And then I graduated. A sentence like the ending of a story, at the end of many hours of study and writing. A good story, I might add. In the beginning of summer, I turned in 103 pages of text, and as summer came to an end, I could celebrate a generous grade of 16.6/20.

My graduation marks the end of one chapter and the start of another. I am exploring new paths, looking for an internship or a job, while still feeling like an eternal student. Before moving forward, I want to reflect on how my life changed from one perspective to a very different one.

The ceremony began with formal speeches, difficult words, and a request to keep calm: “Please, only applaud at the end of each list of students. Otherwise our day will turn into night before fitting everybody in.” First they called the graduates of history, then of European languages. Everyone stayed silent throughout, only clapping their hands after all the graduates of a particular course had been announced. Only once did someone break this rule. Do you want to guess?

As they read my name, my Dad shot up, whistling loudly and, while gesturing at me, clapping his hands with conviction. I grew red in the face, suddenly and unexpectedly the centre of the room. But also proud, and happy that it was us who broke the university’s boring rule. 

Afterwards I managed to squeeze about twenty people around a long line of tables, shouting long-distance across the table at one another, ordering beer and wine, or plates to quell their hunger. It was lovely to see my family and friends in such a celebratory mood, and to be the focal point of the day. In between the plates, a stream of cards and gifts flowed my way. All of it Japan-themed naturally.

But the best gift of all was arranged by my Aunt. In the highest secrecy, she had found a way to contact Professor Kaminaga in Tokyo. After a handful of back-and-forths, she asked for a short written note, to congratulate me for my graduation, to which he happily obliged. By the end of her story, both of us had tears in our eyes, and she pulled a sleek wooden frame from her gift bag, with Professor Kaminaga’s handwritten note framed inside. 

That evening we had a delicious dinner, just as we had dined festively the evening before, and just like we would do the next day. The occasion merited more than one day of celebrating. However, at each meal, there was an empty chair at our table, real or metaphorical. We drink to the health of Professor Kaminaga, and to the hope that one day he might sit at the head of our table.