So - I studied abroad in Italy last month. It was amazing, and even though I've been an absentee blogger, there is so much to say and show. Things have been busy since coming home, and the giant paper I have to write has commandeered most of my free computer time. So. I'll just document the experience in parts. Here is part one - the first entry from my travel journal. I will post pictures soon!
June 9th
I stare out the plane window, then refocus on my solitary reflection. Am I a bad, selfish person for doing this? The decision had certainly not been rash. We thought and prayed about it for months, and felt a peace about my going. But two and a half weeks away from the boys sounds eternal....still, Italy has been my dream for so long, and this opportunity will never come around again. Knocking out two required classes with tuition covering room and board, getting to really see and experience this country's people and culture as more than a casual tourist...I would definitely regret not going more.
I peer down as we descend, and the thrill of a dream realized sweeps over me. There it sits sprawling: Italy. Ten minutes later, and the thrill was gone.
Inside the Bologna airport, the flood of Italian voices sounds foreign to my foreign ears. In an effort to withdraw euros, I approach an ATM only to have it spit my card out, inexplicably announcing it is not authorized to withdraw funds. Odd...I had notified my bank twice of this trip, and the card worked when I left. I try again with no luck. At the exchange counter I am able to ascertain that the sixty US dollars I have in my pocket would yield only thirty-seven euro - not even enough for a round trip train ticket to Florence - where I was to meet my classmates.
Perplexity turns to fear. We had not purchased an international cell phone plan (we planned to simply FaceTime in wi-fi for free), but I desperately needed to contact Andrew, contact my bank. I switched airplane mode off and that's when the messages from my family appear: my grandmother has just passed away. The sting of this unexpected news and the realization I have no way home to attend the funeral (the only real reunions we have in my family) brings unwelcome tears. I have no money, speak almost no Italian, and back home, my family members are beginning to die. There is no hope...I would be forced to live out my days in this airport.
I kneel on the dirty airport floor and say a prayer. I know this is a refining experience, an expected trial along the short sojourn of mortality. It will be okay...even if I don't know how. I stand and keep my head down as tears pool on the ground. I have to get it together - No one will help me if I look nuts.
I place some expensive phone calls and at length am able to withdraw cash. I still feel nervous and sad. The next hurdle is getting to Florence.
A placard at the information desk advertises a bus schedule and it takes me a moment to realize 14:00 means 2:00. I check my watch - 1:45. The bus to Florence would be arriving in 15 minutes, and the woman working explains in broken English that the bus to Florence would be arriving in 15 minutes, “Out door, to left.”
I grab a bottle of water from an airport cafe, feeling grateful the short request is within my 10-word Italian vocabulary. As I make the exchange with the woman behind the counter, she returns my bright smile with a cloudy look. Had I irritated her? I stride toward the glass doors and forget everything as a bus speed past. My heart plummets - Could that have been mine?
On the crowded curb, I am welcomed by a thick haze of smoke billowing from too many mouths to count. I see a bus with people clustering around it. I try asking a woman next to me if this is the bus to the Florence station, but had too few words in common. I ask a man, who looks confused, but then nods, assuring me that this bus goes to the station. But the vehicle was dirty and impossibly crowded inside. Could Italians stand with their face in a stranger’s armpit for an hour and a half?
Unconvinced, I rush the opposite direction, although there is no bus in sight. It is 5 after 2:00 now, and I feel my panic start to rise. I stop another man who is more patient with my tragic Italian. He confidently points me around the corner, and as I turn it, feel joy at seeing a coach labeled “Firenze.” I melt into the seat, weak with relief.
