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