As a seasoned college student, it’s tough to imagine what life was like before Boston University. Obviously, I vividly remember childhood, grade school and high school years, as they really weren’t all that long ago. There are some memories I try my best to block out — braces, bad dates to school dances, horrible jobs — but they are all part of who I am today.
The scary and less-expensive blur that I am talking about are those days of going to school every weekday from September to June, with only a couple of weeklong breaks in between. The work may be harder here, but schedule-wise, we’re leading sweet lives. We go to school for about three-and-half months before an entire month off, only to start this process over again in January. These weeks are sprinkled with days off and long weekends, not to mention most of us are able to get away with only having classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We finish up school in early May, then go off and get our summer grooves on until September.
Going back to your hometown over break can be a bit strange, though. In college, you sort of have two separate homes: the one you have at school and the one you lived in as a kid. They’re quite different. One is filled with beer can pyramids, while the other is decorated with embarrassing baby pictures. One has cool paintings and pictures on the walls while the other has old ‘N Sync posters still hanging up in your bedroom. However, the funny thing is, you’ve grown up in both.
For me, heading home for break was even stranger this time because I was coming back from a whole different world.
Ironically, Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin'” played while I was out on both my last night in Boston in August and my last evening in Dublin last weekend. I think it’s pretty safe to say that this spandex-pants generated ’80s ballad has become a staple for any college student’s night out at a bar or club. During my flight back to Boston, it came to my attention that, just as the song says, I headed to Ireland this semester as “a small-town girl, living in a lonely world.” OK, so I didn’t take a midnight train going anywhere, because I did have some direction; instead, I took a midnight flight going to Dublin. I had no idea who I was traveling with. They were “strangers (dramatic drumbeat) waiting up and down the boulevard,” if you will. It felt like freshman year on a plane.
I entered BU as an English major. Then, like so many of you crazy, confused college kids, I changed my major a few times. I dabbled in the physical therapy realm for a bit until I realized that I don’t even like shaking people’s hands, never mind touching their bodies, so I squashed that idea like a bug. I guess I forgot about my lack of patience with bratty children when I switched into the School of Education. After one day of student teaching, I remembered this all too well. So here I am, an English nerd once again, only this time with lots more credit to make up for.
This expensive detour was never on the plan, but neither was a semester abroad. On my flight back, I was going through pictures and couldn’t believe the places I’d just been. I frolicked in the green, rolling hills of Ireland just like my ancestors once did. I wandered the streets of Venice, a place I had only seen pictures of in small pizza joints in the North End. I walked the same grounds as Roman emperors and gladiators, and I had stood in the Swiss Alps like the guy on Ricola commercials. After all of this, I didn’t know what life back in the Bay State would be like.
Aside from asking, “So some of you guys actually voted for Bush?” many Irish people asked me, “Why would you want to leave the States to live here?” We shelled out a few thousand bucks to live in Dublin for a few months to see what life is like across the Atlantic. Sitting next to a couple of Dubliners heading to Boston for vacation on my way back, I couldn’t understand why they wanted to come here.
Then it hit me. When I walked off the plane and saw my friends waiting for me, I felt like a rock star coming back home after a worldwide tour. They made me feel like life stopped while I was gone, even though I know it went right on truckin’. When we cruised along the Charles River and approached the city’s skyline, I realized how much I subconsciously missed this place.
To the non-Bostonian eye, the Citgo sign is an ugly, red triangle in Kenmore Square taking up time, energy and space. The Prudential Building is short and boring, and Dunkin’ Donuts coffee is overrated. The taxi drivers are rude, the streets are a mess and Fenway should be in a baseball park nursing home. Also, the local accent is absurd and obnoxious, and the Charles River isn’t very pretty.
To the Bostonian, however, this stuff looks much different. After being away for a while, I realized even more how special this place really is. The Citgo sign shines on in hope of another winning season. The Pru is like the caffeinated North Star, letting me know I’m always going in the right direction to the closest Dunkin’ Donuts for a mid-afternoon coffee break. Taxi drivers shouldn’t be friendly, the Big Dig isn’t supposed to end and the Green Monster’s never looked so good. If I can’t use all 26 letters of the alphabet now, I never will, and no matter what, I’ll always love that dirty water.
After all of this traveling, a few things are for sure: Distance does make the heart grow fonder, Boston is as beautiful as ever and Journey’s never sounded so good.
It’s going to take a few days to adjust back to this American way of life, and I’m definitely going to miss Ireland. But, just like home, you can always go back.
Megan Murphy, a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences, has been a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. She can be reached at [email protected].