3:15. My weakly supported argument on Marx and Weber comes to close (yes, I recycled the same essay question from my all-nighter paper in STUDying abroad 2) and my first and only exam is finished. One hour after its starting time, my essay is the first to be handed in. When you’re as unconfident about the subject as I am, you’d be worried if you weren’t so apathetic. I leave the classroom and head to the paper shop to see if they have notebook extenders since my journal is nearly full. They don’t, I head back to my flat.
As I walk back to my flat, I realize that this was my last exam, no more papers, or portfolios. I was now completely finished with my academic obligations for my year at UEA. Strangely, this doesn’t sink in. There is no sense of completion, no sense of finality, no feeling of fulfilment to this year; the only thing that feels finished is my shitty writing about Marx and Weber. Surely, I should feel something at this particular moment, for the feeling of leaving UEA has slowly snuck in over the past few weeks, but no. There is no real significance to being done with the academic portion of my junior year abroad. But why? I should feel something, some completion, I did come here to go to college first of all ... and I’m leaving England tomorrow. What’s going on?
I think about when I finished my fall semester and again recall an empty feeling for this arbitrary measure of the year. This find it odd that I do not feel anything. At Allegheny, when you finished your last final, you felt like a million bucks, that the entire world is in front of you know that you are done with 25 pages on English Restoration comedies. But now, I walk back University Village, knowing I am leaving it tomorrow, and the sense of completion of this year is not there and this supposed marker of completion feels hollow and pointless.
I reach my flat and have a cotch. I wake up, cook dinner and before I really realize anything’s happening my mates are drinking in the kitchen before heading out to the LCR. ‘You coming out tonight, Luke?’ Hat asks. ‘No, don’t think so’ I reply, ‘I’ve got laundry to do and then a bunch of packing before I leave tomorrow.’ ‘Oh, alright’ Hat says softly, masking her disappointment.
Now, that my (school)year has ended, I leave in the morning for one last hurrah of continental Europe, my favourite playground in the world, visiting Brussels, Bruges and Amsterdam before returning ... (it’s even hard to type it) ... to America.
This is my last night in England with my friends and, yes, despite it being the LCR (a bloody hole) something tells me I should be going out with them. Throughout the day, I have seen loads of my friends, done with their exams as well, and it is an awkward goodbye, every time. Surely, as a traveller (for that’s what I have really been doing this semester, I haven’t been going to college), the people you meet are the paramount aspect of the experience (as all my travelling affirms is true), so surely the aspect of ‘saying goodbye’ fits into, plays some vital part of travelling.
I cannot say goodbye to every single one of the people that I have been so close with, and (un)fortunately I have far too much packing to do (my room is an absolute hole) and I cannot go the LCR. What’s a lad to do?
I sit in my room, listening to Nujabes, doing periods of packing (to my credit I accomplished laundry), and think about the trip to Europe to come and the people that I am leaving for it. I get a call, Hatty: “Luke, Come out tonight! I don’t know when I will see you again.” I explain that I’m lame; that I have to pack for both Europe and going home, and that I have been living in squalor for the past semester. I should be at the LCR, I guess ... nah.
A bit more packing, another call: “Come out man!” Two more calls and a text. What’s wrong with me? I should be getting drunk with my friends at the LCR, despite that being a dubious prospect at best. But I don’t. The all too real packing is too much, I’ve literally got hours of it and an early train to catch. Sorry guys/gals, but I’m staying in.
I’m not a ‘goodbye’ kind of guy. That is not to say that I am just bad at them, but also, I think they’re stupid. What is so significant about the last time you see someone? Is it supposed to encapsulate entirely the relationship you’ve had with that person and the wonderful times that you’ve shared? What happens if it doesn’t? Because, it never will. It absolutely cannot. If it does, that means you obviously have a thin relationship and haven’t done much fun stuff together.
Sure, maybe it’s nice to say, ‘it’s been nice knowing you, wish you the best’ to someone, but if you have to say it, or if it comes out unnaturally, it means less. The people I’ve spent time with and made countless memories with know that I wish them the best. They know. I don’t have to tell them that. Likewise, the people that wish me well don’t need to tell me either. What makes the last time you see someone so special? Sorry to be such a heartless bastard, but it’s trivial, the quality of that last time is completely random. And why, in a sense, celebrate the last time you see someone? If I’m leaving and someone and happen to see you, great, I will wish you the best in person, but if I force it, it just means less.
So am I trying to hollowly say goodbye to everyone via blog? Absolutely not. I’m just explaining my views on the matter and giving an explanation for my cynicism. This time spent in England was the best year of my life, and this is due to all the people that I’ve met here. Maybe it’s just me, I’m too sentimental, but that’s something that I shouldn’t have to say, and I don’t, because all of you know if I feel that way about you. If you’re not sure, I probably don’t. (Oh, come on, lighten up!)
Anyway, lads, blokes, lasses, birds and shanters: It’s been real, more than just real, a feeling that I can’t explain, so why try to? If I try to describe it, it means less. Wish you all the best. Catch up with you later on along the ride. I’m out ... LW
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