Kilts, Haggis and Whiskey: An Ode to My Exchange Semester

Kilts, Haggis and Whiskey: An Ode to My Exchange Semester

So there I was. I open the door to the room that will call home for the next four months. A gloomy atmosphere of all the other people that touched this door handle before me, slept in this bed and sat at this desk hung over me as I put my suitcase down. I made it to Stirling, Scotland for my exchange semester, countless applications, e-mails and organisational tasks behind me. I walk into the kitchen, empty, almost sterile, the smell of bleach mixed with the stale air. Mail of past residents is piling up on the counter, their addressees long gone. Suddenly the weight of my decision to go abroad, again, hung over me, pouring seeds of doubt in my mind. “Why did I do this? Isn’t my life in Rotterdam already good enough? What if I spend my days alone? What if I fail to find my people?” The expectations of ‘Exchange’, the supposedly best time of your life, paralysed me for a second as I looked outside, groups of students streaming through the courtyard of my uni accommodation.

Two weeks later, I find myself on top of a mountain after hiking for two hours with a big group of people, eating a sandwich on the damp grass, the sun on my reddened cheeks. I am surrounded by friends I met only two days after I arrived, yet it feels like I have known and laughed with them for way longer. We overlook the valley of Stirling, the Wallace monument glistening in the sun. A sea of greens and browns, soft hills covered with even softer grass, heather moving in the fresh breeze, bringing the crystal clear air from the highlands. In a flash of thoughts, I am reminded of the day I arrived. All the doubts, the thoughts and the worries I had, and suddenly, they all seem forgotten. Now, I only feel joy, contempt and a deep appreciation for this beautiful country I get to live in. I look to the side as my friend offers me a cookie, telling a story from last night’s party. Life is good - and although everything is still fresh and new, and I met countless people most of whom I have forgotten the names already, I feel like I am in the right place. 

Fast forward to November, two months into my time here. We sit in one of our kitchens in the accommodation, empty cans of beer, a disregarded game of cards and mugs filled with gin and tonic instead of coffee before us. We are having a drink before going to a rave in Glasgow. Laughter and lively conversations fill the air, glowy cheeks and bedazzled eyes, in excited anticipation of tonight. In the past months we travelled, partied, studied, cooked - spent every waking minute together with our group - a wild mix of nationalities, backgrounds and studies, thrown together by nothing but pure chance. I look into faces that once were strange to me, but in the shortest time possible, became so well-known and loved. Maybe it was the universe’s fate. Maybe it was the accommodation officers' well-calculated plan that put us together in our apartments - either way I would not want to have it any other way. The trips we went on, the cities we visited, the beers we drank, the stories we told and the memories we made together will always have a big place in my heart. My friend snaps me out of my thoughts, shouting, telling us we have to leave in five minutes to catch the train, frantically waving his phone at us. Everybody hurries to get up, chugging their drink, putting on thick winter coats over their dainty rave outfits and rushing out the door. With my hand on the kitchen door handle, I look back at the mess we left, gazing around the kitchen. Who knew this once so dull room could be so full of life in such a short amount of time, the smell of bleach and the pile of mail long gone. Outside I hear someone calling for me to get going and with a heart full of joy, a smile on my face, I switch off the light and join my singing friends outside ready to make yet another unforgettable memory.