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Imagine lying in a warm dimly light room surround by tranquil music, soft high-thread Egyptian cotton sheets and thinner-than-head-hair-like needles piercing skin all over your body. Sound relaxing? Maybe, maybe not.
I was 19, and a year felt daunting. Not totally overwhelming, but daunting. I flew over in the early days of September, and by the time Thanksgiving rolled around I felt pretty darn homesick. It was my first time away from the long, well-set table around which my family sat, reading the first pilgrim's words as tradition dictated and making merry. By contrast, the casual gathering of Americans around the cafeteria-style turkey didn't fill me up.
I hadn't expected England when I chose my college based on my wish to study abroad; I'd thought I'd go to France or Germany (or maybe both) so I could practice my languages. Signing up for the year-long Oxford program had surprised no one more than me. But by the time that year was over, I would never have taken it back. It was the most transforming year of my life. Even today, I'd call it that.