April 20, 2017

For the last few months, our 21-year-old son has been living in Barcelona, studying on a semester abroad along with thousands of his closest friends from the Big Ten network of schools.

And what a few months it’s been. I’m not sure about the “studying” part, but the travel, fun and living-large parts have been awesome to witness from afar.

Because of inexpensive air travel and the innovation of Airbnb, he has been able to visit every major city and stay in beautiful apartments along with at least 20 other kids every weekend for next to nothing.

They “study” during the week and take off every weekend. I’m pretty sure their cultural focus is more about nightclubs and eating, so I cried a little bit when he told me he bought a ticket and even went inside the Louvre in Paris, knowing that my cultural indoctrination had some influence.

Living vicariously through his experiences has made me nostalgic for my own semester abroad. We encouraged his European sojourn because it was almost 34 years ago that I met his father on one.

While that auspicious meeting was life-changing, there were so many other things I learned while studying abroad that changed my world perspective and taught me skills that I’ve used throughout my life. Skills like figuring out how to get from point A to point B; overcoming language barriers; negotiating what you’re willing to pay for.

Yes, even learning how to be so far away from home for months is a valuable skill. Remember, my trip was way before social media allowed you to keep in touch with people on a minute-by-minute basis.

I just don’t remember partying as much as my son and his friends seem to be doing. My husband reminded me that I did party that much, which is why I don’t remember doing it. But partying wasn’t the reason I did a semester abroad. And it certainly wasn’t for the reasons I told my parents I wanted to go, which included: growing culturally; becoming a global citizen; and learning a new language. Yup, all good reasons—and none of them true.

The main reason I wanted to go abroad was that I hated my roommate. Hate is a strong word. But sometimes accurate. I disliked her so much, I actually applied to transfer to another college while living in misery with her. But instead of taking that scorched-earth approach, I decided to switch continents. I guess it never occurred to me to just change rooms.

Somehow my parents agreed to my going, with few questions asked. I was in such a hurry, rather than do a lot of research about which international program I should attend, I just walked across campus to a building that set you up on a semester abroad with other students from my university and a professor from the Economics Department.

We were scheduled to fly to London in August, but before that, we had a planning meeting on campus. Here’s what I was planning: how many suitcases I could bring. My husband distinctly remembers the girl in the front row asking a ton of questions about valises. I can honestly tell you I don’t remember anything at all about the big, hairy guy in the back of the room with overalls and a doo rag. Not a thing.

There were 27 of us in the program. We lived in the North London suburbs with host families who were paid to house us. I and another girl stayed in Muswell Hill with a couple who we think weren’t really married, although they told us they were so they could get into the housing program. This was 1982—I guess that mattered then. She was a musician and would go off every night to play piano at a bar called The Library, and he was an electrician. We later learned that they first met at a famous London strip club called the Gargoyle, where she was the choreographer and he was the lighting designer.

My husband and his two roommates, meanwhile, lived with a photographer and his wife. In contrast to our freewheeling and free-loving house parents, Mr. and Mrs. Grey were very conservative. I visited my husband (by then my boyfriend) in his room one day when he was sick, while Mrs. Grey was tut-tutting down in the kitchen to the other boys saying, “Bob runs a strict house boys. He wouldn’t like a girl in the upstairs.” The boys loved them, though, because Mrs. Grey was an awesome cook and Mr. Grey taught them all he knew about darts—you know, the really important things.

Our classes were held at the University of London’s downtown campus led by Dr. Jim Weaver, the most popular economics professor at our college. He came to London along with his wife, Mary, and his youngest daughter, Elizabeth. The very first day he asked us each to introduce the student next to us and why we came.  

I jokingly said I came to go to the theater and meet men with British accents (love them), which was edited down to an introduction, “Pam is the girl who came to get married.” This totally made my feminist self squirm, but then again he was right: Ours was the only wedding out of the 27 students in the program.

Dr. Weaver and his wife became our second parents, making sure we were all safe and having a great experience. He was passionate about economics, and his classes were among my favorites of my college career.

But the classes weren’t our only form of education. We were learning how to get around on our own visiting other cities in England and around Europe each weekend. We were deep-diving into British politics and, yes, even taking in an amazing theater (with lots of British accents). Dr. Weaver helped us experience Great Britain and its history. He took us everywhere we could go to witness history in the making, from Parliament to the Labor Party’s political convention.

We became so close that upon our return to campus, we continued to have reunions with our fellow students and Dr. Weaver and his family for years, even well after they both had retired and moved into senior living. His teaching and friendship, along with meeting the man I’m now spending my life with, were the greatest gifts of my semester abroad.

For my son, I know at least one memory will last a lifetime for him: spending his 21st birthday—which happens to be on St. Patrick’s Day—in Ireland with hundreds of his closest friends, all while wearing a green suit covered in Shamrocks.

Yes, my son is having a blast crisscrossing the continent, and I know that he doesn’t even know yet what or who might stay with him for the rest of his life as a result of his time abroad.

I only hope that his most lasting memory will be about how to connect with anyone and everyone around the world, knowing that we’re all looking for essentially the same things that he is in life: including liberty, happiness and the pursuit of a really cold lager.

As first published in the Democrat and Chronicle and USA Today Network