What happens when you transfer to UVA from the city

I always undermine how much a year at NYU has changed me. I think the change came about so Seamless-ly (ha!) that once I realized certain things, they had become so heavily engrained in who I was that there was no turning back.

My first actual NYU party was probably the first weekend after Welcome Week, in a postage-stamp fourth floor walk-up somewhere on Clinton St, just past Rivington. I couldn’t tell you for sure, even though I frequented the same lacking-entirely-effective-plumbing apartment multiple times over the next year.

I remember many bottles of two-buck chuck and good old ‘wine product,’ being on a rooftop – with neighbors screaming threatening to call the cops because large metal doors kept clanking and bulky athletes (a rare species at NYU) stumbled gracelessly down the stairs – looking out at this incredible concrete vista.

To one side, buildings cowering under the shade of the Williamsburg Bridge, the glittering lights of midtown somewhere in the middle, and behind me One WTC stood bright and tall as the ultimate symbol of “Congrats, kid! You made it.”

September 2014

As the year went on, the majesty of this view faded, and the ennui of my daily sprint down University Pl. to make my no-matter-how-late-in-the-day-always-too-early first class of the day with at least enough time to not have to squish into the front part of the elevators at Waverly was in full force.

By the all-too-humid May morning of move out, I had had enough. I knew this because it wasn’t only New York that held no charm for me, but my entire undergraduate future in general. When transferring became my only solution, my personal statements were riddled with my jaded-spirit, making me quite possibly the most undesirable, morose prospective student to any admissions committee.

That being said, after a semester-long debate about the merits of returning to college, here I am four months later at UVA, as a second year spring transfer. Weird, right? (I ask myself that question every morning as I painstakingly try to figure out the bus schedule, and end up trudging from Hereford to Central Grounds with a few seconds to spare, without fail.)

Charlottesville is beautiful, don’t get me wrong – like really, seriously beautiful. But there are no buildings. Not of the glistening “bright lights, big city” variety. But there are trees – so many trees that I honestly blame them for my getting lost on many a late night.

Despite living in the “transfer student community,” which could not be worse-situated (seeing as it is as far from Central Grounds as you can possibly get), making friends seems to be as rigorous as training for the Olympic Games, regardless of how much charisma you have on your side.

Walking into the Spring Transfer Orientation with a whopping 30 people in attendance was definitely getting this new journey off on to the right foot. Neither does getting lost at every turn, not understanding even the slightest of bus routes (why would you, when you’re used to walking everywhere?), accidentally walking home alone at night with headphones in, and waving exuberantly at people you recognize, then remembering you know no one here just as they give you a wonderful confused-meets-suspicious look.

Then there’s house parties. On paper, not entirely obviously different from a ZBT or apartment party in New York, except no wine. Nope, just beer and punch.

Punch? How many calories are in punch? What category does that fall under on my health app? What even is in it? The Pop 2K throwbacks? Garbage bags taped to the windows? How on earth can people stand being in basements with pipes grazing the tops of their heads grinding to “I Want It That Way?” So many questions.

People around you are constantly making references to the 4th year 5k, Block Party, Foxfield, yet fail to mention that The Corner isn’t actually a corner, and all of it is lost in a jumble making you pine for the familiarity of Smorgasburg and the Brooklyn Night Bazaar.

And if that’s not bad enough, you’re constantly being reminded of how hard it is to be a transfer. How this fresh start, clean slate hurts you more than it helps you – how even though everyone has friends already in January, you’re destined to spend the next two-and-a-half years using Google Maps to find the single most complicated route to Campbell Hall possible, and how some days it’s so easy for every single little thing to chip away at you.

What nobody tells you is how amazing it feels when you meet the people you click with and actually make friends. How the days when you see people who look familiar, and realize you actually know them, or actually end up getting on the right bus home, you couldn’t be more proud of yourself.

And when you look around you, and in the distance you see nothing but gorgeous Blue Ridge mountains (while they might not be glittering towers reminding you of how small you are) they take your breath away just as well as any Manhattan sunset.

February 2016