Il Fine: My Return from Italy

Heyo~

(by the way, the title is pronounced "ill feen-ay" - it's Italian, obviously ;) )

Well I feel like quite a dunce. How did I think it was okay to write all these blogposts about my adventures in Italy and then not write one last post about my journey home, to wrap things up? Silly, that’s what it is – extremely silly.

I figure it’s better than nothing to write about it now, because there was quite a lot that went on that I think would make a good story (in the way that my traipsing through Italy, totally lost, with wet and cold shoes for hours is a “good story”) however, there will probably be some details that I’ll leave out simply because it’s been months. I must say, though, that I do remember very much about the 24 hours revolving around and during my trip, I suppose because I was hyper vigilant and super excited to be getting home.

I guess let’s begin, shall we?

The week of May 25^th was finals week, and I was determined to blast through all of them no sweat (and I did). Two were on Monday, and the other two were back-to-back Wednesday morning, so I was completely and officially done with the academic realm of my semester abroad at 11:30AM, two and a half entire days before my flight. Honestly, and I told some of my classmates this when they asked me if I was staying longer, if I had known my last final was Wednesday before noon, I would have had my plane ticket booked for the earliest flight after that on Wednesday. However, I didn’t know the exam schedule, and neither did I know when I bought the plane tickets that I’d be wanting to get home so bad to see a certain someone and my family. I played it safe and scheduled the flight well after finals would be over.

Well, that left me two and a half days to pack and sleep and essentially just wait for the blasted time for me to leave for the airport.

I ended up packing the afternoon of Wednesday, because I was just that excited by the prospect, even though I was exhausted from my morning of exams. My big bag, carry on, and back pack were preliminarily packed before I even ate lunch!

What in the heck was I supposed to do all day Thursday AND most of the day Friday?!

It was maddening, truly.

Wednesday evening I went out to get pizza with my two closest friends I had made while abroad (the Argentinian, Sophia, and the Australian, Elizabeth) as a sort of farewell after exams, since everything was wrapping up. I ate so much.

I regret nothing.

Thursday morning I got up at noon. What? Sleep made the time go faster, and also, I like sleep, though it doesn’t seem to like me as much.

That day I wrote up a to-do list and it consisted of very basic things, but it kept me a little busy, at least. Using the remaining food tickets I had, I wandered to the grocery store only a four-minute walk from my apartment and bought a bunch of Italian goodies to bring home and bestow upon my family. I’d bought some fun trinkets in Venice, like magnets and such, but these were consumables. Tasty, tasty consumables.

I mainly bought a ton of Lindt chocolate bars (dark chocolate, the 85% stuff for my parents and brother, because they go through it like crazy), these chocolate and hazelnut bars called “bueno bars” (they really like the flavor hazelnut in Italy, I found), and two 750ml bottles of the best, most delicious olive oil I had cooked with, for my mom, because she started being an olive oil snob so I figured some 100% Italian, made-in-Italy oil would make her happy (these bottles were thick glass and also very heavy). I wish I could have safely brought back some Italian Coca-Cola, because that stuff was heavenly, somehow even better than the stuff in Peru (sorry! Inca Cola still holds my heart though <3 o:p="">

After bringing all that home, I rearranged my bags a little to fit everything in, so I was already at the point of only needing to pack my toiletries and other last-minute items that I still needed to use before I set off on Friday evening.

Using the remaining olive oil I had bought for the kitchen, I decided to do a homemade olive oil hair treatment that supposedly helps keep it healthy and makes it feel nice (confirmed: it does). So I sat for a while at my computer with a towel around my shoulders like a cape and a plastic bag wrapping up my hair.

I made lunch (pasta – surprise!) and played Pokémon Yellow on an emulator while watching old episodes of the original Pokémon series online before showering for a nice long while and rinsing out the olive oil.

I basically bided my time by Pokémoning for hours and hours until I got tired enough to fall asleep. Friday morning I awoke with nervous and excited energy vibrating in my limbs. The hours until lift off were counting down, and that’s when I realized that time is actually pretty reliable – it will always move forward. Sometimes it will feel slower or faster, but it will never go backward, it will always continue, and I clutched to this idea. Steadfastly.

I had to force myself to eat lunch before I finalized packing and making sure everything was weighed decently. This is when things started to get…interesting.

Using the scales I had dragged out of the bathroom, I hefted up my bags one at a time to see around what they weighed in at, and both my carry on (which would actually serve as my second checked bag) and my massive bag were each either right at 50lbs or a little over, and this made me nervous. I didn’t want to leave anything behind (there wasn’t really anything I could without feeling bad) so I prayed the lady at the check in counter in the airport wouldn’t be so focused on the exactness of the weight. When I checked in to go to Italy back in February, seeing how much my bags weighed seemed to be the least of their worries, so I desperately hoped this remained the case.

By around 4pm I was as happy as I would ever be with packing, and started the final preparations before leaving, which meant taking out the garbage and recycling as well as cleaning out the fridge of things that would go bad. I grabbed up my bags, and by quarter to 5, I was outta there.

And so, with a 50lb bag handle grasped in each hand and a 20lb backpack slung over my shoulders, I was rolling down the street on my way to the metro.

Here’s where things get a little complicated.

As I have mentioned in previous posts, the public transportation system in Italy is known for strikes, and one just so happened to pop up on Friday. The day I needed the metro to be functioning fine to get to the train station to get to the airport.

It turns out that the metro was only going to be operating between about 3 and 6pm all day. That was it. My flight would leave after midnight, so I only needed to be at the airport by 9. This provided a frustratingly tiny, and early, window for me.

So I built up my courage, and lugged those bags like it was nothing down the sidewalk and down the stairs into the metro. I stuffed myself like the Ricotta cheese inside of Manicotti in the train car with my massive bulk, which earned me many a frown, but I seriously could not care less, because I was in the process of getting home, and no one would scare me out of doing that successfully.

When it was my stop, I shoved my way through everyone before the doors locked me in. There was no elevator at this stop, so I bolstered all my 110lb strength (yes the combined weight of all my bags outweighed me) and dragged them up the steps. There was a man behind me on the train, probably only a few years older than me, who was walking up the stairs and he gave me a look, shook his head as he muttered a soft Italian word, and grabbed the handle of my biggest bag to help me get it up the steps.

I was sweating profusely already, and was very appreciative of his help. My arms were already screaming at me, and while the hardest part of the journey was over, there was still much to come. I was managing okay, and yes, I could have been smarter about this whole thing. Oh well.

I waited in line at the train station, and of course as I’m rolling along I am getting all these strange looks because the sight really must have been amusing and yet terrifying. Got my ticket, and off toward the turnstiles I went.

I had to time sliding the ticket into the slot with ramming my bags between the automatic swinging doors because the window was small (obviously they assume there only needs to be enough time for one body to get through), so I hurriedly jammed myself through without much fault.

Except for the fact that I left my ticket on the other side.

I had learned from my experience on this train coming into Italy from the airport that you needed it to verify to the guys that came around checking tickets that you had legitimately bought one and weren’t just taking a free ride, so of course I started panicking. What would they do if they realized I didn’t have a ticket? I had the receipt of the purchase, but would that be enough to explain my cause? Could they toss me off the train at the nearest stop? Could they send me back? What would they do?

It must have been rush hour for the train, because there were absolutely no seats left in any of the cars, and it was standing room only (barely). I ended up cramming my bags into the designated area for luggage, and actually sat on top of them underneath the rack, so that I was under the window and all I could see was knees and feet. I hoped that the fact I was in with the luggage would deter anyone from looking for me there, so I wouldn’t have to show a ticket. It was a weak argument, I know, but I was desperate. Aside from that, I prayed the entire way that no one would come around verifying tickets. Honestly it was way too packed for them to have gotten to everyone, anyway. I grasped to this.

I had been trembling more or less since the threshold of my apartment, with excitement and also blatant nervousness. There were so many variables at play in getting from my apartment to the airport that many things could easily go wrong, and I was deathly afraid of this. All I wanted was to get home, but it wasn’t so easy as clicking some high heels together and hoping with all my heart.

Thankfully I made it to the airport stop without having to cry and explain myself to the train guys, so in my relief, I rolled off the train with tired arms and banged up knees and up the elevator, following signs for Aeroflot and where the check in desk would be for my flight.

It was maybe 6-7pm when I got there and found a place to settle in, sit down, and take a breather. I had several hours to kill before my plane would take off, so I turned on my iPod and watched a movie I had loaded onto it (Eat, Pray, Love – how fitting, right?). After a couple hours of rest, I wandered upstairs to the check in desks and found some chairs right by where Aeroflot would be once the time came, found some wifi, and excitedly logged on to report to my parents how things were going.

(^^ Casually-taken "selfie" at the airport.)

It was quarter to 11pm when the desk finally opened and I got checked in. This didn’t leave me enough time to comfortably get through security, but I couldn’t do much about it.

I waited in line anxiously, trying to get a reading on how closely the ladies were checking the weight of the bags of people in front of me. The lady I got didn’t give a crap, she told me to load both my checked bags on the scale at the same time, tagged them, and I watched them go. Another relieved breath, and some more tension unraveled from my shoulders.

It took me 14 minutes to breeze through all of security and get to my gate. The airport wasn’t busy whatsoever – I never had to wait in those bothersome lines where people were unlacing their shoes and accidentally walking through the metal detectors with keys and change still in their pockets so that the rest of us become impatient and irate.

Everything was suddenly so uncomplicated, ever since I had let my checked bags go, and I really distinctly felt that I was meant to be going home. Nothing was in my way, and everything that could have very effortlessly gone wrong, did not. A path was being cleared for me and I was sprinting headlong down it.

(Gate "selfie." See that joy? Yeah.)

I watched another movie while waiting at my gate, and thankfully found an outlet to perch by. Once this plane took off, I’d be headed to my long layover in Moscow, but the flight itself didn’t take long at all.

I managed to get some crappy shuteye on the flight, but since I was still so hyped with the nervous/excited energy, I knew sleeping was going to be a tough thing to wrangle up, and anyway, the brevity of the flight didn’t allow me enough time to get very deep.

I got into Moscow and at my next gate somewhere between 6:30-7:30AM Saturday, Moscow time (it was 10:30PM our time, Friday). For three hours, I read a book on my phone and listened to music alongside many others who had arrived for the long layover. It was at this point that I felt my shoulders really beginning to complain about the load of my backpack, as well as the fact that bruises were starting to appear on my shins and knees from kicking around my bags to get them rolling. My arms were limp noodles jammed into my shoulder sockets from dragging those hefty things around.

(Do I look tired?)

Needless to say, I was going to be exceedingly grateful once I finally was able to unpack and say bye bye to those bags for a while.

One of the most quirky and fun things about flying back from Moscow was the fact that my plane was leaving at 10:25AM, Saturday, and I landed in Virginia at noon:50, Saturday. The flight was 10-11 hours long, but I was landing what would seem like two and a half hours later.

Time zones, man.

As we hopped back across the time zones, I experienced 11 o’clock for several hours in a row. It felt like some Doctor Who stuff was going on.

Unsurprisingly, the flight took forever. I knew time would keep moving forward, as I said earlier, but man did it tease me so hard. It was like someone fat-fingered the slow-mo button or something. I tried reading, but that didn’t pass the time like I wanted it to. I tried sleeping, but that was difficult and also didn’t pass the time very well.

My eyes were incredibly dry from the recycled cabin air and the person next to me’s foot kept slipping under the armrest and pressing against my thigh (she was kind of curled up into a ball). The time was ticking by, but it could not come fast enough.

Praise the Lord I landed at 12:30, twenty whole minutes earlier than planned! My fingers were shaking so much as I texted my mom officially declaring that I was back on US soil. My heart thundered in my chest, threatening to pry open my ribs and spring free.

I was so ready to reconnect with them that I honestly had to restrain myself from shoving through people that were moving too slow, because I had waited over 100 days for that day, and I would not sacrifice one more minute if I could help it.

At 1:30, after taxiing, tram-riding, and passport-control-clearing, I got my luggage and wheeled down the hallway, stomach so full to the brim with butterflies it was becoming difficult to breathe properly. I could sense that they were all nearby, and I yearned so hard to round that final corner and see them.

I sped through two propped open double doors into a big room with bright lights, and when I turned, the tears came, and I ran.

My parents and brother were waiting in a little pod not too far away. I ignored my screaming arms, burning eyes, and somersaulting stomach, and booked it across the broad floor. I threw the handles from my hands and jumped into my dad’s arms, the bags falling to the floor with two loud cracks.

It was real. I was home.

I was home.

I hugged my brother and my mother, who held me much like my dad, with strong embraces and tearfully joyous words murmured into my ear.

Italy was great and wonderful, don’t get me wrong – I learned quite a bit about myself, among many other things – but my heart wasn’t completely happy while I was there. Now, standing in the airport, in the company of my family, my heart was dancing uncontrollably on my ribcage doubling as a dance floor. The bliss was so immense, I drowned in it, with pleasure.

Nothing could take that teary smile from my face.

Ciao, Italia, and hello home.

Volata da Solo (Flying Alone)

It’s curious, flying alone when one has been accustomed to some form of company, (I’ve always either had my brother or my family as companions on our journeys) but in this instance I had to fly solo. As we were rolling up to Dulles airport in the big blue truck, I figured this would be no problem. My parents raised me to be independent, so how much trouble would it be?

After getting everything sorted out and my baggage checked-in, my family bunched up together in a prayer hug and we exchanged teary goodbyes. Thankfully I didn’t lose myself in the middle of the airport. Would have been messy, and not even like a ‘oh-there’s-a-bad-crash-let’s-stop-and-look’ sort of deal; one like you just want to put your head down and scurry past because there’s no other viable response to help the situation.

So off I went, trucking through security with my passport clamped so tightly in my hand I’m glad the covers seem to be sweat-proof. Everything on that end went without a hitch, my Visa checked out and my passport was good-to-go. Now, the only trouble I ran into was the extremely invading bag checks that were going on just before my gate. This was due to the fact that my layover was in Moscow and because the Olympics are going on, TSA really does not want any unpleasant aerosols, eyeliners, and hand-sanitizers to wander into Sochi as bombs. Thus, every single person’s carry-on bags had to be groped, prodded, and dumped out on a line of white plastic tables before being swabbed around the inside seams with a strange white pad that apparently would tell the TSA agents whether or not there was anything fishy going on behind the scenes. Needless to say this made the boarding process a lot lengthier than originally intended (which made me a little later for my connecting flight than I would have wanted). 

As neat as it initially sounded to fly through Moscow, I instantly regretted that thought as we taxied in after about ten hours of airplane time (thankfully the passengers were sparse and I got a whole row to myself to spread out on). There are just a handful of things I noticed about Russia (specifically Moscow) as we came in for the landing. The earth and sky are made up of a bland assortment of gray scale colors, but the citizens have attempted to liven this up with audaciously colored roofs and siding on their houses; the outside air smells like sadness; and Russian sounds like a giant conglomeration of half-pronounced grunts and tongue flicks.

The airport also was a little sketchy feeling to me, so I was clutching at my things, staring wide-eyed at all my surroundings (as wide-eyed as I could get, flying across nine time zones and not getting much sleep), but I was fortunate enough to get to my connecting gate on time. However, much to my family's worry, I wasn’t able to check in with them on the wifi at the airport (that I had done my research to find out whether it existed or not, and it did, but apparently that wasn’t true or recent information), so I was desperately attempting to connect with any of them in some way or another. And when the futility sank in as the plane took off towards Milan, it settled so deeply in my gut I haven’t eaten for several hours, and I’m not getting hungry any time soon.

The sudden, jolting lack of connectivity just spun my entire world around and around, when I’m so used to being able to send a text or read an email wherever I am. Thinking of flying solo and actually doing it ended up being two totally different universes.  I realized I was, in fact, alone. Even if I wanted to call mom with a few questions, I couldn’t. It simply was not possible. I have never been so demoralized to see “no service” at the top corner of my screen in my life.

I was on a plane going through foreign countries, surrounded by people who spoke languages that I had no hope of following. Lacking that airplane-companion to laugh and communicate with really took a toll on my sanity.

I was so shaken, staring at my phone, staring at the severed connection and willing it to somehow work despite the fact we were climbing higher and higher into the clouds. I trembled all over and my stomach writhed, threatening to lose everything I had packed into it that morning for the trip. I focused all my energies and thoughts on gazing out the window and waving goodbye to the solemn snow-covered land that was Russia, but the unwarranted tears flooded forward anyway.

I. Was. Alone.

In a grand, dangerous mixture of lack of sleep and worrying, I had fried my emotional endings. I had no control of the liquid welling behind my eyes.

So I used my sleeve and wiped at the mess, but every time I thought anything remotely close to how much I missed my family, or being so detached from them, the tears surged again. A few minutes into the flight, I managed to wrangle my emotions and hold them down – unfortunately it didn’t last for long. The stewardesses were coming around offering drinks, and the nice lady asked me what I wanted, and when I opened my mouth to say two small words, my eyes drowned again.

I was past the point of it being acceptable.

Nevertheless, the trend continued. I tried watching a movie to reroute my train wreck of a brain, but when there was any mention of “don’t let go” or missing someone, I had to bite my lip to stop it from wobbling. It was pathetic, truly, but I was helpless against the onslaught of these powerful waves of emotions.

It was unlike anything I had ever experienced before, without a doubt. Leaving the States to live in Peru didn’t even touch this trip, somehow.

Finally we hit Italian dirt and I hurried off the plane, 1) because I had to pee badly, and 2) I had spent enough time on an airplane (about fourteen hours total in one day) and was ready for some real ground to stretch out on.

So I hustled for the bathrooms and rejoiced at the wifi signal. I would have sold my soul to the sign-in window, just to get on for a second and let everyone know I was all right. I had been freaking out the whole flight, trying to send mental and spiritual feelings of well being so that my family wouldn’t worry, that I had made my connection and was on my merry (not) way.

My mother hadn't spammed my email and Facebook with messages asking where I was and if I was okay. She trusted that the only reason I wouldn’t contact her was due to inability, not choice.

Instead, my inbox was crammed full of sweet things and thoughts just waiting for me to sign in and see. So I cried again, of course. I wept in the bathroom stall for a good ten minutes at least, but this time it was a relieved cry. Mostly.

Upon figuring my way out of the airport and into the city of Milan (it very much resembles Philadelphia, from my experience), I kept going through bouts of wanting to be there in Italy and experiencing everything, and coming so close to wanting to tear out my laptop and book a flight home as soon as possible. It was terrifying, conquering the metro for the first time alone, when dealing with a language I was a mere beginner at. I didn’t believe in myself to be able to properly find my university and then get to my apartment, all by my lonesome self, so I thought perhaps the easiest way out would be to claim homesickness (which wasn’t a lie) and feeling utterly incompetent and incapable.

Some of you may know this, but I am horrible with directions and maps, so to challenge the busy streets of Milan after 15+ hours powering through airplanes and airports was an even heavier weight to bear. I got lost three times on my way to the check-point I needed to reach, but I was determined, no matter how many strange looks I got from the locals as I, a five-foot-three-inch, one-hundred-and-fifteen-pound white girl dragged a fifty-pound rolly bag in one hand and a twenty-two-pound carry-on in the other, while a loaded back-pack grasped my shoulders. In the end, I probably walked nearly half a mile from the metro station to get to my check-point, and I was unashamedly sweaty when I got there.

As soon as I rolled through the doors, panting and heart beating hard, a student at the University who was wandering the halls noticed my disheveled, frazzled appearance and asked if he could lend a hand in whatever it was I was looking for. I greedily accepted his help and he led me to the office I needed to get to, all in pretty well spoken English.

Upon arriving upstairs, I noticed that the office was frighteningly empty, and two blonde girls sitting nearby told me they were probably all on lunch break (which takes forever, according to them). So they ushered me over and I sat down next to them. They, just like my first assistant, inquired as to what I was attempting to do, and so I explained to them that I just got in after a long flight and simply wanted my apartment keys. Out of curiosity, the main girl, Sabrina, asked me where I had flown out from, and when I said Fredericksburg she nearly lost it. She was from Fredericksburg also, and her best friend attends Roanoke where I just so happen go. (It’s a school of two thousand students, guys. The odds of that are slim.)

Anyway, the pair of girls had come a few weeks prior for the first session (I signed up for the second) and shared with me a detailed metro map as well as the offer to house me for the night in case my apartment didn’t work out for some reason. I had known these girls all of fifteen minutes, but because they understood what I was going through and we had common ground, they were willing to help me out.

I nearly cried again as they invited me to lunch with them, made sure to add me on Facebook in case I needed anything else, and parted with a “see you later!”

Once the ladies in the international office resumed their work day with full bellies, they led me into the room and explained to me exactly what was about to happen. I no doubt looked like a zombie and an idiot. My brain was about out of fuel.

So I got my keys (there are three just to get into my front door, and two extra ones I have yet to discover their purpose), my info packets, and a call for a taxi to drive me to my apartment without any trouble.

If all that kindness wasn’t enough, I met my roommate just a few hours ago when she arrived back at our apartment from school, and she is so incredibly sweet and nice. I, being a bimbo, forgot one very important thing: an adaptor for my plugs. Italy runs on 220, round prongs. I asked her if she knew of a good place to buy adaptors and she recommended a store just down the road, but didn’t stop there. She also told me I was welcome to use her set up, without any prompting or obligation.

You know how I said I had been tempted to call mom crying “get me out of here!” earlier? Well, after all these amazing shows of grace and compassion, I am convinced that I will have a great time in Milan for the next three months. Not without a few tears (okay, several), and some hard obstacles, of course. But things will truly be all right.

I’m now reconnected to the world via the wifi in our apartment and am back in contact with my family, so that makes me feel infinitely better as well.

The past three days have been a wild rollercoaster ride of feelings, and though it stressed me out (which never happens), I don’t wish it didn’t happen. In the midst of it all, certainly – I wanted to jump out of the plane and land in the snowdrifts just to get away from the fact that I was heading to a destination not my home, away from familiarity.

It has already been an unforgettable experience, and I’m looking forward to the next three months mirroring that.

Now, as I sit in my bed in the apartment I will call home for the next little while, I am reassured and at peace. I am reconnected, feeling the overflowing love and support, and have had no trouble digging my brain out of the dumps it had flung itself into. It’s currently six P.M. here, but I think I deserve a nap after all that.

So with that, arrivederci, friends! I love you all and am so incredibly thankful for the good vibes and prayers. Couldn’t have done it without you!

V

Surrender

Don’t struggle against the tugging of your

heartstrings even if there’s a millstone

tangled in them. Surrender; 

this portion of your prize is lost to us all

            despite the aching desire to pluck

            your splintered soul from the mangled jaws of

            forsaken love. Don’t gobble up the

blatant fallacies served with lying smiles

though they are glamoured and irresistible.

Don’t allow folly to seep into the creases

of your brain or under the warmth of your skin

where my insecurities and desires lie waiting.

                                    Instead of harboring that cracked millstone, heave it

up over your shoulder and plunge it into the ocean
            to see what kinds of friends you’ll find at the bottom.