Eliott Choppin, Grade 12
UWC-USA
Having been sent home during the Great March Hustle, like many students at UWC-USA and around the world, after long weeks of deep sadness, purposelessness and struggle with online class, I started disconnecting from UWC. I realized I was not good at keeping virtual contact and that classes that usually excited me and brought me closer to a movement became more of a meaningless chore that I only wanted to pass for, rien de plus. I started not thinking of myself as a UWC student anymore. Although the pictures of my time in the desert and the letters that my peers had hastily written to me before I boarded the bus still hung on my wall, I felt like that guy was somebody else. Not that I rejected him, but more that no matter how hard I tried, I could not remember being him. The letters were taken down bit by bit, and soon the wall was blank but for a tiny Mexican flag and a letter hanging precariously.
After waking up one day in the middle of June, realizing that 3 months had passed by though it had felt like 3 weeks, the void that leaving of UWC had created in my life intensified. The need for UWC-ing, a need that I had tried to cover up those last weeks, had become unbearable. It was, surprisingly, not so much the need to see my dear friends. It was the need to experience the unknown, a feeling that I constantly had at UWC. That’s when I packed my bike.
That night, I filled a pair of bicycle bags with a tent, a sleeping bag, a sweater and my trilogy edition of Lord of the Rings. The rest of my stuff I was wearing. The next morning, I got on my saddle and headed south-east. I had no idea really of where I was going. It was pedal stroke after pedal stroke, and as I made my way through Brussels, its suburbs, and soon, the Belgian countryside, I recognized my surroundings less and less, and that felt great. It was the feeling I had been after for so long, the feeling of getting familiar with the unknown. My own self became absorbed into the road, the environment, and the speed. When cycling 35 kilometres an hour for long time spans, cars flashing by constantly during the rush hour, it is crucial that one focuses on what is around them, out of safety. My own self became absorbed into the road, my surroundings, and the speed. I, as a person, somewhat stopped existing. This is one of the many wonders of cycling. The only thing (*looks into the distance, hair in the wind, dramatic music*) that held me back from totally transcending into a superior spirit was my legs hurting like mad oh my, it was as if someone was frying them at the same time as crushing them under a hydraulic press.
The pain somewhat eased as I slowed down, and I followed countryside roads I deemed attractive until the late afternoon, asking people here and there what they thought was worth seeing in the region. The more I went south-east, the less I was able to understand their French, and I loved it. I had missed the accents. Many of them seemed to suggest that I visited an archaeological site up in the hills, which I ended up doing: incredible experience, lots of caves and prehistoric drawings. I set up my tent not far away and went to sleep pretty early, as those 115 uneven kilometres had made me quite tired. At five the next morning, I was up, more than ready for a new day of exploration and speedy descents in the Belgian Ardennes without a helmet (you need to live a little). Once again, after a day of incredible discovery of parts of my own country I had no clue existed or had never wondered about, and lots of dialogues with the locals, I settled down to visit a place that had been recommended to me by many.
It was a very old abbey, still in use, where good beer was brewed, and mass still took place. Having been raised an atheist, I’ve always had a certain degree of curiosity towards Catholicism, a religion in which lots of my country’s culture and history has its roots. I asked the abbot if by any chance I could visit the abbey, but he said that it was under restoration and therefore not open to the public except for some retreatants. However, he offered me a shower and a place to put my tent for the night. He also told me that I could attend a mass given by the monks. I happily accepted. It was the exact kind of experience I was craving, the kind I jumped on my bike for. Unlike all people present, being monks and retreatants, who knew exactly when and what to chant, when to stand up and when to lift their arms, I was a bit lost in the beginning.
However, after a couple mistakes (notably standing up alone with open arms, earning curious glances), I picked up the gestures and even the logic behind them to some extent. I was following the rituals out of respect, admiration and exploration. It would be lying if I said that I didn’t feel anything at that mass. Not that I’ve become a believer, but finding myself in places of cult always makes me feel that presence and vibrance. After having slept a night there, I returned to Brussels, changed. Not changed in the sense that I was a new me, but changed in the way I had come back to the old me. Those bicycle trips quickly became an addiction, and I started doing more and more of them.
A good thing about travelling in Europe, is that you can experience lots of different cultures and very different environments in less than a few hours, even by bike. Furthermore, Europe is so dense that you can travel through 8 countries by car in less than 10 hours, and, although it is a fairly widespread belief in the UWC community that Europeans form one united family, I wonder what it takes for a Spanish, a Swede and a Bulgarian to feel connected by their culture. The cultural diversity is incredible, even between such small countries as Belgium and Switzerland, although not far away at all. This allowed my friends and me, later on, to explore the unknown and come back in just more than a week each time.
After waking up one day in the middle of June, realizing that 3 months had passed by though it had felt like 3 weeks, the void that leaving of UWC had created in my life intensified. The need for UWC-ing, a need that I had tried to cover up those last weeks, had become unbearable. It was, surprisingly, not so much the need to see my dear friends. It was the need to experience the unknown, a feeling that I constantly had at UWC. That’s when I packed my bike.
That night, I filled a pair of bicycle bags with a tent, a sleeping bag, a sweater and my trilogy edition of Lord of the Rings. The rest of my stuff I was wearing. The next morning, I got on my saddle and headed south-east. I had no idea really of where I was going. It was pedal stroke after pedal stroke, and as I made my way through Brussels, its suburbs, and soon, the Belgian countryside, I recognized my surroundings less and less, and that felt great. It was the feeling I had been after for so long, the feeling of getting familiar with the unknown. My own self became absorbed into the road, the environment, and the speed. When cycling 35 kilometres an hour for long time spans, cars flashing by constantly during the rush hour, it is crucial that one focuses on what is around them, out of safety. My own self became absorbed into the road, my surroundings, and the speed. I, as a person, somewhat stopped existing. This is one of the many wonders of cycling. The only thing (*looks into the distance, hair in the wind, dramatic music*) that held me back from totally transcending into a superior spirit was my legs hurting like mad oh my, it was as if someone was frying them at the same time as crushing them under a hydraulic press.
The pain somewhat eased as I slowed down, and I followed countryside roads I deemed attractive until the late afternoon, asking people here and there what they thought was worth seeing in the region. The more I went south-east, the less I was able to understand their French, and I loved it. I had missed the accents. Many of them seemed to suggest that I visited an archaeological site up in the hills, which I ended up doing: incredible experience, lots of caves and prehistoric drawings. I set up my tent not far away and went to sleep pretty early, as those 115 uneven kilometres had made me quite tired. At five the next morning, I was up, more than ready for a new day of exploration and speedy descents in the Belgian Ardennes without a helmet (you need to live a little). Once again, after a day of incredible discovery of parts of my own country I had no clue existed or had never wondered about, and lots of dialogues with the locals, I settled down to visit a place that had been recommended to me by many.
It was a very old abbey, still in use, where good beer was brewed, and mass still took place. Having been raised an atheist, I’ve always had a certain degree of curiosity towards Catholicism, a religion in which lots of my country’s culture and history has its roots. I asked the abbot if by any chance I could visit the abbey, but he said that it was under restoration and therefore not open to the public except for some retreatants. However, he offered me a shower and a place to put my tent for the night. He also told me that I could attend a mass given by the monks. I happily accepted. It was the exact kind of experience I was craving, the kind I jumped on my bike for. Unlike all people present, being monks and retreatants, who knew exactly when and what to chant, when to stand up and when to lift their arms, I was a bit lost in the beginning.
However, after a couple mistakes (notably standing up alone with open arms, earning curious glances), I picked up the gestures and even the logic behind them to some extent. I was following the rituals out of respect, admiration and exploration. It would be lying if I said that I didn’t feel anything at that mass. Not that I’ve become a believer, but finding myself in places of cult always makes me feel that presence and vibrance. After having slept a night there, I returned to Brussels, changed. Not changed in the sense that I was a new me, but changed in the way I had come back to the old me. Those bicycle trips quickly became an addiction, and I started doing more and more of them.
A good thing about travelling in Europe, is that you can experience lots of different cultures and very different environments in less than a few hours, even by bike. Furthermore, Europe is so dense that you can travel through 8 countries by car in less than 10 hours, and, although it is a fairly widespread belief in the UWC community that Europeans form one united family, I wonder what it takes for a Spanish, a Swede and a Bulgarian to feel connected by their culture. The cultural diversity is incredible, even between such small countries as Belgium and Switzerland, although not far away at all. This allowed my friends and me, later on, to explore the unknown and come back in just more than a week each time.
Guest Writer - UWC-USA |
We travelled through France, the Netherlands, Luxembourg and Germany for almost no money and without the need to show a passport. My bicycle trips throughout the summer moved me in that they reminded me of the power of the unknown. Experiencing it every day at school, from breakfast until late night chats, often makes us numb to the unknown. Feeling connected to our mission statement requires us to experience the unknown by definition, but how can we really be impacted by it if it becomes banal? That’s why it is so important to sometimes remind ourselves of the chance we have to be in such environments. True diversity on its campuses is an area UWC lacks a lot in but also has more to offer for. The unknown is the most wonderful in that it teaches one about oneself. More than it changes you, it tends to teach you about your own person, your own true beliefs and values, and to show you about your own inner diversity and beauty.
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