In an act of boundless benevolence and selfless Samaritanism, I, on behalf of all current and future languages students, have taken on the noble task of committing every error possible over my Year Abroad.

Admittedly, my ‘what went wrongs’ will more often than not read like a list of obscenely first-world problems, but the aim of recalling my multiple faux pas is to debunk the myth that the Year Abroad is all Sun, Sex, and, Skyping-your-parents. May my words serve to gently curb the expectations of any students planning to embark on a Year Abroad (MML or otherwise) and at least mildly entertain those who have no such plans, but are open to being tickled by my (many) trials and (even more) errors.

I grew substantially as a person over the course of my Year Abroad, in wisdom and width alike. Call me, if you will (and if you won’t lambast me for cultural appropriation; N.B. not my intention) a Buddhess. I am perhaps being both too cruel and too kind to myself by proclaiming to have metamorphosed into a curvaceous, omniscient deity. But a tripartite trip to three Hispanic countries dotted across the globe proved to be a one-way ticket to a bigger backside and a far better understanding of the world than I had hitherto.

Subsequent verdicts: Reykjavik is the most surreal city in the world; New York is terrifying; Toronto is quite possibly paradise, and au pairing is hands down the most effective form of contraception

Before coming to Cambridge, I took a gap year. But I did not take part in an Ayahuasca ceremony conducted by the world’s weirdest man or build an architecturally abysmal school in a remote community. And I was about as close to finding myself as I am to getting a First in my finals (current odds slim to none; would not bet). Rather than backpack across South-East Asia, I spent the large majority of the year working in a pub in South London, earning what I’m pretty sure was under minimum wage in a very literal attempt to rack up enough 20p tips to fund short sporadic trips and job stints. (Subsequent verdicts: Reykjavik is the most surreal city in the world; New York is terrifying; Toronto is quite possibly paradise, and au pairing is hands down the most effective form of contraception).

Yet, I was always quite at peace with not having acquired a series of autobiography-worthy anecdotes or an edgy perspective photo at the Uyuni Salt Flats in Bolivia, because I knew that the MML course I was due to start included an integral year abroad. It would be then I could a) get my big break as an [insert as-of-yet undecided career], b) live in a remote corner of the world, revelling in wifi-less-ness and roaming around in an [insert traditional local garment], c) blitz through my bucket list or, ideally, d) all of the above.

I politely ask that you not tell me how ridiculously naïve and, above all, privileged I sound. I am well aware. But the truth is, that a year spent hopping from Spain to Chile to Costa Rica was not quite as phenomenal as it sounds and the only apt word I can find to sum up the entire experience would be covfefe.

Before the tragicomic scenes where I fail and flail, which will make up the gritty and gripping content of three subsequent articles, allow me to briefly sketch out what I did do this year. Over my Year Abroad, I cut my teeth on and tore my hair out over translation, teaching and journalism. I translated a toilet-seat installation manual and a label for diarrhoea medication - notably both on the same day (and perhaps the most literal example of a shit day). I braved going to one of the most questionable corners of Santiago to interview a record label manager who showed me Youtube videos of a man banging a really big drum for an hour instead. I spent 47 minutes teaching a man in his fifties how to pronounce “hello” – think of that Friends episode where Phoebe tries to teach Joey French – to both his and my amusement, but little avail.

“But this must look great on your CV!”, I hear you cry. I’m sure it looks alright. But the Year Abroad is, or ought to be, more about accruing a list of things you shouldn’t tell your mum, rather than a series of career-launching bullet points. I’ve already told my mum almost everything (error #7,392), so I might as well spread the word to the whole world. (For the purposes of this grand statement, the world is comprised exclusively of Varsity’s readership.)

Coming up in Proper Article 1 on How Not To Do Your Year Abroad, we head to Barcelona for unpaid internship No. 1 (out of a total three; I hate money), where we are introduced to the best croquetas known to (wo)man and encounter the worst Tinder date since the dawn of digital dating. Please, hold on to your UL seats.