Curse of the Cosmopolitan

One year prior, I had no attachments. My study abroad plan for my fall semester at Emerson was approaching at a snail’s pace — until I met Andrew. Then, when I turned over in my bed, I faced Andrew and my four-carat diamond ring, both reminders of the commitment I’d made.

Sometime around March, the thought of leaving the country for fifteen weeks became overwhelming. Not only was I leaving my twelve-year-old son, Jake, but I was also breaking up the family we were evolving into. When Emerson introduced a summer study abroad program, I immediately transferred into this five-week program. To make up for the countries I would have missed visiting, Andrew and I planned to meet in Paris at the close of my program and take a twelve-day honeymoon cruise from Venice to Barcelona. With this revised plan, I felt a huge burden of guilt lifted from my thoughts – until the week before I left.

I felt like I’d been slapped in the face with guilt over leaving my son. When Jake went away with his dad for a weeklong cruise, we missed each other. Shortly after he was back from his cruise, he participated in “Nature’s Classroom,” a school program involving a week away. Again, we missed each other. For the third time in the past month, we had to say goodbye as I left for my study abroad program. I left behind my fiancé, my son, and my diamond ring so that I could fulfill my dream of participating in a European study program. I would stay in a medieval castle in The Netherlands in between group trips to Bruges and Venice.

All of the above sounded great the year before I left – even two months before, but the week before my departure, I began having crying jags in response to the guilt and stress of my pending trip. Although Andrew didn’t seem to understand, Jake did. Unfortunately, Andrew and I were going through a difficult transition as he had just moved in with me. Having been on our own for so long, there were kinks that needed to be worked out before we could cohabitate peacefully. Of course, both of us having colds and feeling rundown did not help, but somehow we managed to put our issues behind us by the time I left.

Following a tearful goodbye to my son, I discovered my flight was delayed. As I sat crouched on the airport floor waiting to board, I experienced exactly three fleeting moments of wanting to grab a taxi and head back home. Looking into my goodie bag Andrew gave me, I noticed the unopened letter he had written me. I decided to read the letter and let it’s contents decide my fate. Each word in the letter assured me that I must follow the path I’ve created.

“It’s okay to be scared of the unknown, to be unsettled in leaving your loved ones … What you’ve built at home will grow stronger in your absence … Be that girl you pictured walking the streets of Paris …”

Still recuperating from Bronchitis and several sleepless nights, I boarded the plane and settled into my seat on the plane. After a long, cramped, red-eye flight, I arrived at my stopover in Paris -- covered in black ink from a pen that exploded on me in mid-air, and realizing my connecting flight had already departed for Amsterdam. With no other logical option, I accepted my lunch coupon and waited the six hours for the next available flight.

Wanting a decent cup of coffee that I hadn’t received on my flight, I headed for the airport café. In the midst of an incredible amount of second hand smoke that alerted my bronchial tubes, I was served a very small cup of coffee. I noticed that although there was a breakfast menu, nobody was eating — just drinking small cups of coffee and chain smoking. As I headed to the next café, the coffee cup got smaller, but I insisted on ordering a croissant, regardless of the odd look from the waiter. Suddenly, I’m missing Dunkin’ Donuts. I’ve decided to deal with the jet lag while I’m wasting time at the airport. Although my inner time clock is feeling 6 a.m., I’m forcing myself to have lunch. I arrive at a café and order bread, tomato and cheese with a bottle of San Pellegrino. A man from Amsterdam sits next to me, turns, looks at my plate and says, “What you ordered would be best with a glass of red wine — to complement it, you know?” Of course, he didn’t know that it was 7 a.m. for me. Ordering wine was out of the question. Besides, one glass would have put me to sleep.

Instead of arriving at the castle at 2 p.m., I would get to Well around 8 p.m., just in time for bed. By then, I should be tired enough to beat the jet lag and start fresh for Saturday’s 10 a.m. orientation program.