On Dec. 18, I will board my flight at London’s airport. Approximately eight hours later, I will have returned to the United States, where colors don’t run, love always wins and Hannah Montana is considered a national treasure. At this point in the semester, as my to-do list dwindles down and the daunting prospect of packing looms, elaborating beyond that simple statement is a bit overwhelming.
As I prepare to stuff the remnants of four months of London life into a suitcase, I am reminded of my frenzied preparation for my journey in August, when imagining anything beyond a simple statement like the one above was also overwhelming. On the precipice of my great adventure, one question plagued my mind: Why?
Being in London for this long has helped me to answer that question-sort of. I have discovered that constantly questioning why will only detract from my experience. Eventually, I learned to appreciate my time in London without trying to wring some sort of grand meaning from every activity. There is no ultimate answer I can find to this one, but that is not a bad thing.
Has my trip across the ocean changed me forever, or was it an extended vacation? Will my friends in St. Louis see a changed man, or the same old Adam-with nicer clothes? The souvenirs that are slated to fill my suitcase suggest the latter. Four months in this brave old continent have yielded the following: Five new sets of obnoxiously colored underwear, a pair of European skinny jeans that no longer fit and half-a-dozen scarves that all look the same, none of which suggest much emotional development. Yet I feel certain that this experience had a more provocative effect on me.
Living in London has offered me the chance to “find myself” in a foreign land. The result has been subtle but sublime. As far as I can tell, I have redefined myself. The young boy who once feared coloring outside of the lines and dreaded being judged by his peers has grown into a young man who is confident in his ability to successfully succeed on his own terms. I doubt this is all to do with London, but the dramatic change of scenery has highlighted the emotional maturity that has developed over the course of my college years.
After a semester spent jet-setting in a major world capital, I will begin to conclude that life in St. Louis is a pedestrian blur. I will loudly proclaim to anyone who will listen that things were much more exciting in London. The House of Parliament’s Gothic towers totally trump the SGA Senate chambers; my internship was much more rewarding than my 300-level courses; and nightly pub crawls, complete with several pints of beer, were more intoxicating than repeated trips to Shady Shell, complete with several pints of Haagen-Dazs.
Or maybe I will be on SLU’s campus walking from my deluxe Marchetti Towers apartment to Xavier in the chilling winds for my 9 a.m. class. The sightseeing and rabble rousing I have enjoyed in London have drifted into the annals of my memory, becoming as foggy as the London skyline, and ultimately vanish amidst traditional anxieties: final exams, chronic boredom and a fluctuating waistline, leaving a faded pair of Union Jack briefs as the only evidence of my brief foreign foray.
My hope is that I will not fall to either of these extremes and that my newfound confidence will continue to flourish in a more familiar setting. But worrying about it now is futile. Only time will tell.
