Bug

Afterwards, the teacher asks which of us did their bachelor’s degree in English. I raise my hand. “They usually aren’t very good at writing in Dutch”, the lecturer says. “We’re going to get rid of that academic style with all of you anyway.”

I cycle home. In Rotterdam, I always took the metro, where people only sat next to each other if they really had to, and between Beurs and Blaak, owls and sea turtles passed by on the walls of the tunnel. I have to wait for a pleasure boat to pass before crossing a bridge. I think back to one of the few times I cycled to uni in Rotterdam. My bike was rusty, clunky, and had only one very low gear. When I crossed the Erasmus Bridge, I had to pedal like crazy to get up the slope because of the lack of resistance. A group of cruise ship passengers cheered and clapped to encourage me.

My current room is a bit larger than my room in Rotterdam, and the house is a lot cleaner. This is probably because there is a cleaning schedule. My old roommate and I send each other photos of our new, nicer living situations. It was one of my new roommates’ birthday. We eat a slice of cake in her room. She talks about her studies: “It’s okay. I do hope I’ll find something I’m passionate about soon.”

The next day is a selfstudy day. I am sitting in the backyard with my laptop and a glass of water. A bug is walking straight ahead on the rim of the glass, going around in circles. An email about the graduation ceremony in Rotterdam says they want to know what I want to say during my speech; it has to be positive and uplifting. For ten minutes, I stare at the bug, thinking about the speech. Then I help the insect onto my finger and move it to the tiled ground, where it has more directions. I close my laptop. I’ll think of something.