Efraín Ochoa’s MBA journey takes a thrilling turn in Chapter 5 of Should I Stay or Should I Go?—from the moment he receives his UCLA acceptance to the whirlwind of student meet-ups, visa hurdles, and even an impromptu Vegas trip. With humor and sharp storytelling, this chapter captures the excitement, uncertainty, and anticipation of stepping into a new chapter of life—all with rich storytelling and GRE-worthy vocabulary.

Disclaimer

• All characters and events in this chapter —even those based on real people—are entirely fictional.
• The following chapters contain coarse language and situations and due to its content it should not be read by anyone.

Chapter 5 “Admitted to my MBA”

The welcome package from UCLA arrived with the enthusiasm of a tax refund—practical but underwhelming. Inside was a passport holder emblazoned with the UCLA logo, a small reminder that I was, in fact, about to embark on this journey.

After paying the deposit and confirming my spot, I was thrown into a deluge of emails. Mailing lists sprung to life, filling my inbox with introductions and updates from my soon-to-be classmates.

As I scrolled through the flurry of names and bios, I marveled at the sheer diversity. Maria from Madrid, a financial prodigy. Jake from Johannesburg, a coding wizard. Leila from Lahore, an entrepreneur with eyes set on renewable energy. The list felt like a roll call for the UN General Assembly.

Among them were second-year students—veterans who’d survived the gauntlet and now offered advice like sages on mountaintops. Their insights felt invaluable, and I read every word they shared.

But the list served another, less academic purpose.

The student directory doubled as a makeshift dating app, before Bumble entered the scene. Photos accompanied each profile, and inevitably, some of us found ourselves scrolling, perhaps a little too heedfully through the images.

Filters, it seemed, were already a problem even then. Some students bore little resemblance to their carefully curated pictures. Reality often betrayed expectations.

I learned the hard way that email flirtations could lead to awkward in-person encounters. The lesson? Wait until orientation.

As the orientation emails piled up, various trips surfaced. Some classmates were organizing camping excursions to Yosemite, others proposed ski retreats. None of these roused my interest.

Then, salvation arrived.

A student, an investment banker from New York, floated the idea of an unofficial trip to Las Vegas. The prospect of poolside drinks and neon lights outshone any notion of snow and tents.

Within days, ten of us had signed up. I even invited two friends from Mexico to join—neither were MBA-bound, but Vegas didn’t discriminate.

The next stop was the process of applying for a student visa. UCLA had provided me with a comprehensive package of paperwork, which I diligently filled out and prepared for submission to the local US Embassy.

The list of required documents seemed endless: forms, certificates, and affidavits, each one meticulously crafted to prove my worthiness to study in the United States. I scheduled an appointment at the embassy, my heart racing with anticipation as I envisioned the possibilities that lay ahead.

But as the day of the appointment approached, I felt a sense of calm wash over me. Everything was in order, every "i" dotted and every "t" crossed. I arrived at the embassy, paperwork in hand, and was ushered into a sterile, fluorescent-lit room where a stern-looking official reviewed my application.

The minutes ticked by, each one a tiny eternity, but finally, the official stamped my passport with a crisp, authoritative thud. I had done it! My student visa was approved, and I was free to embark on my new adventure in the United States.

As I left the embassy, I felt a sense of exhilaration, a thrill of anticipation that coursed through my veins like adrenaline. I was ready to take on the world, or at least, the hallowed halls of UCLA.

One evening, an unexpected email arrived. UCLA had compiled a list of Mexican students admitted to the program, and a casual meet-up was arranged at a small restaurant in Polanco.

We gathered around a table stacked with pizza and beer, bonding over our shared anticipation.

Two of the students had surprising ties to my past. One had studied at ITAM with me; the other was a friend of a friend who had already relocated to Los Angeles.

Conversations meandered through hopes, fears, and mutual anxieties. One classmate confessed he had chosen Stanford over UCLA—a revelation met with a mixture of admiration and envy.

As the evening wound down, I left feeling anchored, knowing I wasn’t alone in this journey.

As soon as I arrived home, I began spreading the word about the incredible concerts that were lined up for the upcoming months in LA. Pearl Jam, The Killers, The Cranberries, Green Day - the list went on, and I was determined to share the excitement with my new friends.

Before long, I had become the de facto concert coordinator for our little group, buying tickets for anyone who expressed interest. It was a win-win situation - I got to share my love of music with like-minded people, and I had a ready-made crew of companions for the first six months of concerts.

The following week, I resumed planning my move, scouring listings for apartments in LA. Graduate housing emerged as the most sensible option—affordable, convenient, and filled with students navigating the same waters.

UCLA even offered roommate matching, though married students were shuffled into distant complexes as if punished for their domestic bliss.

For me, the idea of living alongside classmates felt like the right call.

Then came the next hurdle, the perennial dilemma of the car-less student: how to procure a reliable set of wheels without breaking the bank. As I navigated this treacherous landscape, I found myself entangled in a series of misadventures, each one more bewildering than the last.

First, there was the tantalizing prospect of purchasing a sleek, two-seater BMW from a Mexican student who was wrapping up his MBA. The deal seemed almost too good to be true, and I was on the cusp of sealing the deal when reality set in: I would, inevitably, have multiple visitors at a time, and a two-seater car would be woefully inadequate.

Undeterred, I continued my search, scouring the local market for a more practical solution. It was then that I stumbled upon an acquaintance who was willing to part with his trusty vehicle. The deal was struck, and I made the deposit, blindly trusting that the car would be in good condition.

As fate would have it, a friend of mine happened to catch a glimpse of the car and reported back that it looked well-maintained. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that I had secured a reliable ride for my first day on campus.