Classics Calling: I Have Arrived

After a total 22 hour travel day, I made it. Almost 200 groggy and jet lagged American students were herded into a hotel in Edinburgh for a three day orientation by our program coordinators. I forced myself to stay awake, and even managed to go to a few pubs before collapsing at 11 p.m. The next day, the orienteers delivered a brief introduction to Scottish cultural differences ("'pants' means 'underwear', kids.") and academic differences ("This is harder and more stressful than you think it'll be, kids.") After we were released there was dinner and more pubs. A group of 15+ American 20 year olds walking into a pub is quite conspicuous I realized. The next day was move in day. This meant we were on our own. I dragged my two 55 pound suitcases and duffel up a steep slope of cobblestones and then up seven flights of stairs to my flat. I opened the door. And my stomach dropped. Dark, cramped, narrow halls with door after shut door closed me in on all sides and dread climbed on my back, heavier than all my luggage combined. Once in my room, I dropped my suitcases and put my shaking hands on the desk and let my head sink down. Calming breaths. Deep breaths. It was no use. The room, the flat, the stairs, the four months, the unforgiving academics, the confusing city, the unfamiliar people all closed in on me. I would have stayed in my cell all night if I had bedding and food, but necessities force action. I contacted a new friend, girl from the program, also from my hometown of Buffalo, and together, we ventured into the city. She cried, too. It's normal, we agreed. Everyone I've talked to so far cried the first day in their room. Maybe all the people I associate with are just sissies like me. We bought bedding, hangers, UK phones, and I felt lighter in their presence and with a task at hand. I returned to my flat laden with household supplies later that evening and the bare walls and stripped bed were reminders of my earlier melancholy. I quickly threw the few pictures I brought with me on the walls, made my bed, and opened my suitcases. The room felt a little better. I little less empty. My friend Phoebe had felt the same way, apparently, because she called to tell me she was on her way to my flat. She brought tea, British cookies, mugs, chips (or "crisps") and we sat and commiserated until we were reassured this was a normal part of the process of acclimating. She spent the night and we fell asleep watching my favorite British show from when I was younger, the Mighty Boosh. In the morning, we woke to the noises of a new flatmate moving in. We were brushing our teeth when she came in to introduce herself. "This is my friend, Phoebe. She....came over for breakfast," I said, realizing my friend brushing her teeth after emerging from my room might look like more than a friend to someone who didn't know us.

All in all, the transition is difficult. But being in this magical city makes it easier. The more time I spend here, the more I can see how it inspired J.K. Rowling to write Harry Potter. The key for me is to settle in, meet people, and be present. It's not all weepy though. Not at all. Before moving in, everything was exciting and fun and the city was magical. I've met loads of people, many of which I've gone out with and befriended. All the Scottish people I've interacted with have been more than kind, and funny! Everyone I've met, however briefly, has cracked a joke.

There is a natural dip in spirits that everyone goes through when they go abroad. Slowly, I am emerging. I adapt quickly in most cases, and I will make sure this case is no different. Now that I've provided the brief summary of the roller coaster of the first three days, I can go into more detail in the future posts. I only wanted to get this one out quickly to show evidence of my survival, but, mostly, to include these pictures!