying and failing to hold back floods of tears in Central Park on the morning of my 21st birthday, cursing myself for investing so much time and energy into people who would not return the favour. That wasn’t a highlight of mine, I won’t lie. Neither was learning awful news from my family, in a hipster cafe in San Francisco, half the world away from the people I wanted to be with most. Neither was curling up in a ball on my bed in early November, aching from the pain and anxiety of the future squeezing the life out of my present, as I wished desperately for my final year to be over already.
But then again. My Mum hugged me hard in Central Park, and wiped my eyes and told me I was a good person and sometimes people were just cruel. My Dad teared up over Skype in that San Francisco cafe when they broke the news, and I wasn’t crying alone. Curled up on my bed in my student house, a knock came at the door, and my two lovely housemates let themselves in and climbed onto my bed with me, smothering me in hugs and reassurances that it was okay – I wasn’t the only one, that we were all a little lost, in our own way. Continue reading “Reflections – 2017”→
One of my favourite parts about our student house for this year (four bedrooms, brown carpets everywhere, living room sparse of all but essential furniture, a broken washing line in the garden, but a blackboard in the kitchen my housemate has already decorated with stars and smiley faces) is the view from our top step. Over the recycling bins and bikes belonging to the neighbours, over the rooftops and past the telephone wires, there’s a perfectly framed view of the Cathedral, towers imposing and ancient, the Devon hills that have been here far longer than anything else on the horizon.
It’s warm in the sun on the top step. I’m still determinedly wearing a dress or shorts or a skirt, even though it’s edging into Autumn by most accounts. It’s always a little bit warmer here than back in the Midlands anyway, this far south of the Gloucester services on the M5.
On my walk into town seagulls screech overhead, chasing clouds that unfurl across the sky like stop-motion animation in the wind. I see someone I recognise crossing the zebra crossing, smile and wave to them. On the corner there’s a battered red phone box that’s seen better days, three Carlings cans lined up neatly on the wall nearby; British student life summed up on a street corner. Continue reading “The First Week of Final Year: Beginning of the End”→
A year ago yesterday, I was sitting in the departure lounge of Manchester airport.
Balancing a honey sandwich on one armrest, my phone (mid-charge) on the other, I pulled my laptop out of my hand luggage, perched it on my lap and quickly drafted a blog post entitled ‘The One Before the Flight’.
I can remember vividly the nauseating mix of emotion churning up my insides, the concerns and excitements rattling around in my head. I remember my hands shaking a little bit as I typed, still overawed and emotional from the tearful goodbye to Mum. In the original post, I compare my feelings to getting my A levels, to ad-libing a speech in front of an assembly hall at school – to driving up to my accomodation on my first day at Exeter. I was sad, a little bit, to be leaving home behind, but that feeling was mostly swamped by the thrill that I was finally going. I felt in many ways like I’d already left. I’d been living for the departure day for months, counting down for weeks, spending my last day at home drifting aimlessly around the village, acutely feeling like I didn’t belong.
“I can’t believe I’m finally here,” I wrote. “I’ll see you on the other side.”
And here we are. On the other side. A year on since I moved to Canada for 10 months, and now just over two weeks before I go back to Exeter to begin my final year of formal education.
Road-tripping across a decent portion of the United States in the summer following my year abroad in Ottawa was a pipe dream of mine from the start.
Bumping along a road closer to resembling a dirt track than any highway, music blaring, the windows rolled down, with Monument Valley looming on the horizon; I’m not quite sure where this image came from, but by gosh, the idea stuck. It stuck, gained roots, and grew, branching off into a whole, insane, ridiculous vision. I wanted to see not only Monument Valley, but the Grand Canyon and the Valley of the Gods. I was also desperate to visit San Francisco, which I’d heard so much about, and hike through Yosemite National Park. I also thought, as an added bonus, it might be quite lovely to take the iconic coastal road up from California to Seattle, but these, I thought, were all pretty fanciful ideas. My family, friends, and even I doubted they’d actually happen.
Except, when dates began falling into place, and Emily and my best friend from home expressed an interest in joining me for parts of the journey, the dream gradually grew into plan. We could rent a car, stay in airbnbs and hostels, and actually do this.
In the end, my road trip comprised of two parts, over 4 weeks. The first section was an insane cross-country trek, from Colorado Springs to San Francisco, via the Grand Canyon, Zion National Park, Las Vegas and Yosemite. The second, after a few days recovering in San Francisco, was north up the coast – largely sticking to the famous 101 coastal road. This section of the trip took us through the famous Redwoods, past beautiful ocean overlooks, into Portland, and finally up to Seattle, which was my final stop. I kept track of the mileage counters of the three cars we travelled in, from Colorado to Seattle, and the final distance clocked in at 3,896 miles. I know. Mental.
Part 1 of the roadtrip: Colorado Springs to San Franscisco
Part 2: San Francisco to Seattle
If I’m honest, nearly one month on from the end of the trip, it still feels like a dream. I still can’t talk about it at any length without grinning from ear to ear. It was the most epic, incredible, challenging and freeing experience of my entire life, and capped off my year in a way like no other.
It was also an adventure that required (and certainly benefitted from) an extensive amount of planning and research. I think we were about halfway through Death Valley, having cracked into our second water gallon jug and discussing how grateful we were to have invested in them, that I started a list on my phone of roadtrip hints and tips – inspired by our good decisions, and less good ones. I thought I’d share them here, as a starting point for anyone considering their own road trip adventure, especially in the States (because honestly, I can’t recommend it enough.)
13 of Tess’ Top Roadtrip Tips
1. How to get started – it’s all in the planning.
Faced with an enormous list of things we wanted to do, an indefinite amount of time and a fairly decent budget (goodbye lifetime savings, this was what you were being saved for) – the world was our oyster. Which was terrifying. Cue roadtrippers.com, which was a fantastic way for us to start our planning. You plug in your start and end destination, and then can add things you want to see on the way as detours. Even better, once you’ve got your basic route, you can filter suggestions of other things near your route that might not have come up in your research. Our next stage of planning was one mega Google Doc, with shared editing accessibility. That way, we could add independently ideas for food, things to do, and potential accommodations. Accommodation incidentally, was decided in a very simple way; find a town, roughly every 2-3 hours of driving, unless there was an exception, and find somewhere to stay. This meant our driving wasn’t unreasonably insane each day, though we did break this rule on some occasions, to allow for a full day at the Grand Canyon and in Zion National Park. Continue reading “The One With A Guide On How (Not) To Roadtrip America”→
I’ve been back in the UK for nearly two weeks now, and things are, as I anticipated, a little strange.
Everyone I meet who knows I’ve been away asks me how it feels to be home, and my standard response is currently “oh well, you know, conflicting feelings!” accompanied with a smile.
Because honestly? That is about as close to the truth as I think I can get. It is conflicting; I’m both happy and sad, pleased and miserable, excited for the future, and desperate to wind back the clock to life in Canada already. I’m having a hard time working out my own feelings, so maybe it’s safer to deal with the facts and return to this blog’s time-honoured tradition of listing things unnecessarily.
She wasn’t a particularly notable dog in the traditional sense; she wasn’t tiny, cutesy or adorable, neither was she big, or a particularly impressive example of her breed. She was a smallish, chocolate labrador, the only female in her litter, bred to be a working animal, though in reality her favourite past-time in her later years was traipsing around the house, finding the sunny spots throughout the day to nap.
Her fur never quite made up its mind about what it was doing; on her back it was thick and wavy, around her chest, fluffy and sticking up in all directions, and on her ears velvet soft. She went grey at a young age, around her chin and her eyebrows, and had a little bump in the middle of her head that we always joked was the home to her three lone brain cells. She certainly wasn’t daft however, and she had beautiful golden-y eyes, that always looked a little bit like they were judging you.
Her name was Wispa (like the chocolate bar) and though she wasn’t cute and adorable, or a majestic, working animal, she was our family dog.
November last year, at a time when I was really, really struggling here in Ottawa and confiding in very few people as to just how much that was the case, I wrote a post that I never ended up publishing. Fear of being too personal, and honestly a sense of shame as well, meant that it sat in my drafts, gathering dust. The only explicit mention of me feeling ‘down’ on this blog while I’ve been abroad was in another post, The One That’s a Bit of Downer, and even in that I injected as much optimism and enthusiasm as I could muster. That was at the end of September, around week 5, when the honeymoon glow of Moving to Canada had started to dim and I was beginning to feel a bit homesick. From mid-October into early December however, as the nights grew colder and the days shorter, I began to feel honestly pretty shit.
Okay, ‘shit’ is an understatement. I felt terrible.
This was not a consistent emotion throughout this period of course; I had an amazing trip to Algonquin, a fabulous long weekend in Québec City, and plenty to write home about and share on social media. But nonetheless, for a good stretch of time, my mental health was not doing so great. I would have successive days where I’d wake up, stare at my ceiling and think to myself, “what the hell do I think I am I doing here?”. Days when I missed my family and dog and friends back home so acutely I would literally cry; days when I wanted nothing more than to quit basketball, call it a day with what felt like the constant upward struggle to try and make friends and just curl up in bed alone; days when Emily would invite me for a walk or a stroll into town and I’d drag myself out, acutely aware of the poor company I was providing. Days when I’d cry not simply because I was sad, but because I was sad on my year abroad. This was supposed to be fun.
But mental health doesn’t pay mind to things like ‘once in a lifetime opportunities’ and ‘moving 5,000 km away from all your established support networks’. When it wants to shit all over your carefully constructed plans and dreams, it will do just that.
Now, in the present moment, that time isn’t much fun to think about it. It happened, it sucked, it’s over. I’ve absolutely loved my second semester here, and with the benefit of several months distance, I can now appreciate how that trying time in late fall made my successes and enjoyable experiences more recently all the more powerful. With a summer chock-a-full of travelling and the prospect of reunions with family and friends, right now, even if it’s currently snowing outside (it’s MAY CANADA, M A Y I TELL YOU), I feel on top of the world. I’ve made it through this year, and it’s been one of the most challenging and formative experiences of my life. Continue reading “The One With a Thought-Provoking Throwback”→
I started writing this blog post on my last official day of studying. Last Monday, I swung by the library for the final time, waited an eon for a computer to boot up, and sent all 29 pages of my take-home essays to the printer. Then, I took the lift to the 9th floor of Desmarais, and handed everything in, with no small amount of joy. I also got back my two major research papers, and did better than I’d expected on both; double-joy.
“You’ve been a pleasure to teach these past two semesters Tessa,” said My Number 1 Bae Heather as she accepted my exam paper, “if you ever need a reference or recommendation let me know. Hell, if you ever come back to Canada let me know. I’d love to supervise you if decided to return for a Masters.”
To which I answered, “Honestly Heather, at this point I’m not ruling it out.”
Because I’m really not ruling it out, returning to Canada for further education that is.
Alright, so this isn’t exactly year abroad related as such, but hey, it’s been something on my mind as a student approaching final year, so I figured it deserved a place on this blog.
I am currently in the midst of exam season and so naturally, during a time I should be heart, mind and soul focused on my current academics, I am thinking of just about anything but. Today especially, I’ve felt uneasy – distracted. Distracted in a way in which my mind keeps circulating back to one question, regardless of what I’m trying to focus on:
What am I doing this for?
What are these exams for? These grades? This degree? Where will they take me, if anywhere? Where am I going with it all, where should I be looking? What experience outside of my degree do I need to get there? What do I want to do, what am I supposed to do? What am I meant to be?