After six months of occasional run-ins on campus, we had a party. It was a pale tint of old times; good food, my one bottle of white wine amidst a table of red wine, mention of double dactyls, laughter, everyone talking about their lives outside of our month in a foreign land, and the periodic explanation on where someone was and why they hadn’t come.

Some had different haircuts, others different clothing sizes, but no one had changed.

There were shifting conversations. Everyone moved between the living room and the kitchen and then back again, making frequents stops in their endless journey to talk with those they passed. All the conversations in the room were the same. How are you doing? How is life? Where are you in your life? Have you heard from Person X since the trip?

After a month living together, after our only contact with home being one another, after being forced to survive together through both fun and stressful experiences, the only things we talked about were our mundane lives. It made me sad to realize how hard it is to connect with other people emotionally.