Why exchange was life-changing!!
There’s a worn stereotype of the white girl who spends a semester abroad and hasn’t stopped talking about it since. Had a great sandwich? Doesn’t compare to the one she had in Barcelona. Bought a stylish sofa? She had a better one in her hostel in Kyoto. Know a cool club? Not as cool as the one she went to in Berlin. For some people, this goes a step further and their academic exchange becomes a defining characteristic of their personality. A semester in Spain and they’ll become more accustomed to occasional power naps. A couple of seasons in Japan, and they’ll start pronouncing Tokyo as Tōkyō. A few months in Germany, and they’ll bob to nothing but hard bass and loud synth. I regret to inform you, dear reader, that I am this person, an example of this stereotype.
I understand why these people, myself included, catch so much flack. Demonstrable learning from exchange is often shallow and materialistic, manifesting usually as a weird boast. It’s also an indication of some degree of wealth and privilege, something increasingly met with scrutiny. Furthermore, the portrayal of these students in media are seldom flattering, but usually accurate: loud, voyeuristic, and drunk. To someone who hasn’t been on exchange, it suggests a great time, but no more than that; the dismissal a seemingly justifiable reaction to another person flaunting their expensive vacation as a transformative experience.
Exchange isn’t life-changing for everyone. That many former exchange students remain tacit about their experiences contrasts with those who talk incessantly about it, just as those who like to brag about exchange causes all reminiscence to be viewed skeptically. There are obviously those who had difficulties adjusting to living abroad, confronted with culture shock, loneliness, and homesickness. There are also those who had a great time traveling, drinking, and socializing, but didn’t find it any more exciting than those activities taken one at a time, or at another time.
Granted, I have a flair for sentimentality and a tendency to romanticize, but exchange was an unequivocally special time in my life. Whether it was the best four months of my life remains to be seen, but I certainly cannot deny the happiness I felt during that time and the nostalgia I feel looking back now. As indicated by the title of this piece however, my fondness for exchange goes beyond a rosy memory or even a longing for youthful naivete. Like my summer in Shanghai, there was something about exchange that made me the person I am today.
The following is paraphrased entirely from the Wikipedia article. In the 17th and 18th centuries, upper-class European men, usually English, who were coming of age would embark on a Grand Tour as a rite of passage. An itinerary could include France, Belgium, and Switzerland, though Italy was mandatory. Though often a customary display of wealth, it was also widely seen as educational, broadening the traveler’s horizons. Furthermore, there was a noblesse oblige of sorts, an expectation that knowledge obtained through travel could be used in the home country, to the benefit of those who wouldn’t be able to afford it.
Towards the end of the 18th century however, the first critiques of the Grand Tour started sounding. It was derided as unadventurous and shallow, while accused of perpetuating prejudices, conspicuously similar to contemporary commentary. In the 19th century, the steam engine made the Grand Tour accessible to the less wealthy, as well as women. Though this democratized it, the Grand Tour’s importance diminished over time, finding its modern home in the Erasmus Programme in Europe, and North American university semesters abroad.
To the deliberating student today, exchange is usually presented not merely as fun, but complete with its Grand Tour roots. There’s mention of language learning, personal development, and resume boosters. Most importantly however, is the platitude that travel broadens horizons. This isn’t exclusively a classical Western belief; there’s also a Chinese proverb advocating to “read a thousand scrolls, travel a thousand miles.” I can appreciate that repetition of worn sayings isn’t persuasion, so it would perhaps be best to adhere to my title, and review how exchange changed my life.
During my third year of college, I spent January to May studying at ESCP, while living in Paris. Here I use the term “studying” very lightly, and the term “living” to denote not mere existence, but active participation and indulgence. Apart from a weekend in London and a week in Italy, I lived and breathed Paris, absorbing all that she had to offer. This was by conscious effort on my part, due to some unfounded fantasy of the city prior to arrival. After a few months however, a relentless exploration of Paris had resulted in a legitimate appreciation of my new millieu.
When I first started exchange, I wasn’t what would be considered a discerning individual. I attended a high school where among other things, the social currency was academic accomplishment. Though I had spent an extraordinary summer in Shanghai during college, most of my time as a newly minted adult was spent with hometown friends or career-minded peers. A diluted Chinese culture at home combined with an ascetic appreciation of American culture led to a deficiency in the wares that Paris purportedly peddles.
And what an education it was. Why are there so many different types of baked goods in Paris? How does everyone constantly look effortlessly put together? What is everyone looking for in these art museums? Who even watches these boring movies? Where are all the salarymen?
If you find my Parisian cultural apprenticeship comes too close to stereotypical, hold onto your scathing remarks. It would be less effort to give them after I explain that learning was also accompanied by a new taste that would have otherwise been inaccessible to me. As I begrudgingly bought different breads and pastries, I slowly developed a palate for them. While people-watching in cafés, I gradually realized which outfits broke the right amount of rules and which ones were held together by audacity alone. After accompanying the nth friend to the Louvre, I increasingly started to see the allure of the Pompidou. I watched my first two Wong Kar-wai movies in Paris apartments and La La Land twice in Paris theaters. A colleague was ready to file a complaint on my behalf when she found out I was working eight-hour shifts.
My experience is far from universal, and a visit to Paris today wouldn’t impart the same lessons, even to me. Exchange is special because of its length and because of the impressionability of its students. To crib from a piece my friend Gaston Modot wrote, “Paris is the city of the flâneur, and it’s best enjoyed slowly — strolling by the river, stopping at a cafe, people watching in the park, getting lost in an old bookstore, popping into a gallery.” And as these new experiences are repeated to a sensitive young identity, they are quickly internalized. Without the requisite time or youth, I would have no time to accumulate knowledge or acquire taste.
I don’t claim expertise in cuisine, fashion, art or film, French or otherwise, but it’s undeniable that exchange created previously non-existent interest and a foundation onto which I now build. This influence is most visible when comparing myself with friends who haven’t had the opportunity of spending a semester abroad. Paris is largely responsible for waking me up from my dogmatic slumber, for introducing new ideas of art and individuality.
More than superficial personality quirks, I gained a belief in myself, in ideas and behaviours that were exceptions to the norm. I saw how sheer confidence could make the difference between a mismatched and ill-fitting outfit and a distinct style. I understood how art that had broken all the rules now decorated museum walls and commanded attention. What was stopping me from doing what I wanted?
Though a stretch, exchange is conceivably to blame for the little personality that I have which doesn't fall squarely within yuppie boxes. Perhaps the quiet dissatisfaction that I feel in my life right now also has its roots in Paris. I possibly yearn for those carefree days, strolling around the streets of Paris. Maybe I’d rather have a thirty-five hour workweek.
Though I write about all the intangibles that Paris has left me with, I haven’t forgotten about the city itself. To this day, I can still imagine every street of the 11e arrondissement, and I know Paris better than I know Toronto. I will watch every movie, no matter how bad or problematic, so long as it’s set in Paris. I crave a picnic on a manicured field, a drink by the Seine, and a baguette from a boulangerie. Until the next time you will have me, Paris.
