alone in cologne by Veronica P. '27

I counted today, and since freshman year orientation I have said goodbye to my parents ten times.

The first time they dropped me off at MIT, my mom couldn’t contain her tears. Holding my hand, she was the only one of us truly overcome with sadness. She’d squeeze tighter and tighter, as if enough pressure would coax the misery out, but, for all she tried, the moment refused to hit me. Almost accusingly, I remember, she pivoted towards my dad, “How can you not be upset? Are you not going to miss her?”

“Of course I’m going to miss her, but why would I be sad? I’m too excited for her.” 

My dad had moved even further for college. After qualifying for a scholarship program, he traveled from Venezuela to Germany without knowing a single German sentence. As a student, he could only afford to call his family once a month— a drastic change for a sixteen year old. (He spent my entire childhood swearing it was fifteen, but after his fortieth retelling or so my sister and I gathered enough skepticism to do the math)

If I had to guess, there are a number of reasons he revisits the experience so often. Anytime I felt too scared, too young, too out of my comfort zone, he would use his story to convince me that I was capable of more than I believed. He always seemed to look back on his German years as one of the best periods of his life. From a young age, my sister and I were raised with his itch to travel, with that sense of independence and exploration. For my dad, watching me leave Texas was like watching everything he had ever wanted for me come true.

And every goodbye since, for both of my parents, has mirrored the emotions of that very first time. This tenth one, however, was particularly sentimental; inspired by my dad, I’ve set off to intern in Germany for the summer!

Back home, my little sister is preparing to go to college herself. Not to be outdone, she’s moving out of state as well. She’s one of the bravest people I know, but even so, it’s hard not to see the fear in her. She’s closer to my parents than I was at her age; since visiting me in February, she’s struggled to stomach the idea of leaving home. Recently, I tried to tap back into how I felt when I was in her shoes. For some reason, I couldn’t remember being nearly as scared.

Perhaps that’s because, for the most part, I’ve always held the same mindset as my dad. I remember not feeling as homesick as many of my friends freshman year, I was too caught up in the novelty that was right in front of me. If anything, I wasted no time in applying to MISTI, in finding ways to spend my breaks even further away from Texas. When I reflect on my adventures, I’m quick to recall that sense of accomplishment, the thrill of having ventured out into the unknown.

But that thrill has to be earned somehow. It has to be earned through fear. If I dig a little deeper, into the less savory parts of my memory, I can recall those nights of crying to my mom on the couch, of slipping into accidental tears over FaceTime.

And while this is my tenth goodbye, my third MISTI adventure, this time around the fear feels more acute. I’ve called my parents more in the past week than I usually do over an entire month. I thought I was immune to homesickness, and here I am, feeling it two years too late. My previous MISTI’s have been no longer than three weeks, in countries where I had a better grasp of the language and culture. Here, I feel uncharacteristically hesitant to venture out on my own: certain I’ll miss some social cue, certain I’ll come into harm’s way.

Despite this, my dad’s encouragement has its permanent place in the back of my mind. I trust that if I lean into the fear, I’ll ultimately be glad I did. I remember as a kid, he’d drag me onto rollercoaster after rollercoaster. During the line, I’d watch the ride and knot my stomach around every single loop; I’d beg him to let us turn around, try to convince him that this next ride was truly too much for me. But without fail, by the time we lifted our seatbelts, I was always exclaiming “that was AWESOME!” and racing to ride again.

So, last Sunday, I set off without my roommate to take a day trip to Cologne. At lunch, I sat behind another American girl, also a table for one. When the waiter arrived with our plates, I found that we had ordered the same exact dish. My phone buzzed with messages from my parents. Maybe I wasn’t so alone, after all.