Several years ago, I sat an entrance exam for university. While waiting for the test to start and fiddling about in my stripy socks after not having slept in thirty hours, I started talking with a boy waiting to sit the same exam. We both agreed we were not going to get in and would spend the year bumming around.
He got in; I flunked the test. He started his studies and built on his previous preparation and knowledge in the field. I worked in a factory, learned to flirt with boys and travelled around Europe on my own for the first time. The next year, I resat the exam and this time got in. He continued to study diligently, started dabbling in projects run by the department, networked with the faculty and top-of-class students. I started my studies from zero, drank heavily, joined the students' society, and dedicated my time to organizing parties and editing the magazine for the society. In the process, I made friends and slowly carved out a life for myself in an unfamiliar city. Our paths with the boy swerved away from each other; we would meet for coffee once a year to exchange pleasantries, for him to tell of research trips to Rome and for me to sweat while trying to make my sorority-esque life seem remotely respectable.
I continued my merry lifestyle, and in the end it took me five years to get my BA. I finally did get involved in university policies (if not politics) and alienated some faculty members while gaining the respect of others. I spent three summers on projects that had nothing to do with my department but which in the end proved elemental in making me realize what I'm interested in and that opportunities to study it exist. I drank retsina, met people, talked about beer breweries as well as research.
I last met the boy a year ago. He told me, much to my surprise, that he was fed up with our department, our field of studies and wanted to get a degree in Business and get an actual job. I told him I wanted to study in the US because I similarly was not happy studying what I was; however, I was determined I could find my niche across the pond.
Now, I hear he's been accepted to Princeton to study History, a dream spot for the research he's interested in. I am fortunate enough to have a choice between several of my dream programmes in the US. I do not know what happened to change his mind over the past year, but he seems excited in a way I don't think he's been in many years; I don't know what happened to land me where I am now, but I am excited in a way I haven't been in many years.
The moral of this story is not that I am a shameless braggard. Nor is it to spend five years getting drunk every week. It's not even that studying hard will get you into Princeton.
The moral of the story is that everyone can win. Detours are not in vain, and two very different paths can lead to happiness. Your happiness does not reduce mine, nor does it make the choices I've made any less valid.
