The Hedge: Week 6 - The Essay Is The Ultimate Form of Self-Hatred

In my final year of my undergraduate degree, I had a 5000 word research paper to write. This was supposed to take about seven months.

Today I'm working on a 4000 word research paper, which is supposed to take about a week and a half. This should give you some clue as to the difference in workload between the two programmes.

Right now I have twenty tabs open on my browser. Only one of them is something other than an academic article (if you're curious, it's a delicious-looking recipe for a rustic sausage and cider stew). Words are blending together in front of my eyes and slowly starting to lose any real meaning. I keep clicking from one journal to the next, as if this were some valuable work in itself and not a pathetic attempt to delay having to do any more reading. I maintained enthusiasm for my research topic right up until I finished my outline, at which point I immediately hated it. Every sentence I complete is the worst sentence I've ever written; a symbol of my utter paucity of talent. I expect to continue to hate everything I write, right up until it's finished. Then, inexplicably, I'll read through it and decide it's actually good.

This is pretty standard essay-writing procedure for me, or at least one part of it. The other parts vary, but usually involve some combination of poor sleeping patterns, junk food, innumerable cups of tea, and listening to the national anthems of former Soviet states in an attempt to rouse my spirits. (I'm not a Stalinist, by the way. They just have the best national anthems. This is not up for debate.)

There is, thankfully, a silver lining to all this: I've noticed how much easier it is now than it was four years ago. The hardest part of these kind of projects is getting started, sticking to a plan, and simply having the self-confidence to know you are capable of reaching the finish line. When I did my final-year research paper at the undergraduate level, I still felt like I had no clue what I was doing. That, in itself, was enough to make me put off the work for far too long, agonising over how to even start rather than actually starting, and left me panicking and rushing in the final weeks. Today, I still have no clue what I'm doing, but I at least believe I can...figure it out somehow. And if I don't, I can at least pretend I know what I'm talking about, present my professors with something that looks a bit like I know what I'm talking about, and who knows, maybe even convince them that I do. I'm pretty sure that's how PhD students do it.

Will update again when the stupid essay is over. Now, back to the Kazakhstan national anthem.

The Hedge: Week 1

In my last update, I was freaking out about the stresses of moving house, moving countries, and leaving my job to start a degree in the Netherlands.

Fortunately, since that last update I have sorted everything out and become a calmer, newer, more organised me.

For example: last weekend I went to a talk by a UN official and managed not to be late, even though I'd just woken up twenty minutes before. I was dressed way too scruffily but I cleverly sat in a way which hid the hole in my jeans. I inexplicably had a satsuma in my pocket, which meant I didn't need to worry about breakfast.  I didn't spill any coffee on myself. I managed not to ask the very important UN guy any stupid questions. And even though on my way home I got the wrong tram three times, it DID lead me to walk home, which meant I got plenty of exercise. (In the rain.) And on the walk I found a very nice cafe. (Which protected me from the rain.)

So as you can see, I am entirely put-together in my new life.

***

Let's back up: three weeks ago, I was pushing a very heavy suitcase down a suburban road in The Hague - my new hometown. A woman started giving me a stern telling-off because, as it turned out, I was walking in the cycle lane.

It had not been a good morning.

I'd been up since 5am and hadn't even had anything to eat or drink. (I'd bought a scalding cup of tea at Gatwick but after twenty minutes it was still hot enough to burn my tongue, and I ended up having to leave it behind.) I'd had to pay an excess charge to easyJet for my big fat overweight suitcase, I'd almost lost my laptop at security, and the electronic passport readers at Amsterdam's airport were broken, leading to a massive queue of customers all as grumpy as I was. And now a woman was chastising me for not knowing appropriate lane etiquette. In my travel-induced delirium, I was starting to wonder what on earth I was even doing here.

Fortunately, things got a little better after I'd had some lunch, a nap, and met some of my fellow students on our orientation programme. Everyone was very nice and made me feel thoroughly ashamed of my language abilities, since despite being from all around the world, they could all speak English better than I could. With two weeks of free time until classes started, I had a little bit of space to get my bearings, download all the necessary apps, figure out how trains work (the answer is: better than back home) and all the other little necessary things. The feeling of "what on earth am I doing here" didn't entirely subside, but it did get noticeably quieter.


***

I'm typing this on Sunday night, as my First Official Week As A Masters Student draws to a close. (I notice *none* of you have sent me a card or a balloon, but don't worry, I'll get over it.) I'm feeling a lot more settled in now - I have an apartment, I have a vague sense of how to get to my classes, and I can order coffee in Dutch if the server is patient and doesn't ask any questions. I also have an essay due ALREADY, but I'm actually working on it rather than leaving it to the last hour, as I would have done five years ago. Progress!

I'll let you know how things go.

I'm writing this on my phone because my screen is cracked

I've come home from a long day at work and opened up my laptop to find the screen cracked. Fortunately this was ten minutes before my nearest reputable repair shop closed, so I was able to bolt down there and I should have it back tomorrow. But quite frankly, it was not what I needed. Planning one move is hell, let alone two (I have to move from my flat this week - the flat which, as it happens, just had its roof burst open - and then move countries at the end of the month). I have no university housing and looking online from another country is a minefield. I'm at the point of considering living in a hostel or airbnb for my first month of study, and just hoping to God I find somewhere. Moving out of my flat is stressful. Getting rid of furniture is stressful. Wondering why your university hasn't been in touch to confirm you are actually on the course is stressful. The various other emotional stressors going on are stressful. I am in a constant state of mild panic, even when asleep. And yet I've just returned from eight hours of dealing with people who are in much worse situations than I am, and feel guilty even taking up digital space.

Don't bother reading this. Just...argh.

Panic

You would think that I would remember that I'm supposed to move out of my flat in two weeks. And that I'm moving out of the country three weeks after that. But this morning, in the shower, I suddenly remembered: I'm moving next weekend. Not some indeterminate time in the future. Not a couple of months from now. Next weekend. Everything has to be packed into boxes, furniture disassembled, rubbish thrown out, skirting boards dusted. Freezer defrosted. Next weekend.

Somehow, I'd forgotten about this. Of course I knew in the abstract, but it wasn't in the forefront of my mind. I've been getting on with work and projects and dealing with various things that have cropped up. So I've sort of surprised myself. You have masses to do and you aren't prepared at all! SURPRISE!

There's also the small matter of not having anywhere to live when I get to the Netherlands. The university very kindly offered to set me up with housing, and then very unkindly retracted that offer. I've been handed the unfortunate task of having to flat-hunt online, without ever getting to see the place in question, and wondering if a) I'm ever going to find somewhere and b) if, when I finally get the flat, it's going to smell of cigarettes and sulphur, and have a floor that's actually just painted dirt. You never know until you see somewhere in person, do you?

So, yes. I am panicking. Just a little.

Please watch Samurai Gourmet

If you have Netflix, you need to be watching Samurai Gourmet.

If you don't know what this show is, I will explain the premise. A Japanese man retires and doesn't know what to do with his life. He spends his time going to restaurants. He eats the food and enjoys it. Sometimes it reminds him of some food he ate a long time ago. Sometimes, someone in the restaurant is obnoxious, and he fantasizes that a samurai will come and threaten them. He is perpetually socially anxious and amazed at the fact that he has free time now and can go to restaurants and drink beer whenever he wants. Then he goes home to his wife. This is literally the entire show.

It is my favourite thing right now.

It combines two stalwarts of Japanese television culture: food, and low-stakes appreciation. There is no need to think about destruction, or fear, or difficult decisions. There are no explosions, and not really much in the way of belly-laughs either. Instead, you are treated to twenty minutes of the protagonist musing on the minutiae of life, etiquette and enjoyment. A lunchtime beer is savoured; its colour in the sunlight, the thickness of the foam (naturally, being a Japanese beer, it is served with a head that would get the barman glassed in England). A simple plate of spaghetti or grilled chicken triggers a pleasant memory, and makes him wonder briefly about people and establishments from his youth. This is all the tension you need to make you keep watching. I think it's telling that I'm more addicted to this than to the new season of Orange is the New Black, which features a prison riot, and yet doesn't have half the power to draw me in as Samurai Gourmet.

I would implore you to give it a go.

An update.

Hey all. I have quite a bit on my plate right now (although not literally - haven't had dinner yet and I'm suuuuuper-hungry).

To be honest, I've been letting myself get a little drained and not taking as good care of myself as I'd like. I recently took up some extra hours and responsibilities at work, which is good for paying bills but has put on a bit of additional stress. I now have one less hour of free time per day, which doesn't sound like much but I'm feeling the effects. In addition, knowing I'll be moving soon means a) there's a bunch of extra stuff I have to do, and b) I'm feeling the pressure to enjoy living where I am right now, see all the things I haven't seen, eat where I haven't eaten etc. Instead of letting myself relax, I've responded by putting even more pressure on myself, which in retrospect might not be the correct decision. Squeezing everything I want to do into my week is taking a toll, which I've especially noticed the past few days. This weekend, I completely crashed and slept a total of about 27 hours over the two days.

I'm hoping to get back to normal service soon. In the meantime, I think I need to get back to basics: go for walks, take pleasure in books, cook simple and familiar meals. Follow my instincts on what will make me happy.

To start with, let's get dinner. I have halloumi, bacon and bagels, which basically means I'll be eating a shaker's worth of salt. But it'll be comforting and delicious, which is the important thing right now.

Chat to you later.

Exciting things happened.

So, just as I'm settling down in my flat, I'm getting ready to leave again.

Some context might be relevant: This time four years ago, I was cobbling together mind-maps and flowcharts for my final university exams, sellotaping notes to the walls of my damp-ridden room, memorising pre-planned essays, and quietly putting to the back of my mind the fact that I wasn't quite sure what relevance any of it might have to my future. 

Three years and nine months ago, I stepped down from a stage in an echoey hall, holding my diploma in my sweaty hand, letting it awkwardly flap between my hands as I applauded the next person behind me and wondered if they had any more clue than I did.

Three years ago I moved abroad, and for the first time discovered the joy of speaking languages, of communicating across barriers, of learning the similarities and differences between cultures, and navigating politics, economics and manners in a totally new environment.

 Two years ago I Googled "international relations masters degree".

Six months ago I narrowed down a list of about twenty universities down to four, and emailed my old professors to ask: did they remember the girl with the ever-changing hair colours? and would they mind writing her a reference?

Three months ago I was agonising over the wording of the final draft of my personal statement. Is the word "passion" clichéd? Did I spend too many sentences on hobbies?

One week ago, I got the last of the responses from my four chosen programmes. I'd been accepted to three of them, and waitlisted at one (the result of wasting too much time fussing about with the minutiae of the application essay, and getting it in a month later than planned as a result. Don't do this.) 

Today I chose one of those programmes, and sent in my acceptance form. 

This September, I will be moving to The Hague for two years, for an MSc in International Relations and Diplomacy.

Guess I'd better start learning Dutch.