We're excited to welcome our Career Services Ambassador, Cara, back to Medford - we missed you! In this post, Cara shares her thoughts about being back...
The minute I stepped off our stuffy plane, I knew I’d landed in destination USA; the pungent smell of Kentucky Fried Chicken and good ol’ Mickey D’s wafted from fluorescent airport vendors into our new European noses, reminding us—as we lugged a semester’s worth of Spanish souvenirs across linoleum floors—that we were back to our American roots. The sublime realization that it was all over would come later; it’s still coming. Is this really it? It’s hit me the numerous times I’ll slip a smartly accented “Gracias” to baffled American waiters. It snaked through me when I dug out my flamenco-dancer shot glass while unpacking, nestled between some sleek piles of Spanish store-bought clothes. And there’s the moments I’ll perk my head up in a lecture and so-impressively realize: this is in English. Even back at Tufts for three weeks, it’s hard to believe four months of crossing Europe with a stamped passport and an open mind has come and gone.
It’s weird alright. But, while Eaton Hall isn’t quite as eye-catching as the Prado, it feels good to be back. Even while clambering through snow-mountains on my way to class, I’m without a doubt happy to be here. So enmeshed in Spain’s glossy wonder, I’d forgotten how much I missed the icy New England air and antique-brick buildings of our college haven. I missed my friends I left for the semester—some of whom stayed back, others of whom reveled in their own overseas adventures. And I missed other, harder-to-define things too: the view from Tisch’s roof, the musty smell of dorms, the irksome beep of our (new-and-improved) Jumbo cards. It feels good to be on a unified campus again, where you run into faces you know and building names you can pronounce. After a semester of dappling in the deliciously unfamiliar, weaving through a culture that was curious and exotic, I was eager to return to what I know.
The minute I stepped off our stuffy plane, I knew I’d landed in destination USA; the pungent smell of Kentucky Fried Chicken and good ol’ Mickey D’s wafted from fluorescent airport vendors into our new European noses, reminding us—as we lugged a semester’s worth of Spanish souvenirs across linoleum floors—that we were back to our American roots. The sublime realization that it was all over would come later; it’s still coming. Is this really it? It’s hit me the numerous times I’ll slip a smartly accented “Gracias” to baffled American waiters. It snaked through me when I dug out my flamenco-dancer shot glass while unpacking, nestled between some sleek piles of Spanish store-bought clothes. And there’s the moments I’ll perk my head up in a lecture and so-impressively realize: this is in English. Even back at Tufts for three weeks, it’s hard to believe four months of crossing Europe with a stamped passport and an open mind has come and gone.
It’s weird alright. But, while Eaton Hall isn’t quite as eye-catching as the Prado, it feels good to be back. Even while clambering through snow-mountains on my way to class, I’m without a doubt happy to be here. So enmeshed in Spain’s glossy wonder, I’d forgotten how much I missed the icy New England air and antique-brick buildings of our college haven. I missed my friends I left for the semester—some of whom stayed back, others of whom reveled in their own overseas adventures. And I missed other, harder-to-define things too: the view from Tisch’s roof, the musty smell of dorms, the irksome beep of our (new-and-improved) Jumbo cards. It feels good to be on a unified campus again, where you run into faces you know and building names you can pronounce. After a semester of dappling in the deliciously unfamiliar, weaving through a culture that was curious and exotic, I was eager to return to what I know.But it’s not all that simple. After four months of learning and living and growing in an entirely new dimension, I can’t exactly approach Tufts and my college career with the same goggles I once had. Abroad taught me to push aside my constantly gnawing supply of self-doubts and hesitations and just live and act, without always needing to know the outcome. Our justification for delicious, whimsical living was this: We’re only abroad once. We’d say this as we’d sashay through Madrid’s vibrant 5 am streets, buy last-minute tickets to a glam city, and order our third round of tapas and red wine. It was spontaneous, absent-of-thought, and the freest I’ve ever felt.
Being back, I realize I don’t want to leave our favorite phrase stranded on churro stands and disco bars. I don’t want to turn abroad into a tattered series of photographs, to be dug out years later and subjected to stilted comments like “oh the days...” The way to preserve the transcendence of abroad, I know, is to carry over the attitudes and mindsets of this liberating bubble and vigorously apply it to life here and now. I want to channel the pulsating vigor of new discovery--the jitters of putting myself out there--to college life back here, which, I realize as I trade dorms for utilities bills and 21sts, is kinda speeding by fast. Too fast. Along with a half-Spanish accent and a bigger appetite, abroad gave me that snaking, go-away realization that, unlike swarms of giggling freshman, I’m an upperclassman now, with only fleeting 3 semesters to take it all in. Abroad seemed like a displacement in time, a sorta hectic, Spanish-themed dream that fit outside the context of speed-along college life. Coming back, the only semi-rational conclusion I have (and my abroader peers confirm) is I’m simply not ready to let it all go. With the demands of Tufts academics, it might be harder to shirk a night’s schoolwork for barhopping, or flit away to a grimy, far-off European hostel. But the go-ahead attitudes and impulses that goaded me to take risks and tiptoe past my comfort zone are applicable to so many yet-to-come situations. This side of abroad shouldn’t be lost on us, I’d say ever.
Yes, we might have to reboot our work-hard mentality and be on clockwork time (oh how I miss the “15 minute rule”), but even our plain old academic routine can espouse this mentality. After whole-heartedly loving every class offered abroad, I plan on genuinely enjoying the (gasp) year and a half left of dabbling in Tufts’ rich academia. Sure, I’ll be studying a bit more than our lax Spanish peers, but if I fill the last bulk of my English/History credits with classes I intrinsically enjoy, perhaps even late-night Tisch won’t seem so bad. And why not transfer this “carpe-diem” attitude to our career search, which no, doesn’t always have to be a formulaic, stress-inducing process. Abroad’s taught me that career “soul-searching,” if you will, is privy to any cool, out-of-the-blue situation that spontaneously unfolds when just we get out there: talk to people, challenge ourselves, risk something. We should hone in on opportunities that genuinely arouse us, inspire us, and help us not quite hate our shrill alarm clocks every crusty-eyed morning.
And then there’s the stuff that transcends the classroom. The kinds of things that splatter your thoughts when you recall the crazy days of college life: late-night pizza deliveries, thought-provoking conversations, laugh-out-loud stories. Here we are, just minutes from one of the most energetic cities in the world and, truth be told, I’ve barely left the little commercial nook we call Davis. I’ve explored glitzy cities like Madrid, Barcelona, and London, and, true to your photo-snapping, go-getter tourist, barely missed a beat. But, so caught in the stresses and trivialities hovering over my Medford bubble, I seemed to miss this nudge forward when it came to the city in front of my oh-so-distracted face. Despite my love for all things carb and Italian, I’ve never even set foot in Boston’s famously mouth-watering North End. Hyped-up trips to places like Faneuil Hall, the Museum of Fine Arts, and Newbury Street always seem to be traded for last minute errands and campus-confined ordeals. Abroad has clued me in to the little fact that I am freest and fullest when I toss aside my clinging network of precautions, embrace my off-beat impulses, and just DO things. With just three semesters left to go, I’d say it’s about time.
Yes, we might have to reboot our work-hard mentality and be on clockwork time (oh how I miss the “15 minute rule”), but even our plain old academic routine can espouse this mentality. After whole-heartedly loving every class offered abroad, I plan on genuinely enjoying the (gasp) year and a half left of dabbling in Tufts’ rich academia. Sure, I’ll be studying a bit more than our lax Spanish peers, but if I fill the last bulk of my English/History credits with classes I intrinsically enjoy, perhaps even late-night Tisch won’t seem so bad. And why not transfer this “carpe-diem” attitude to our career search, which no, doesn’t always have to be a formulaic, stress-inducing process. Abroad’s taught me that career “soul-searching,” if you will, is privy to any cool, out-of-the-blue situation that spontaneously unfolds when just we get out there: talk to people, challenge ourselves, risk something. We should hone in on opportunities that genuinely arouse us, inspire us, and help us not quite hate our shrill alarm clocks every crusty-eyed morning.And then there’s the stuff that transcends the classroom. The kinds of things that splatter your thoughts when you recall the crazy days of college life: late-night pizza deliveries, thought-provoking conversations, laugh-out-loud stories. Here we are, just minutes from one of the most energetic cities in the world and, truth be told, I’ve barely left the little commercial nook we call Davis. I’ve explored glitzy cities like Madrid, Barcelona, and London, and, true to your photo-snapping, go-getter tourist, barely missed a beat. But, so caught in the stresses and trivialities hovering over my Medford bubble, I seemed to miss this nudge forward when it came to the city in front of my oh-so-distracted face. Despite my love for all things carb and Italian, I’ve never even set foot in Boston’s famously mouth-watering North End. Hyped-up trips to places like Faneuil Hall, the Museum of Fine Arts, and Newbury Street always seem to be traded for last minute errands and campus-confined ordeals. Abroad has clued me in to the little fact that I am freest and fullest when I toss aside my clinging network of precautions, embrace my off-beat impulses, and just DO things. With just three semesters left to go, I’d say it’s about time.I miss it, of course. There are plenty moments when I want to be back, curled up in an elegant, smoky Spanish café, stylishly sipping a coffee and not worrying about the time of day (or that night’s clobbering 3 ft snowfall). But, all good things come to an end, a bittersweet one at that. And being re-enmeshed into the real world of Tufts cozy culture feels nice, natural even. Once I realize that timeliness matters, and we can’t trade class for savory 4-course meals, I say I’ll be good-to-go.
