Why you should hate your year abroad

It’s that time of the year again: your Facebook feed is saturated with your smug third-year linguists humble bragging about their new sun-drenched existence drinking cérvèzà in Barcelona or sipping vin in Lyon.

They’ve escaped the shackles of Oxford and now seek to perpatuate the myth of the ‘Year Abroad’ (Capitalised) that is omgz totes the best year of their life and want to tell everyone how they’ve, like, totally found themselves, y’know!?!

year a-bored

While they share the images of blue bays, sprawling cities and nights so exclusive looking they probably don’t exist, in reality these people are glorified babysitters, smugly au pairing rich bratty children, or language assistants teaching other bratty children “qu’est-ce qu’il y a dans ta trousse?” (That’s “what’s in your pencil case” for all non-Francophiles out there.)

They’re interns exploited for their English language skills, used to translate phenomenally mundane documents, photocopy, and staple.

They’re faceless exchange students no self-respecting native resident would stoop to socialise with, let alone befriend.

They suffer clinical homesickness and crippling FOMO while on the world’s longest compulsory holiday.

They write blogs about culture shock in continental Europe and discuss the illuminating experiences they had at the fucking post office.

With the year abroad comes a sense of intellectual and cultural entitlement.

The mundane suddenly becomes the magnificent simply because it is in a different language, and it feels far removed from the whispering spires we know and love.

The Year Abroaders blog is a celebration of the dull-as-fuck: I’ve read a full length blog post about chairs, another about different types of soup, and another about the task of eyebrow threading.

swearing is a way of dealing with the situation

Would you write about this in the UK? If the answer is yes, you need to reconsider your priorities as there are starving children out there.

If it is no, then don’t fucking do it just because you’re in Vienna.

Let’s put this into perspective: third-year linguists have probably been studying their language(s) ‘du choix’ for at least 11 years.

There is no such thing as culture shock in continental Europe.

Parisian waiters are rude, Spanish people go out really late, Germans don’t drink tap water – so fucking what?

The worst thing about all this is, once the Year Abroaders are done, they return to Britain as nobodies – left to wang on at formal to some unfortunate fresher about the fascinating underground knitting scene in Belgrade.

Friends only to a few straggling scientists and the other Proust spouting douchebags who have returned from elsewhere.

I even got into two Paris Fashion Week shows and a party, so my Year Abroad is already better than yours, and it still fucking sucks.

my flat is so nice it hurts