It’s so cliché to say, but the year abroad truly has been one of the best experiences of my life. When I hopped off that plane in Fes, with a dream and not enough cardigans to prepare me for a Moroccan winter, I had no idea of how good it was going to be.
For so long, the year abroad had felt like this way-off fantasy that I’d finally arrive at when I found the end of the rainbow. But soon enough, before I knew it, months have passed, and now I’m reading adverts for Wi-Fi and hotels on my way to school, not having to think twice about what the taxi driver says whilst he violates road safety regulations.
The year abroad has almost been and gone, and as my time in Morocco comes to a close, it’s hard not to feel wrapped up in bittersweet emotions about returning to Manchester.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Manchester, and it feels like I’ve spent half of my conversations with friends here trying to convince them to come visit me in the city. But, I’d be lying if I said my heart skips an excited beat at the thought of surviving another Manchester winter, leaving lecture halls to be met with a dark abyss at 3pm, and fighting for my life to catch a look-in at a pub garden heater. I’ve already started calculating the costs for a sun-lamp to keep the seasonal scaries away.
What’s more, whilst I’m returning to a familiar environment, there are many unknown elements to final year. I am so excited to be reunited with friends, but it’s a sad truth that I won’t be seeing some familiar faces when I return, with numerous friends graduating this year. The weight of the post-grad job-search is also hard to avoid, and Googling ‘post-graduate languages jobs – not translation – not London’ will only get more tiresome, I’m sure.
Before setting off on my year abroad, I remember being so impressed by the fourth years who’d returned from their mad adventures; watching them navigate conversations in Arabic with ease, and feeling embarrassed about the lack of progress I felt I’d made after two years of studying it. On the other side of the interaction, I’m now that final year student, looking a little bit more bronzed than when I left.
Except for getting food poisoning twice, I have no regrets about the life I have lived here, confident I have taken many opportunities to immerse myself in both the culture and language, just as the year abroad is intended. I know that I have certainly improved since I arrived, but I can’t help wondering whether I’ve made enough progress. Will my tutors really be that impressed with my language skills when I return?
And, obviously, I’m just going to miss Fes.
The city is so different to Manchester, of course, and it has been a refreshing, new experience to live here. The architecture remains breath-taking, even after eight months of seeing it every day, and the view from our rooftop is just as incredible as it was at the start.
It hasn’t been always been smooth navigating the year abroad. I think back to when I first arrived… making awkward small talk with my host family over cups of mint tea whilst they asked me if Japanese people had small eyes because of the rice they eat (not even my English is good enough to answer this). Or having to muster broken responses to marriage proposals on the street (‘no thank you, I’m already married’ has been my go-to).
But these challenges are heavily overshadowed by the kindness of the many people we have met here. I will miss the small talk of warm-spirited shopkeepers and taxi drivers; I will look back fondly on running to the corner shop to ask if Hassan knew of anyone who could fix our fuse box, Googling how to say ‘power-cut’ in the local dialect. I will remain extremely grateful to our neighbours who invited us for Iftar during Ramadan, and for putting up with us fawning over the new born kittens on our street, or screeching when it rained and we had forgotten to close our roof.
It is embedded in the Moroccan culture to always look out for those in the community, and it has been a real privilege to be included in it too… even if that sometimes meant receiving unwanted concerns about a skirt that didn’t quite reach my ankles.
I’m sure, by this time next year, I’ll be furious at myself for even complaining about having to return to Manchester, knowing that it is my final year of university. But, right now, it is hard not to feel a sense of apprehension when I look towards September. It’s an incredibly privileged position to be in (poor me, I’ve had the best year ever), but heavy is the head that wears the crown.
There is no part of me that wants to wind back the clock and change anything that has happened, but the year abroad has been a whirlwind that has gone by so quickly. Living abroad as a student is such a special and invaluable experience; I can already sense myself feeling nostalgic about it. For anyone who is debating whether to make the leap, I cannot recommend it enough: I haven’t ‘found myself’, but the year abroad really has been the best year of my life, so far.
