I had a bit of a stressful time with my accommodation application this week. I have secured a roof over my head, that wasn't the problem; no living in a cardboard box on the streets of Duisburg for me! No, the issue was that I thought, for a brief couple of days, that I would have to fly out to Germany two weeks earlier than I had originally planned in order to full-fill some minor clause in my contract. Instead of leaving in just under a month, I would have had to have left in fortnight.
Full. Scale. Panic.
As it turns out, the Germans are more than willing to be flexible and I don't have to fly over until I want to. Happy days. However, for that short period when I thought that I was leaving sooner rather than later, more than ever before (including the time I tipsily cried at the end of Summer Social because I was going to miss everybody) I was struck with the feeling that I don't really want to go abroad at all.
When I started this degree, I can't say I remember ever being entirely enthralled by the prospect of a year abroad; as far as I was concerned it the idea of surviving in a foreign country with only my language skills (lacking) and my charm to get me by was nothing short of terrifying. However, that would be something confined to my third year, way way into the future. I was a young and innocent fresher with a whole two years of university life stretching away in front of me. What was the point of worrying about something so far away, especially when I had a whole lot of other more pressing matters to occupy my time, such as making friends and getting drunk? None at all. The year abroad conundrum got pushed to the back of my mind and I forgot all about it. As I settled into university life, I got more comfortable, and I think I even managed to kid myself that third year would never actually arrive, that I could live in a sort of time loop, forever alternately bumming around with my housemates eating banana Malteaser muffins and spending Wednesdays at Corp drinking paint-stripper vodka till the wee hours. Obviously, physics bends for no student; my first two years of uni shot by in a haze of giggles and bad wine and now, in August 2010, my year abroad is staring me full in the face. Frankly, it's come as a bit of a nasty shock.
For although my whole attitude towards studying German may have changed since I started uni,* I don't think my attitude towards my year abroad has. I'm still less excited than scared witless. I'm still dangerously procrastinating when it comes to sorting anything out. I'm still enduring a constant parade of negative questions marching around my head: what if my German isn't good enough? What if I'm a terrible teacher? What if the people I live with hate me?
In addition to the cold, cold fear, there's also an element of regret. I lead a pretty cushy life here in jolly old England, one I'm reluctant to leave behind, even for just nine months. I love my family. I love my friends. I love Sheffield and my university. I even love my crappy home town and my crappy job, despite my constant complaining about the both, and it's because of all these things that, for all people keep telling me that my year abroad is going to be an amazing experience, that I'll love every minute, that it's going to be the best few months of my life, I still can't shake off the feeling that by not being here, I'll somehow be missing out.
I don't think I'm being entirely silly about this. I will genuinely, through being in Germany, be unable to do some really cool stuff this year. I can't see Tim Minchin, one of my favourite musicians and comedians, play to an audience of thousands with a live orchestra. I can't run for a committee position with Forge, something which would help me in my aspirations towards a job in the media. I can't spend so much time with my Godmother, who's over from Australia for the first time in three years. I can't, for God's sake, go see Frank Turner at the first Sheffield gig he's played since I found out he existed two and a half years ago, something which is cutting me particularly deep.
There's other things that I'm upset about missing that are less rational. For example, earlier I caught sight of a conversation on Facebook (that oh so invasive of mediums) between two of my best friends from Sheffield, discussing the prospect of a night out in Freshers' Week. I am, of course, in a stable enough mental position to be a-ok with the idea of my friends not putting their entire lives on hold just because I'm not going to be in town. Just about. No, it was that one of them suggested that they do Pop Tarts "in memory of G".** I assume this was in reference to a) the fact that I bloody love Pop Tarts and b) the one in Freshers' Week is generally close enough to my birthday to constitute as a celebration, meaning I have fond (if blurry) memories of celebrating my nineteenth there. Suddenly, though I know it's just another night out, I just couldn't bare the thought of them having a rave up without me, whilst I spent my twenty-first in a little room miles away, blowing out a lonely candle on a cupcake and singing happy birthday to myself. I found myself getting a little choked up. Pathetic, isn't it?
I'm being ridiculous, I know. Of course I'm going to enjoy my year abroad. Of course it's one of the most exciting things I've ever done. Of course I'll cope linguistically, even if it's tough at first. Of course I'll make new friends. Of course it'll be the best year of my life. Of course.
I tell myself all these things. Unfortunately, I don't seem to be listening.
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*I've gone from treating it as History's bit on the side to being a fully committed language enthusiast.
**Though the other did rightly point out that that sounded like I'd popped my clogs, so they changed it to "in honour of".
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