The bittersweetness of study-abroad goodbyes


Photo courtesy of Meg O’Handley

Around two weeks ago, the international students at Waseda University finished their last round of finals and clawed their way out of a fast-collapsing pit of deadlines, study-guides, and quiet panic. The end of the semester meant freedom for all of us, but for some of us — single-semester exchange students — it also meant goodbye. On Saturday, I went to an informal send-off for someone whom I had a budding friendship with — one that had been nipped off too early by the winter of farewell.

We met in an arcade, where he — a shy break-dancer with a slow-spreading smile and a penguin-like waddle to his walk — sat in front of a machine, immersed in a fighting game. For a while, the rest of us formed a ring around him, watching him twiddle the joy-stick and jab at the buttons. His character sent an unfortunate opponent sailing across the screen. I threw a wry smile at another student, standing next to me. The student bent down and whispered, “I bet he’s only playing because he doesn’t want to cry.”

This warmed my smile and thawed my eyes a bit. I blinked, because I don’t want to cry, not here in this arcade filled to bursting with music notes, virtual zombies and stuffed animals. Parting is one of the toughest parts of study-abroad for me, and when the season of watery smiles and lonely hand-waving rolls around, I always find myself wondering why I set myself up for goodbye again and again.

He finished his game, and we headed out to the train station, which was just next door. At first, the rest of us simply surrounded him, joking and laughing. A girl tried to tickle him as the rest of us stood by, attempting to suppress our giggles as we recorded his stoic reaction. We took goofy pictures in which nobody was smiling. Finally, there was no more putting it off—the ticket gates were in view.

“I’ll miss you,” I said, trying to sound flippant.

He paused, and miraculously, he offered me a frank admission of his feelings, “Yeah, me too.”

I thought back to our developing friendship: teasing him in a freezing Waseda lounge about his inability to speak Japanese unless drunk; munching on chicken skewers at an izakaya, otherwise known as a Japanese pub; listening to him sing Ne-Yo at one of the many karaoke joints elbowing each other near campus. There was definitely regret that we didn’t have longer to spend together, but more than that, there was gratitude — gratitude that we were able to meet and laugh together, gratitude that we were able to explore the metropolis of Tokyo together.

He was on the other side of the gates by now. A couple of friends and I stood there and waved, ignoring, for once, the nuisance we were being to the passerby. Unable to resist a final jab at his bashfulness, I stepped forward and called in a silly voice:

“Don’t cry!”

He made a face and turned away, and I felt my smile flicker, like an old lightbulb. But as the memories began to come, propping me up one by one, I could feel my face brightening up again. I turned my back on the ticket gates. I looked at the friends still standing beside me. We laughed awkwardly at each other, and stirred ourselves to walk.

Indeed, I thought, parting is one of the toughest parts of study-abroad — but the memories preceding it: that is what it’s all about.