“So you were an exchange student, then?” says the interviewer, unwittingly indulging me in a favourite opportunity to exploit the fact. I smile and nod, explaining that I had a lovely time and that the cultural exposure had really opened my eyes to the world around me, had truly broadened my horizons. Thank God you’re not expected to actually tell the truth to employers.
The application process itself (involving a thorough discourse on myself; a topic at which I excel) is one designed to ensure that all exchange students will make diplomatic representatives of their countries and programs; coincidentally, each of us is endowed with well developed bullshitting skills. My arrival in Switzerland was comprised of jet lag, regular headaches (as the realization that I was subjecting myself to a foreign country alone without any prior knowledge of the language ultimately led to some minor self-abuse) and the introductory camp. Four days after having left home, I found myself wildly gesticulating to a cabin full of other muted fifteen and sixteen-year-olds, attempting to communicate, until our mentors sat us down and got us drunk. Bienvenue a la Suisse!
While popular opinion may measure culture by the number of black-clad artisans decorating cobblestone streets or the degree of confusion the average person experiences while exiting the local museums, my sort of culture was the kind that resulted in a not-so-“fresh” morning wake-ups on park benches or in the corner of the train stations. The people whom my friends and I would randomly go home with after the bar, the coke they snorted and the realization at five o’clock the next morning that we had no idea where the fuck we were defined my exchange. I learned more about myself while wandering drunk through the streets of Geneva with nowhere to stay for the night than I ever did from the hikes my host family grudgingly took me on. Truthfully, how the fuck else would I be as comfortable with ridiculous situations as to not freak out when I find myself trying to find my panties in an unknown house the next morning?
The best lessons, however, were not those I picked up on how to survive an adventurous evening, but rather that there is something to be said for an ability to talk your way out of such situations or their unavoidable consequences. I personally believe that the capability to calm down a knife wielding acquaintance will further my survival more successfully than that of naming the differences between Renaissance swords. The type of cultural exposure that my exchange friends and I sought out could not be legitimately labelled as anything but life experiences; just not necessarily the sort of experiences our parents thought they were paying for.
The application process itself (involving a thorough discourse on myself; a topic at which I excel) is one designed to ensure that all exchange students will make diplomatic representatives of their countries and programs; coincidentally, each of us is endowed with well developed bullshitting skills. My arrival in Switzerland was comprised of jet lag, regular headaches (as the realization that I was subjecting myself to a foreign country alone without any prior knowledge of the language ultimately led to some minor self-abuse) and the introductory camp. Four days after having left home, I found myself wildly gesticulating to a cabin full of other muted fifteen and sixteen-year-olds, attempting to communicate, until our mentors sat us down and got us drunk. Bienvenue a la Suisse!
While popular opinion may measure culture by the number of black-clad artisans decorating cobblestone streets or the degree of confusion the average person experiences while exiting the local museums, my sort of culture was the kind that resulted in a not-so-“fresh” morning wake-ups on park benches or in the corner of the train stations. The people whom my friends and I would randomly go home with after the bar, the coke they snorted and the realization at five o’clock the next morning that we had no idea where the fuck we were defined my exchange. I learned more about myself while wandering drunk through the streets of Geneva with nowhere to stay for the night than I ever did from the hikes my host family grudgingly took me on. Truthfully, how the fuck else would I be as comfortable with ridiculous situations as to not freak out when I find myself trying to find my panties in an unknown house the next morning?
The best lessons, however, were not those I picked up on how to survive an adventurous evening, but rather that there is something to be said for an ability to talk your way out of such situations or their unavoidable consequences. I personally believe that the capability to calm down a knife wielding acquaintance will further my survival more successfully than that of naming the differences between Renaissance swords. The type of cultural exposure that my exchange friends and I sought out could not be legitimately labelled as anything but life experiences; just not necessarily the sort of experiences our parents thought they were paying for.
