Study Abroad? Oui

Until July, I'd never actually considered the prospect of faking my own death. Having spent the previous seven months studying and working in Paris, at desperate moments this seemed like a pretty reasonable means of extending my stay in France at least a little while longer. When I ran into a friend the other day in front of Cannon Green, she asked me, "You actually made it back?" As tempting as it would have been to find a job serving espresso and continue living in an apartment that was smaller than my freshman year dorm room, I thought I'd give the whole senior year at Princeton thing a try.

I didn't expect my return to campus to be a seamless transition, and it hasn't been. For starters, my English language skills have noticeably suffered. My first night back on the Street, I ran into a junior who asked if I played guitar. The first thought that came to my mind was, "mas o menos." Nope, not that one. Then came, "plus ou moins." Not that one either. By the time I blurted out, "Mm, more or less," we were already talking about something else.

I've also been particularly aware of Princeton as a place where students are constantly reminded about this large, terrifying monster called "The Future." It seems to pervade every thought and conversation. We lose sleep over it. We rack up resume items like they're going out of style. For seven months abroad, I did not talk about prerequisites, certificates, recruiting, grad school, MCATs, Wall Street or any related topic over which Princeton students, including me, usually waste so much breath. They were without a doubt the happiest seven months of my life.

This is not to say, however, that my time in France was a semester-long vacation compared to "reality" back in the States. My experience overseas was just as much a reality, albeit a very different one. I spent much more time in bookstores and much less time in front of a television. I swapped Chuck's buffalo wings for Nutella crepes as my unhealthy food of choice. I spent hours with friends in cafes solving the world's problems over a cup of coffee or lamenting how unfair it is that all the most gorgeous girls are French. Living in a poorer neighborhood in the 18th arrondissement, I struggled to understand how a society that seemingly values equality above all else continually disappoints its minority populations.

Life as a student could not have been more different from campus culture at Princeton. My 30-minute train ride each morning ended at a campus of 30,000 students called Nanterre. Almost 40 years ago, in May 1968, it was here that a student revolt began that nearly toppled the French government. A couple years ago, students went on strike when the government proposed legislation making it easier for employers to hire and fire young employees. When a friend of mine asked her professor why classes couldn't continue, she was reprimanded and instructed to go out and protest. Compared to Nanterre, Princeton can seem about as exciting as vanilla frozen yogurt.

On the other hand, returning to an academic environment where independent thought and critical discussion are the bases of learning has been refreshing. Despite the generally outspoken disposition of French students, in class it's still the teacher who does the talking. Furthermore, when you're sitting in a subway photo booth taking pictures for an ID card for a library that's 45 minutes from school and doesn't let you check out books, Firestone doesn't seem all that bad. Then again, superior libraries were not what I was looking for when I decided to go abroad.

It is disheartening to me that such a small percentage of Princetonians take the chance to spend a semester in a foreign country. My experiences abroad nudged me outside my comfort zone; by challenging myself to thrive in a different environment from what I was used to, I found out what I was really made of.

In terms of physical appearance, I'm much the same as when I left. My hair's a little longer, I've stopped wearing khaki shorts and I grew a little pointy mustache. Ok, so maybe not the last one. Yet, I don't feel that I am the same person I was in January. The question is not whether I can readjust to Princeton; it's whether I want to.