Back

Through my drafts and trials of the past week, I’ve found I have much more to say about Edinburgh than Pomona.  I’ve arrived on campus, and nearly hyperventilated as we drove through the village for the first time, and again on Bonita, and again as I set foot on Claremont soil.  But despite my excitement, and my near-sleepless nights before arriving on campus, and all of my fulfilled-expectations, I find myself with a blank page.

In Scotland, I had to worry about whether the shower in my flat would work, and if I’d bought enough food for dinner, and if I was following the correct formatting guidelines, and plane tickets, and train tickets, and if I was doing everything I wanted before my time was up.  Here, I’ve willingly melted into Pomona’s open arms, rolling down the stairs onto Frary’s doorstep and flinging myself into my warm room (with an accent wall!) and mingling amongst a sea of familiar faces I’ve missed a lot.  Many of my international friends abroad mourned their departure, dreading the monotony of their home schools, and while I joined in their lamenting, I knew I was leaving one beautiful, strange place for a place I love just as much.

That said, I dread recurring blog entries repeating “I’m content,” “I’m happy,” “I’m home,” because that loses all drama and excitement and conflict.  Let me fill that void with a story.  I’m taking a one-on-one Philosophy tutorial this semester, and my professor offhandedly asked me who I took Philosophy of Time with in Edinburgh.  Despite knowing him fairly well, and despite the floating image of his bearded face plastered in my mind, I completely forgot his name, and sat open-mouthed with no name on my tongue for a literal fifteen seconds, before finally mustering an uhhhhh...  That (so articulately) said, I never did remember it, even in spite of my helpless stalling and horrible babbling about how big, so, so, big the lectures were.  Feeling as though I’d forgotten how to say “apple,” or something ridiculous like that, I finally resigned to scrambling under the table for my computer, shamefully looking it up in front of him.

That said, Pomona is sunny and rainy and welcoming and wonderful.  I’m still in the new-semester-hopeful phase, and desperately clinging to it, excited to see what’s in store, as campy as it sounds.  Perhaps what I’ve spent a page saying, and what I really mean to say, is that after a long eight months, I’m happy to be back.