Ru Paul says that if you can’t love yourself then how in the HEEEEELLL you gonna love someone else?!
(Can I get an AMEN?!)
I didn’t realise how much I needed to hear this, until some of my closest told me the same thing. I’ve always been a bit of a floater. I didn’t love myself because, well, I didn’t know myself – I was a bit… lost.
After going through a period of self-assessment (having an identity crisis and reading lots of mindfulness books), I came to the conclusion as to why I have always felt a little lost, and for me, it came down to two factors.
I don’t know what I want to do
I don’t know where I want to be
Looking for my purpose among the greenery
Languages are my passion, and I think I speak for a lot of grads when I say after four years of learning a language (or two), my eyes were opened to the world, I had had the time of my life, and yet was left with z e r o idea of what to do with my honed skills and hungry attitude.
If you check out my post on life right after graduation, you’ll know that this thirst to learn more (and earn more), led me to working in the city, before making the move to another – Madrid. Skip a few years, a few roles and a couple of moves (abroad) later, I felt richer in life experience, but somehow back in a similar position of not knowing what to do… The only thing that had remained a real constant was my love for languages, travel and of course, writing . I needed a little push in the right direction.
“Yes that’s great and all, but WHO are you writing this for? WHO is your audience? WHO do you think will want to read what you write?”
Ouch. The career adviser was hard-going, but I give it to her; she really made me think about what I wanted (in general) and also, what I wanted from my writing. Ergo here we are, with a concrete purpose and sense of direction; and this is the idea behind my blog; I’m writing for those twenty-somethings who haven’t quite figured out what life is about yet, except for the fact they would like to enjoy it for all it’s worth, working out the adult stuff along the way. For those who were or are a little lost in life. Also for anyone else who wants to come along for the ride that is my quarter-life crisis.
There’s tales of woe, near-misses (flights) and heartbreak, but mainly mischief, friendships and adventure – everything a bestseller boasts.
I’m pretty (100%) certain I suffer from imposter syndrome, and it’s something that I feel language learners in particular can relate to (Oh my god my accent doesn’t sound EXACTLY like the locals – they must think I’m an incompetent FOOL). This brings me onto my second issue – where do I belong? Being so exposed to another culture has made me question my own identity, and if I’m being honest, I don’t feel completely at home in one particular place, but rather, a mix of a few. Speaking to friends with a similar background, I don’t think I’m alone in this.
I want this blog to be for these people too – those interested in travel, those who wish to travel more, those thinking of making ‘the move’, and those who are travelling but perhaps struggling with the hardships that come from being a ‘world citizen’. What do you do when you want to be everywhere at once? Where is your sense of belonging? Where does the line of integration cross the boundaries of your own identity?
I found it!
Learning a language and discovering new cultures is something that changes an individual, and I don’t think this is talked about enough; not enough people discuss the expat effect – I’m not talking about missing your builder’s tea and bourbons, or even the convenience of living in the same city as friends – I’m talking about the way a place can change you, your way of thinking, and whether this is something you should immerse yourself in or perhaps be wary of?
From my experience, I can say the languages I’ve learnt and the cultures I’ve adapted to have enriched me immensely, in many areas, but I can’t deny that I’ve partly lost myself along the way. And should this be classed as a loss or is it simply personal development, or perhaps a psychological symptom of the travel bug?
I think the key for me is striking the balance between being completely open and willing to adapt to a new culture, and keeping true to yourself and your beliefs at the same time. This is something I struggled with particularly when living abroad for a long amount of time, and I would love to hear if others have had a similar experience or a different one altogether (please comment and let me know!!)
Wanderlost in Mexico: Monterrey, the city I called home for a while
How do you accept that things are ‘the way they are’ in a new place without becoming trapped in the new mindset bubble – Do you really believe in this way of thinking, or are you just acting on what your current surroundings are portraying as the norm?
How do you stay true to yourself while integrating into a new way of life?
Accept or adapt altogether? How far do you go?
How can you know who you are when who you are is always changing?
Who feels more lost now than they did at the beginning of this post?
This hot mess was brought to you by Sam’s Sunday evening breakdown special. You’ve been an incredible audience.
If you made it this far, thank you for sticking with me on this journey – I think it’s safe to say that even though I now have more of a purpose (writing is the one – Yay!), I’m still a little wanderlost. And that’s ok! The more I travel, the more I discover about myself, and I’ve found this curiosity only fuels my desire to explore further.
Please subscribe and stay tuned for more drama. I might even find the answers to some of these questions one day.
On returning from Barcelona, I set my sights on making the move, and pouring all my energy into searching for a position in Spain. I wasn’t too concerned about the field, but more the opportunity to relocate, and of course, finally being able to use my languages.
My days now consisted of listening to the Gypsy Kings on repeat and scrolling the LinkedIn job app like a woman possessed. Any role that caught my eye was immediately applied to. It was going to happen.
Beautiful Barcelona: the decision-maker.
Reaching the end of the year, Christmas came round, and I was happy to spend it at home. There are lots of aspects about the English winter that I don’t love (okay, I detest). However, I must admit that despite the intense commercialisation and overbearing pressure to succumb to the (bloody expensive) festive spirit, nothing really compares to being in your new fluffy jammies, sat by the Christmas tree, and sipping on Bucks Fizz at 7 am, surrounded by a (dis)array of Quality Street wrappers. Heating’s on, Mum’s busy preparing breakfast and you’re already wolfing down your second mince pie of the day. Jingle Bells plays softly in the background as Dad (in Santa hat) hovers over with the big black bin-liner, waiting for my sister to tear open ‘just one more’ of her presents before we eat. And all the while, it’s miserable, cold and wet outside. I live for Christmas morning at home.
Then follows the week of the withdrawn.
What day is it? Who knows? Is the year over yet? Are there anymore turkey sandwiches? Do we take the Christmas lights down? How am I working today but not tomorrow? Wait – then I have another day off next week – oh my god is it still December? Someone fetch a calendar! NOT THE ADVENT ONE !!
Wooly hats always go down a treat in this household
And so ensued the madness; everyone at work was in a slight post-roast slumber, walking around in a sugar-induced daze and making lots of chat about what St Nick had dropped in their stockings this year. I myself was in a bit of a festive limbo, but still going hard at work on every ‘Apply’ button I saw. Keen to make 2016 my year, (pretend you haven’t heard that before) I felt like seeing out the year with a little celebration; even though I’d learnt London living wasn’t for me, 2015 was still a success-story; I had graduated, managed to hold a proper job in a respectful company, and even had more than a tenner in my savings account (also had enough spare to buy mum a new kettle!). I was getting there. So I fancied celebrating these little milestones/victories with a couple of my nearest and dearest; it seemed like the perfect opportunity to go down to Pompey again and visit Joe and Xav.
My lovely friends and former Fort-fun flatmates were happily residing by the seaside and still enjoying the benefits of Portsmouth life, sans dissertation – all of our fave student hangouts, and none of the lectures. It had been for what felt like forever since I’d seen them both and even longer since I’d strolled along the streets of Southsea, so I was very much looking forward to it. As was Dobby.
“Wait are you going for new years? Oh I wish I could come!”
“Why don’t you?”
“Ooh…Should I?”
She was back from Barcelona to celebrate Christmas with the fam, and so decided to join me for what was to be a lovely reunion.
Pumped from the excitement of the grand get-together, wine, and lots of cheese (the key to a long-lasting friendship) we saw in the new year at Joe and Xav’s pad, Bieber in the background (please read the next sentence before judgement), second bottle of cheap Merlot down, and half-way through an intense board game (the fun kind, that involves terrible attempts at charades and lots of French people shouting).
He’s so handsome what’s his name? – Xavier, it’s Xavier.
Sweethearts
You will always find me in the kitchen at parties
NYE ’15
Midnight had passed and we’d gotten to that weird part of the evening/early hours where the conversation becomes all about reminiscing and recalling fads, or in this case, ads from the past, “Do you remember Von Dutch caps?” “As clearly as I remember mesh t-shirts; with regret.”
An half-eaten box of Jaffa cakes on the side sparked a memory which made it impossible to resist acting out the whole 90s advert – YOU KNOW THE ONE. This quickly became the theme of the night, and as we did a circuit of Portsmouth pubs before heading back home (via kebab shop), screams could be heard of ‘PLEINE LUNE’ ‘DEMI LUNE’ and of course ‘TOTAL ECLIPSE’ – those screams mainly coming from myself.
Obviously on a massive NEW YEAR NEW ME high, I was in a state of merry elation, and a call from my best friend could only make this better; turns out Joshua was in the same booze fueled stupor, only he was celebrating miles away, in the middle of the Spanish capital, with his boss and some colleagues. A lovely drunken exchange ensued; there were laughs, ‘Happy new year!’s, ‘I miss you’s and excited commentary of our nights up until now. Just as we were about to end the call, I send Josh my love and tell him *in jest* “let me know if they have any vacancies”.
What followed was a jokey exchange with his boss on speaker phone in a sort of interview role play, which we all laughed about the next day, until, it turns out, it was kind of for real.
kebab queens<3
I woke up on the boys’ blow up mattress the next day; “What a night” “Did we get Dominoes? If not, why not?” “Can we watch Frozen?” – All the things one contemplates the morning after the night before.
Joshua was video-calling me. I had my favourite doggy pijamas on and my hair was what could only be described as a rough looking bird’s nest.
“Sam they want to interview you.”
“Josh what”
“I know”
“But…”
So the following Monday, I had my interview.
Hours before I’d been shouting in French about full moons, and now sitting there in fluffy socks and 8 year old pijamas, everything was possibly about to change.
Venice at night was completely different, and it made me love it all the more. The element of prettiness was still very much there, only it became even more romantic in a way, and was just as inviting. I couldn’t for the life of me tell you whereabouts our little evening stroll had taken us, but it most probably included the streets which only hours before, we were barging our way through.
In preparation for our wait-out in Bologna, we sought out a mini supermarket for snacks and fizzy drinks (this was also in preparation for the looming hangover, which we knew was most definitely coming for us at some point).
After this, believe it or not, we got a bit peckish.
Strolling with plastic bags in hand and weary yet curious looks on our faces, we found ourselves in a charming romantically-lit eatery (after the coin/eyeliner incident there was no shame to be had in our scraggly and by no means graceful appearance). We just wanted a little something (cheap, we wanted CHEAP), so looking at the menu we decided a litre carafe of white wine (house, obvs) and a cheese board (to share) would be most suitable.
The waiter gathered we weren’t his average diners.
“Maybe some bread too” Dobby chimed in.
So I lied about the three-part story thing. Whoops.
“Hello my darling, are you busy? Are you at work? Not working on that blog post though are you?-
Sam if you need to do a fourth blog post then just do it”
Lovely (not to mention sassy) Casalooch had a good point. So here we are. The actual *final* part to our little Italian adventure…
Tick Tock.
We had a couple of hours til the train was due (missing this one was not an option) and so we found ourselves being very, VERY aware of the time, so agreed to allow 40 minutes to walk from chosen eatery to the station (it was something which could be done in 15 but we were not. about. taking. chances. This way of thinking had led us down the wrong pasta-laden path in the first place.
However when the plethora of cheeses arrived (and oh my, was it something to behold), it was hard not to unwind a little, and back in the bubble we were.
“Oh my GOD LOOK AT ALL OF THEEEEESE”
Dobby exclaimed as the waiter walked away, twiddling her little fingers with glee. She went to pinch a piece of the closest cheddar before I moved to stop her.
“HOLD UP.”
Her hand hovered over the plate as her face turned to one of confusion. I raised my glass (which I admit, I had got a bit excited about and poured in well over what was necessary):
“Here’s to trying to make it on time, failing…and wine”
“Cheers to that Badger!”
**enthusiastic clink and slight spillage onto cheese platter**
I also forgot to mention the variety of chutneys (Yes, chutneys) that had accompanied our cheesy platter. (Please see below and also bear in mind there was more cheese but we ate it; priorities)
“I know it sounds bad…”
“You’re glad we missed it too, huh?”
“YES!” exclaimed Dobby.
We roared with laughter and swayed a little in our chairs.
“What a wonderful way to end our Erasmus”
“Not over yet” I paused. “We still have to get back home.”
HAHAHAHAHA *chortle* *snort* *nervous chuckle*
But in all seriousness (jokes and being temporarily stuck aside) this was to be considered another story we were more than happy to add to our list of adventures enjoyed over the past year.
End of an era
Erasmus was almost over and the sense of impending doom aka final year and dissertations was becoming increasingly real. The days of walking out the front door with nothing but that feeling of sheer freedom and uncertainty over what was going to happen; of being the stranger in a foreign land; of making little (mostly culinary) discoveries everyday, was soon to be over. Complete spontaneity and religiously checking Ryanair for (absolutely ridiculous) offers was soon to be replaced for a year of being grounded, responsibility, and of conforming to the people we were before the program began.
But here lied the problem – we were no longer these people; nor did we want to be.
Being the clueless foreigner had its disadvantages, yes, and I am more aware than anyone of how very much I just loved to moan about it. Truth was, I didn’t want to go back to the norm, to reality and to a planned out schedule I was already so familiar with. No part of me held that desire. I didn’t want to go back at all.
My friends and I were aware of our predicament, and before we could learn to come to terms with what was happening and to accept it, we had to go through the phase of denial. Technically Erasmus was still a thing until we touched down on British soil. So here we were, not in the UK, but in Venice, Dobby and myself making the very most of our final days of freedom. And we made it count.
Step 1 in overcoming the Erasmus blues is going on holiday again and again and again #Erasmus2013
Prince Charming and the Boozy Bread
Dobby took another sip (gulp) and I glanced at the partially demolished Camembert. We’d been knocking back the vino (as per) and most of all, reminiscing about the times we’d shared together; our ups and downs, the impressive characters we’d met along the way and the places we were already itching to go back to.
The waiter hollered over to our table as we sat in a state of profound recollection, the kind that leaves your eyes glazing over a little.
Before Dobby could ask, he placed upon the table a newly filled basket of bread.
“So where are you from?”
He turned out to be a chatty chappy and was seemingly intrigued by our love of laughter, complementary table bread and sharing of cheese platters.
Yes, that’s how fast I grabbed the table bread’n’cheese
As I answered him in my Pidgin Prosecco-fueled Italian, he proceeded to ask more questions, increasingly curious of our story. our friendship, and it appears, our plans for the rest of the evening.
Dobby made a cheeky smirk as the waiter asked what we were doing after dinner. Unfortunately for him, we did not have plans to accompany him to the disco, and we politely declined, explaining that being the modern Cinderellas we were, we had a train to catch, and incidentally it would be leaving at midnight.
“Oh that is such a shame, why don’t you stay longer in Venice?”
We laughed and rolled our eyes jokingly, shrugging it off and giving him the “What can you do, ay?” look, before he walked away, leaving us to share a giggle or two and finish off the wine.
He did have a point though, it would be a shame to leave.
*heavy sigh*
“I don’t want this to ever end.”
Our unplanned night and unexpected extension of our stay in Venice had somehow become representative of our entire Year Abroad experience. And it was ending, all too soon.
The caraff was down to its last drop and it was getting time to make our way back (at tortoise pace).
“Grazie mille” we slurred as we paid for our singular plate and litre of strong wine.
Pretty sure we were the last out and the restaurant closed soon after, but the staff seemed very happy to be entertained by two English girls, very broken Italian, and loud (unconsciously so) laughter. That, or they were happy to see us go. Probably the latter, on reflection.
Not forgetting our groceries (snacks, just snacks), we marched onwards to the train station, with purpose, somehow with this mindset believing it would get us there quicker.
“We’re going to make it, don’t worry”
“Yup, we just need to stick to the plan”
Asking for a bread (not wine) refill
The Return Journey 2.0
We arrived at Santa Lucia well within time (shock) but even so, that failed to put our nerves at ease. As soon as the announcement was made and the train had pulled into the platform, we were on it, despite the fact it wasn’t due to leave for a good while.
It was one of those ‘Hogwarts Express’ type trains – you know the ones- and so we settled into our assigned carriage, cozy, and more importantly, on our way. Funnily enough, we found ourselves sharing the carriage with a delightful American couple (with Italian roots of course), who were in the middle of their tour of the country, as it were.
“Oh it’s so beautiful there, you have to go – we’re on our way to Naples – I got family there”
“Yes, we love it, the food as well…”
The conversation went onto our reason for being there, and recounting our Erasmus tales. Seeing stranger’s reactions, I came to the realisation that our year was not over *cheese* because we’d always have these memories.
I don’t believe in living in the past, but writing about our experiences does make me relive them, and for me it’s a reminder that more memories are to be made, that these places which served as a backdrop for our stories, are waiting for us to visit again.
Ferrara: the point of no return
The train pulled into Ferrara and both of us, being slightly anxious, rule-abiding Brits at heart (this is not to say boring), decided it best to leave the carriage at this point, and dawdle about in the passageway before the train arrived at Bologna. This was a good plan, until we opened the door to find a lot of other people doing the same thing (they probably had valid tickets though). Despite it being super late (or arguably early) the passage was rather rammed. Incidentally this worked out for the best. No ticket inspector in sight (as if they could be bothered at this time and in these conditions anyway), so no need to hide in a teeny tiny toilet for half an hour. Yay! At this stage of the day, it was about celebrating all wins, big and small.
Walking out of Bologna station was a relief. We were nearly there, just 3 hours to go… Bologna is a city that in my time as a student in Modena, I had visited on occasions, and very much enjoyed; but I think it’s fair to say that the station, especially at night, was ugly, dangerous, and to be avoided if possible. Not wanting to add trouble to our already lengthy adventure, we made tracks for Piazza Verdi, a square known for its student frequenters, and at this time of night, I was counting on stragglers and late party-goers to be populating the area.
They weren’t. Well, not as many as I would have liked anyway.
The square felt kind of empty and the exact opposite of ‘buzzing’ without the crowds of young people and cheap beer about. Not that we were exactly in the mood to party…
Bologna
“Dorito?”
“YASSS OMG DO WE HAVE DIP”
“Can wine give you the munchies?”
“I don’t know, I don’t think so?” **rips open packet of something sugar-based and chocolate smothered**
What. A. Day.
We were over the whole ‘adventure’ thing.
As funny as our circumstance was, the lingering strangers and empty plastic cups left in the square had started to give us a sense of uneasiness; we craved the feeling of being under a duvet and within four walls, with a fridge at our disposal and without the dependency on a train timetable.
We continued to eat as we exited the square – on the move we felt a bit safer, and the bars that were open at least meant other people were out and about. It wasn’t bad actually, there were even a few pizza places open – ah Italy how I miss you so!
Walking towards the station, we decided to rest at a bus stop, as it was close, but not too close, if you catch my drift. We just had to wait it out.
The train to Modena was where I found my inner peace. That peace you get from drinking a tea after a long day at the office, or when you hand in an essay you’ve been working on all night, or when you take off your heels after an intense dance-off. You know what I mean?
Back to the cave
Walking from the station to my house was bizarre. It was morning. Not ‘ooh look the dawn is rising’ morning, but actual MORNING time. Birds singing, bakers baking, and weary travellers finding there way home. How did it happen?
Who cares.
We bought two pastries (now was as good a time as any to scoff them down) and on arriving at my humble abode, closed the bedroom shutters completely; total darkness, how welcome you were.
Dobby collapsed onto the already deflating air mattress.
“Don’t wake me up until it’s dark again; I could sleep forever”
“Yeh me too, I can’t even grasp what yesterday was… ”
*Dobby turns to sleep*
“…Dya fancy a cuppa?”
“Ooh yeah go on then!”
And so it ended as it began, two erratic and unstable minds, bonding over tea.
It was coming up to the end of our Erasmus year, and what had been one of the most incredible experiences I’d had to date. I had been living in Italy for around 5 months at that point, and there was a fortnight left for me to savour all things Italian – culture, language, the good expresso morning routine, and of course, (mainly) FOOD. You’ve no idea how much I miss the food. I don’t know how Italians manage it when they stay abroad. Suddenly it all makes sense when they turn their noses up at anything supposedly ‘authentically Italian’ produced outside of their country. (Although I must say that hasn’t changed my love for Pizza Express garlic doughballs, sorrynotsorry). But being honest, there’s just no comparing it, food is not just food (a principle I’ve always stood by) and pasta is not just limited to spaghetti, macaroni, farfalle (bow-tie) and fuselli (the swirly one). I remember walking into a supermarket and finding myself completely baffled at the sight of 4 aisles (I don’t even think I’m exaggerating) dedicated solely to pasta. It’s kind of a big deal. As is all food in Italy really. They just put everything into it, and everything is about food and food is everything and oh my god I loved it so much! So much so that I’ve set my mind to writing a various posts about it. But I digress..
Yes I’m holding gelato; no I’m not thinking of final year.
So. It’s late July, exams were well and truly over (can I get an Amen?…and a Spritz maybe?) and I was nowhere near ready to face the fact that Sangria nights and Calzone Fridays were soon to be replaced by 2-for-1 dinners at the local Spoons and Wet Winter Evenings by the TV (and also laptop, because, you know, ‘studying’). It was too much to bear. My dear Dobby, or ‘Carys’ as the world knows her, was also suffering from the same reluctance to leave the Erasmus bubble, however, was on the lookout for a bit of a change of scenery. So seeing this as an opportunity, we arranged for her to spend the last bit of her Erasmus with us in Italy, it would be perfect; the gang back together again. We would go to the beach, do a little sightseeing, find a new kebaby, eat breakfast pizza and GO TO THE BUFFET, you know, all the important stuff.
And that’s what we did. It was a wonderful 2 weeks, and aside from seeing Modena in a new light, and visiting the neighbouring sites, it was so much fun just to be back together again and reminiscing about the time we’d spent as a dynamic (more like disastrous) duo causing havoc in Granada, and what both of us had been up to in the second semester.
It’s also somewhat comforting to hear someone else’s experience of a similar situation. Obviously we had been in different places, and had done different things, but the case remained the same; there was a sense of mixed feeling. Erasmus had brought us so much in terms of experience, awareness, friendships, and many a tale to tell, nevertheless, it made looking at the same place in a different light near impossible. Granada for us would always be the place we loved before term started; the place we hated during those depressing November blues; the place we struggled to find ourselves in at first and of course the place we never wanted to let go of when the time came to part ways.
Mojitos, Bad Moves and Mischief
I went back to Granada a year or so after leaving, and the vibe was not as before, it’s true – me not being a student anymore had changed my perspective a little. Yet the yearning desire to stay and just be in the city was something I still felt very deeply. It brought up many fond memories, being there, and the less joyous ones had not by any means tainted my love for la vida andaluza, which we wanted to hold onto for a little while longer. In fact leaving there again provoked that sensation of FOMO, would you believe (I just can’t leave Granada alone!)?
ANYWAY. Rewind to my story. So we’re in Italy, Erasmus is about to end, we are both very much in denial about having to go back to reality and well, most of all dreading our final year of university and also British weather because ew gross/why/when will I ever see the sun again?
“I’ve never been to Venice before.”
Suitcases are half empty (or half full, depending on your perception of life); Carys and I much like others in our situation have a case (or two! **laughs at own pun**) of not knowing whether we’re coming or going **laughs at unintended rhyme**. Odd socks and bras and Primark leggings are strewn across the tiled floor, a pot of Nutella and a bare packet of mini toasted bread (ALL the rage in the Med) sits amongst all our lovely mess, next to a slightly deflated air mattress. Windows are wide open and the voices of Italians getting on with their day can be heard from the street one floor below.
”Let’s go then; let’s go early tomorrow and spend the whole day there. It will be great, we’ll have a tourist day out and we can take pictures and eat food and take more pictures and eat even more food – you see where I’m going with this..?”
May’15, when the lovely Christoff came to visit – another adventure to be blogged!
Aside from our days spent in the sun, (WHY AM I STILL PASTY IT’S BEEN A YEAR) we had a few moments where we just reverted back to our cave-like ways. And I loved it. Still in pijamas at 3pm, and listening to people’s conversations below, we drank our teas and planned for what would be a great day ahead.
I can’t remember exactly what time we got up, but I remember it being early; as in the thought crosses your mind when the alarm goes off: ‘Maybe we can just not go’. But we decided that as Uni + Dissertation + grey clouds + bad tv was soon on the cards, it was best to make the most of our final days as foreign exchange students. So we ambled quickly to the train station. That’s an outright lie; I’m pretty sure we ended up running (pastry in hand) and I’m almost certain I didn’t catch my breath until the next stop. But point being, we made it; we were on our way.
Pretend we’ve had a really good night’s sleep and aren’t craving booze right now
One transfer and a few hours later, we found ourselves stumbling out of Venezia-Santa Lucia train station. People were basking in the mid-morning sun conveniently (not so much) sat on the steps outside, staring at the bustling mobs below, tourists and locals alike, just EVERYWHERE. The place was moving, individuals weaving in and out of crowds, nearby restaurants at full capacity, tour boats making their way across the river, the view across from which was impressive in itself. As is what happens sometimes when one first arrives at a tourist attraction, after a bit of a journey and even less sleep, everything seems all a bit much. We both stood for a moment trying to take it all in.
”Where do we start”
Excited to see the city (I had been a couple times before but Venice had a way of bringing the excited explorer out in you), we braved the crowds and got out our recently acquired map. And selfie stick. And dictionary.
Look if you’re going to play tourist, you may as well go all out.
The tally so far stood as following: Laptops broken: 1 (we’re not counting all the other years okay). Mama noodles packets ravaged: 55. Cups of tea: stopped counting. Glasses of morning wine: didn’t bother trying to count. All-nighters spent with head in a book (on table): more than is acceptable.
And one more thing. A degree.
After four years of:
“Oh my god I think this coursework might be the actual cause of my sudden and untimely death”
(tragic)…and
“I sat on the library floor from 3-6 am and very nearly ordered a Dominoes to the main entrance” (a majestic thing to witness, and yes, I’ve seen it with my own eyes),
also not forgetting the classic…
“What do you mean ‘Did I turn the page?!”
I had finally graduated alongside some of my nearest and dearest; WE HAD DONE IT.
Stepping up in the world (literally hehe)
My friends and I were finally ready (eek!) to join the world of post-Higher Education employment. In other words it was time to find a nice suit, stop waking up at noon and start publicising our current working status (very available) to the job market; aka armed and ready with a good bachelors degree, big dreams, a well-rounded skills set and plenty of ambition.
And so here begins the trials and tribulations of the search for a door to wedge (with brute force) my foot in.
This is not a story (or rant, don’t worry) about how it is just IMPOSSIBLE for a recent graduate to find employment right after finishing university, nor is this a tale of woe. In case you’re wondering I did find a good job and I didn’t have to wait too long to join the 9-5 community/daily grind/hustle of the real world, that is not to say it didn’t feel like
f o r e v e r.
When the going gets tough, the tough drink wine, lots of wine
Studying languages, I have always found myself in an environment where the more you know the better; okay so that goes without saying.
What I mean is, the more you expose yourself to a new culture, the more you allow yourself to be taken in by a language, the more you let it take over and become part of yourself, the better. Once you have that down, don’t stop there! Don’t ever stop. Keep learning more languages and more and more. Take the time, really master the language; languagES, and let them take you where you want to be – let them open doors for you!
I still believe in this, and for the most part it’s true. The nature of my degree imposed on me a mindset that what I possess is valuable, and every response to ‘I study languages’ was usually met with expressions of
‘Wow really? You’ll find a job no problem’
‘Everyone’s after language graduates, there’s a HUGE demand for bilingual employees these days’
‘How do you say 2 beers please in Spanish?’
Okay the last one was my Dad, and he already knew the answer to that one anyway -_-
This cheeky chap needs no dictionary!
My point however is, I was under the rather foolish illusion (WAS I REALLY THE ONLY ONE?) that by becoming a graduate with language skills, the doors, or most of them, would not exactly swoosh open at my presence, but not be as difficult as they were to budge; the options would be plentiful, and more importantly attainable, and the idea of a bilingual candidate would excite an employer, maybe even as much as seeing ‘Expert knowledge of Microsoft Excel’ on a CV.
To be fair leaving the Uni bubble (and eating cold Dom’s pizza for breakfast) was a huge lesson in itself.
…Apparently it’s now all about on-the-go coffee, ‘I don’t have time for Coco-Pops’ and granola honey goji berry vitamin whatever yoghurt from EAT/Starbucks/anywhere that charges a fiver for breakfast a la express.
Fact is, there were many other individuals with the same thought-process and skill-set as myself. Competition in London was also a factor I didn’t really give much pre-thought to. And unlike some of my companions at University, on different courses, I didn’t have a trade as such. I was interested in translation (and still very much so) but as the interviews became more frequent and the follow-up emails less so (if, at all) I started to become somewhat disheartened, and there was definitely a sense of
‘Do I not have that much to offer afterall?’
Which was probably the worst thing to contemplate.
Me thinking about future prospects and exciting career opportunities and probably (definitely) celebratory cake and booze
On returning home to suburbia I found myself in a bit of pattern; or funk, to be more specific. On a high from graduation, I was determined to do something with my degree, and invest all my time into searching for that first job, the first foot on the ladder of employment; to make the first connection to the big wide world. Illusions aside, I had been fairly proactive and practical about the whole thing (I was shocked at my behaviour too) and became literally attached to my phone (not just for the dank memes); constantly connected to my inbox and spamming every opportunity of interest there was on LinkedIn, Indeed, Monster; and every other dependable source. I was invited to a number of interviews to places I genuinely would have liked the chance to work at, but in most cases, unfortunately, ‘it just wasn’t meant to be’.
At first it was only a little knock of reality to my self-esteem, which drove me even more in interviews, and the more I went to, the more confidence I actually gained. The process is pretty similar in most cases, and there are only so many questions they can ask you right? WRONG
“If you could be a type of pasta what would you be?”
**painful British silence of more than 5 seconds**
“The one that looks like the bow-tie?”
**sends self into exile with new found hate for Farfalle**
Kay that was a bit different but even with that particular interview, I walked out unperturbed. Bemused somewhat, but overall unperturbed. Without sounding like every life guru out there with one published book and obnoxious YouTube channel, the key is confidence and to forget the nerves, and also to NOT TAKE IT PERSONALLY. Something in which I still have room for improvement.
I will admit the constant rejection did become a little demoralising and a lot demotivating. My family and friends were a great support and viewed my struggle for employment with a lot more understanding than I did;
“You’ll find something soon”
“Maybe you just didn’t fit their profile”
“It’s always difficult at the beginning”
These phrases that frustrated me so much at the time, I look back on now with a sense of gratitude, because even if it was just to keep me motivated at the time, it worked, as they all turned out to be true. And why did I feel that I deserved the right to be hired, just for being a graduate? It’s not just something that happens by itself, and competition is fierce. It really is a reality that looking for a job is a job in itself; and you do have to give it your all.
Making Mum and Dad proud (I also didn’t trip up on stage that day so that’s an achievement I’d like to be recognised)
So I gradually got over it like an adult (by eating every Cornetto in the freezer and pretending I was too busy to go to the pub – it was a sad time) and tried to find what it was that made me •·.·´¯`·.·•SPECIAL•·.·´¯`·.·•
**VOM**
Looking back at my degree I tried to identify skills which could be applicable to the job positions I was coming across, and it was then that the market started to give me a bit more of a chance. Once this discovery was made (took me long enough) I went to work in finding… well, work and I gradually got the hang of the whole employment malarky. Turns out being on my four year course had taught me a lot more things, and provided me with a lot more skills than language acquisition (and that by the way is a lot harder than dos cervezahs por favah) – turns out theres a few things that are very applicable to an array of sectors. TURNS OUT I GOT A FEW TRICKS UP MY SLEEVE.
Those sneaky language lovin lot in Park Building.
Here’s to all the crazy teachers who restored our faith in life after every horrific speaking exam, and family and friends who kept us going for four years, along with the dream, and yes, why not the reality, that the world can be our oyster if we really want it to be.
