December came around later than expected. The first thin sheets of ice settled on the grass and lingered for a while, until snow finally took over. There were still more than two months left before our flight to America. I completed the necessary paperwork and tried to deal with the conflicting thoughts racing through my mind. When I felt exhausted or spent too much time with my parents, I often had second thoughts: “Maybe I shouldn’t go after all.” I could say I wouldn’t survive outside of Armenia, but that would be a lie. I’m not the type to comfort myself with the thought that homesickness would overwhelm me. Or something like that. But my type, we don’t easily adapt to new environments. Even when we moved to our new apartment in Yerevan, the discomfort stayed for a long time, refusing to leave. But every time I saw that same proud look on my dad’s face, I knew it was well worth it. I had to go, spend 18 months in the Land of the Free, avoid any major troubles, and then come back.

In a couple of days, as the news spread, the men in our neighborhood who usually hung out in the gazebos, arguing over both important and trivial issues facing Armenia (and usually offering the most simplistic solutions to the most complicated problems), congratulated me and cheered me on whenever they saw me walking home. My dad must have been repeating his favorite line: “High achievers set high academic goals,” forcing it awkwardly into every conversation.

Although Anush and I had spent four years in classes together, we were hardly close. But we grew closer once we were both set to study abroad, and we got to know Yesayi as well. The three of us dined together nearly every day at the campus dining hall, discussing the months ahead. These frequent talks led us to decide on renting a cozy, affordable house for the three of us. I thought Anush might object, but she was more than enthusiastic about the whole idea. We’d save on rent, after all, and maybe even on everyday travel expenses on our way to campus.

The tedious paperwork and all the preparations made the departure day arrive almost unnoticed. Anush and I took the same flight, while we planned to meet up with Yesayi once we arrived - he had flown to San Francisco a week earlier. He didn’t want to waste any Visa days and had planned to meet a friend in the U.S. to soak up the American experience before classes started.

At the airport, I saw my Mom crying once again. Anush’s Mom was no less unsettled, probably worried about how her daughter would manage on her own so far from home. I walked over to her and forced my biggest smile, trying to ease her worries a bit.

“Don’t you worry,” I said. “Yesayi and I will watch over her better than we would ourselves.”

Anush’s Dad was quiet, almost eerily so. He didn’t even go for a goodbye hug. It seemed like he couldn’t bear the heavy thoughts of his daughter living in a faraway land with two guys she didn’t know much about.

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