“A warning sign that things will end in a way that will leave 

you forever in a state of missing: you begin by discussing 

books. Inevitably, as the talk of books demands, you will

say, “Oh, really, you haven’t read such and such?” and “Oh,

you must!” and “I’ll lend you my copy.” As one book will lead

to another, and as one author suggests yet another author,

you will find yourself in bed again, pressed inside new covers.”

Jenny Boully, “Moveable Types” 

Throughout my life, I have loved the way that reading and writing could grant me a sense of place, inserting me into new ecosystems, different worlds with stimuli warranting a unique set of rules and responses. To read and write are forms of traveling in the realm of your mind: you can traverse any plane in the setting of your mind, the only limits being the words used to create such a world, and the thought trains, taking off in all different directions, that follow the ideas we read about. 

Before leaving the continent two summers ago to visit dear friends and complete an internship in Nepal, I followed this familiar routine of visiting a place through the words others had used to describe it. I read of the country’s wildlife, numerous languages and dialects, socioeconomic structures, controversies, tragedies and more, feeling prepared for anything to come. I worried little about preparation, as I had anticipated the trip for a long time and asked my friends many questions; at that point, I felt only few things could surprise me. All I had left to feel was excitement. 

As I expected, much of the things I read about were true to life. Yet, I found myself changed in a way, on a level, that reading could only have scratched the surface of. Rather than learning through words, I could learn everything I had read anew in the physical realm: through sounds, scents, sights, tastes, things I could reach out and touch. What no person or book told me before leaving my home country is that living somewhere so different from your home automatically gives you a magical looking lens, eyes that are acutely aware of all the wonder that exists in mundane life. On some level, you are like a newborn baby, seeing the world with a fresh perspective. Even the things that are the same have their own distinct nuances. The new space seems to constantly challenge you to think again the next time you think you know everything about life and how we live it. 

This sense of wonder and newfound familiarity with a different side of myself made me eager to spend at least one semester studying abroad. And what better area to study in an unfamiliar country than these elements that create a sense of place? For that reason, I chose to study the core course “A Sense of Place in European Literature” in Denmark’s capital city of Copenhagen through DIS. It’s the second half of my junior year, and I’m working toward majors in Creative Writing and Biology. 

Like my last trip, I’ve been anticipating this abroad experience for many months and feel so grateful for the opportunity. While I know I have so much to look forward to, as I pack and prepare to leave home for four months, I continue to have a sense that there’s something I’m forgetting or mistakenly leaving behind. It’s as though I’m trying to prepare myself for how much I may find myself missing everything once the homesickness kicks in, or realizing that the next time I’ll sleep in my bed and see all my loved ones I’ll have changed in so many ways. Of course, that happens on some level every term when I leave for school, but I realize it will happen in a different sense when, for awhile, every face I see will be new.

Part of me feels that jumping on board to new ways of living leaves you forever in a state of missing. Perhaps I’m not so afraid of temporary homesickness while living abroad, but that I’ll find loved ones, things, memories that bring me immense joy in Denmark, and upon returning home I will find myself in the same position I was in when I left: concerned I am leaving part of myself behind with all the associations I made to Scandinavia. I’ll make the most of it and leave Copenhagen, but then without a definite timeline for knowing when I can return to somewhere that feels like home. It reminds me of a quote from Antoine de Saint Exupery: “To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence.” Accepting good experiences also entails accepting: they might one day be over.

More than the inevitable missing, I know that despite any hardships, whatever I take away from my time with DIS will have changed me for the better. While the reading and writing cannot immerse me in the places I come to call home more than visiting can, they certainly help. So does a warm bed, a cup of tea, a cat, the things that are at both my home in Chicago suburbs and my homestay in Copenhagen suburbs. I have found that the more I experience, whether it is lovely or enduring, the more I’m able to connect with others. So, mostly, I’m excited to meet so many great people and understand the world a little bit better after the next four months. If I know anything, there’s only so much I can expect from the unexpected.

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Kindly — Allie