Running.

I’ve been home for exactly five weeks, and I’m just about back into a normal routine. I keep up with friends and I watch television with my dad after dinner. I laugh, I sing along with the car radio, and I even got a job. I get anxious for no reason and I overanalyze and stretch and run until I feel alright. It’s the same Alison as before. I’m not changed, but then, I’m not the same.

Last week, while running around the Northbridge High School track (the day after the previously blogged fly incident), I thought of Grandma Katchy. I remembered sitting next to her on the couch in her old East Street apartment as a teenager, listening to her shout out life instructions regarding relationships, careers, and travel.

“Whaaaat BIZ-ness, do YOU have, riding on the HIGHway!?” she would bark, after I made the mistake of admitting that my daily drive to school involved cruising from route 146 to 290.

I was eighteen at the time and even if Grandma was aware of that, it didn’t mean a thing to her. We, her grandchildren, were considered perpetual babies, and as far as she was concerned, driving on a highways was an activity reserved for police officers, race car drivers, and drunken dare devils with something to prove. Not a place for any old citizen to commute to and from wherever they needed to be.

“You kids stay OFF that DAMN highway, OK Alison?”

“Sure, Grandma.”

“Ok, Now go to my fridge. Get me a can. It’s silver and blue. It says ‘BUD .. LIGHT’. Ok Alison?”

Sure? ..Grandma?

“Thank you, Alison. Now tell me, tell me about that boyfriend again. You’re too young to have one you know.”

“I know, Grandma.”

“At your age, you should have five or six boyfriends!”

Ohhh Grandma, Grandma, Grandma. Her advice was unique and sometimes questionable, but at least she was always honest.

I remember those moments, and of course, I miss her. I wish she was around to yell at me, and tell me I had no business going to England last summer or of course, to Italy this year.

In a way, she would have been right. Still, I wouldn’t have listened.

Before I left for Italy, I really did worry that I had “no business” going there. I mean, I didn’t speak a word of the language. I didn’t know how to ask for directions, or order lunch, or what it meant to be an Italian. Looking back, I know now what I couldn’t have possibly known then––that I didn’t know much about what it meant to be American either.

How could I have? I grew up eating scrambled eggs with cheese and bacon on the side for breakfast. To me, that was normal. I never knew that my future Italian friends would cringe at the thought. I grew up watching baseball and throwing the football around the backyard, never knowing that these activities happen in Italy about as often as it snows in Sicily.

Did I mention it never snows in Sicily?

I had no concept of what I am until I went somewhere new and witnessed what I’m not.

I learned more everyday, not only with the help of my Italian hosts but also from my co-workers who came from England, Ireland, South Africa, Australia, New Zealand, even Canada––places that speak the same language but are as far away in tradition and policy as they are in miles. The realizations that came with the experience were beautiful and sometimes, disturbing. My eyes were opened to issues that exist in my own country, both serious, and strange. I discovered more about American culture everywhere I went, even the breakfast table. Oh, how I’ll never forgot the breakfast table.

“Giovanni!” shouted Mariolina, my second host mother, every morning. “Maaaan-gaaaa! Manga biscotti, Giovanni!”

“Noooo, ma-ma!” he whined, “No mi piache, no manga.”

She was insisting that her son eat his cookies for breakfast, the same way and American mother would push their child to eat broccoli at dinner. He resisted all the same. Cue the music from “The Twilight Zone”. A parallel universe, I thought.

I told Mariolina that in America, a mother would never ask her child to eat cookies for breakfast, and if they did, the child would never resist. In fact, eating sweets for breakfast might even result in punishment.

She looked concerned. “It is a strange… phobia… you Americans have. A strange fear of cookies.” I laughed but her expression remained serious. “This fear you must conquer.”

Fear conquering? Sure, I did a little of that.

I also learned what it is like to live in a place made almost entirely of independent businesses, no Walmarts or Sears––just vendors in the streets making a living.

Yesterday, I drove to the new BJ’s in Northborough for work. I sat in the parking lot before entering and stared at chain after chain in front of me––a plaza almost identical to one I know in Millbury, and the one you know right by your house, wherever that is. I like to believe our country is full of unique cities and a broad range of cultures, ideas and traditions. But sometimes, lately, I feel like I can’t escape Anywhere, USA.

My grandmother loved this country. She fought for it as a Marine. She taught her children and grandchildren to love it too, and really, I do.

I love that I live in a place that allows freedom of opinion. In America, I can constantly learn something new from someone with a different cultural background, a different religion, a different perspective––and I adore that opportunity. I love living in a place where people speak for themselves, question rules and traditions, and try to make things better everyday, even if it doesn’t always work out.

Until this summer, I didn’t know how specific this dymanic actually is to America. I learned that in some places, there is little room for debate or reform. It is just what it was, and always will be. That is so sad to me.

I love that in America I can eat a french pastry for breakfast, chinese for lunch, and greek for dinner if I want to. Don’t get me wrong, my friends in Italia, you fed me and you fed me well! I miss that delicious food and the company that came with it.

But I beg you, no––I dare you, to come visit me in Boston. We’ll have a meal at Quincy Market. You can order a pasta dish and an arancini, because yes, we have those! Or you can try something Spanish, or middle eastern, or… a hot dog. Because those are good too, you know. You can learn something new. There is so much value in having a choice.

These are the kinds of things I think about when I’m running around the track. That, and where I can go next. Despite my new appreciation for my home country, America, I know I have a lot left to learn. I try to think about my future plans very quietly, as to not force Grandma Katchy to turn over in her grave. I have to conquer a lot more than the highway to get where I want to go.

I remember when I was 8 years old and I stayed over Grandma’s house for the weekend, just me and her. We watched a Doogie Howser marathon and ate Burger King on a TV dinner tray.

Boy oh boy, did that thrill me.

No, really! It did. I was in awe of Grandma’s laid back lifestyle, the whole thing really knocked me out. It was relaxing and indulgent––I knew even then, I would grow up to be just like Grandma Katchy. Not just because I liked her choice of food or Tv programs, but it was more. I knew someday I would do whatever I wanted.

I knew I wouldn’t let anyone tell me no. I’d look out for myself, and those who loved me would fall into line naturally.

Of course, I didn’t know then that I’d someday grow up and what I’d want more than anything would be to get off the couch. Doogie Howser marathons are about as far up on my list of desires as a broken leg. These days, what I really want, is to go everywhere and do everything. I’m in love with the world and I want to see it. I want to keep learning and changing. I want to become the best version of myself, the one nobody has met yet, not even me.

I’ve been staying up late, doing my research. Travel opportunities to Armenia, South Africa, Germany, Greece and more. Graduate school programs North, South, East and West of where I stand now––waiting, perhaps, for me. My mind races, my heart swells. Possibilities.

Though, of course, it’s difficult to be in love with the whole world.

I’ve already been to so many places and met so many people––and I ache for all of it like it’s home. I can’t be everywhere, I can’t be with everyone. I have to keep choosing and it breaks my heart everyday. And so, sometimes, mostly when I’m driving down the highway, I think of Grandma and the others who want me to stay in one place because they love me, and I feel sick. I hate that I’m disappointing them, because I love them too––more than I can say or show. Pleasing everyone at once is hard enough, then try pleasing yourself too. I hate myself for wanting anything but what I have, because I have, or I had… a lot.

Real love. The greatest ever.

But when you live life the way I intend too, even the greatest love won’t stay with you. So what can I do? I just keep driving and try to believe everything in my life will happen just the way it is supposed to. The places I go, the people I meet and the roads I take to get there will eventually lead me to where I need to end up. Wherever that is. Right?

I don’t know why I am so selfish sometimes.

I think––I hope… that maybe I’m just too young. I’m young and I only feel the way I’m supposed to. Someday, it will subside, and I’ll want to be with family, in one place––watching TV marathons and eating too much. That will make the ones who love me happy, and it will make me happy too. Someday.

For now, I don’t move too far. I do normal things. I work, I plan and I run laps around the track, thinking about what will come. I know I want to run somewhere else, somewhere new, and soon. What I don’t know, really, it what exactly I’m running to.

I don’t know what it is I keep running from.

But what BIZ-ness do I have not keeping faith, and doing what I need to figure it all out?

All I do know is this: My summer was satisfying beyond all expectation. I taught, I learned and loved new people and things and I’m thankful for every minute––the ones spent teaching, the ones spent traveling, even the ones spent at the damn Carnival. I am better now than I was. I’ll try to remember this now, and always. The rest will work itself out.

4 Weeks Later.

Just an hour ago, I was finishing up my 8th lap around the Northbridge High School track when suddenly, I swallowed a fly.

Prior to the incident, I was already sticky and fatigued––as any naturally unathletic person at that particular moment would be, so imagine my discomfort when a disgusting little black fly saw my pathetic gasp for air as an invitation into my body.

It was awful. I coughed and spit and wiggled my limbs in the way I always have when I’m grossed out. I stopped, buried my face in my hands for a moment, and it occurred to me.

I spent my summer with wonderful people in an impossibly beautiful place called Sicily, so far out of my comfort zone that, really, a girl with my kind of spirit couldn’t have felt more comfortable. I was teaching, I was learning, I was drowning in sunshine and wearing my bathing suit 85% of the time.

 

And now I’m here. In Whitinsville. Driving my old high school jeep and trying to find my way around a place so familiar that, really, a girl with my kind of goals can’t seem to relate to it at all.

I’m here, working by day, and swallowing flies at the Northbridge High School track by night.

I haven’t worn a bathing suit once since Sicily. Instead I wear bug spray.

 

It’s not all as bad as it sometimes feels. I know that, of course. But I do miss Italy very much and I worry about what comes next. I don’t know the answer, but I wish more than anything that I never find myself too far away from the opportunity to do something new, somewhere so beautiful.

 

It has been almost 4 weeks since my return. Final reflections to come.

And then I saw Jeffrey.

I spent 14 euro on a ticket for a lousy train that wasn’t even going to come, let alone shuttle me to the airport on time, as advertised. Intercepted by Roma Termini officials before I could reach binario 28, I was ushered toward an “alternate bus” that would be leaving “on the hour”. It was 8:45, the line was an hour long, the airport was an hour and a half away by bus, and my flight was leaving in 3 hours. Upon this unpleasant realization, my first instinct was to cry.

And then I saw Jeffrey.

He was standing in front of me, wearing a dingy t-shirt and a cowboy hat, commenting loudly on the likelihood that we all miss our flights due to the transportation mishap. He sounded calm––cheerful even. I was panicked but fascinated.

“You have any ideas?” I asked, calling from behind an Italian family of four, standing with matching luggage and snacking on chocolate covered pretzel sticks.

Jeffrey didn’t miss a beat. “An American!” he shouted while turning to face me and extending a hand for me to shake, creating a barrier splitting the family in two. “Going to FCO? I’m Jeffrey. We’ll share a cab.”

And we did.

“Your chariot awaits, me lady!” he sang, opening the door for me and floating to the other side. He was immediately entertaining but I was still a little rattled after the train stood me up, and found it difficult to relax. I don’t take intercontinental travel lightly––the possibility of losing a possession, missing a flight, being stranded without solution, or getting seated next to any number of individuals with respiratory or body odor problems keeps me high strung and serious during times of relocation.

Jeffrey, who I would soon understand as a seasoned world traveler, did not share in any of my concerns. His flight was leaving over an hour before mine and he was chatting and smiling like he was on his way to catch a $5 movie he’d seen before at a local small town theatre, rather than an expensive ride to wherever came next. “Your flights not until 11:45?” He repeated my statement with excess volume. “Girl, you’re freakin’ GOLDEN! You have plenty of time, you can even stop to buy a juice!”

Though inarguably startling, his optimism was reassuring.

Later, after a fairly smooth check in, I would see this prophecy fufilled, though I chose a bottle of water instead of the juice. Unfortunately, I fear I’m simply not as snazzy he might have hoped I am.

The hour long cab ride with Jeffrey melted like fresh gelato as we discussed the impact of computers on the innocence of children, the beauty of Italy, and the world as we both know it. He had shaggy brown hair and an unshaven face, and the voice of Jack Black.

Jeffrey was raw and unfiltered. He shared stories of heartache and triumph, performed monologues about lessons learned and what he hopes will come next. I was a focused and appreciative audience, surrendering my full attention––oohing, aahing, and solemnly nodding wherever appropriate.

It could have gone either way. I’m not always this receptive. I can be cynical and suspicious. “Permalosa,” my last host father called me. The word directly translates to “Touchy.”

“You ever been to Sierra Nevada? No?? Girl, you gotta get there, it’s only one week but it will change your life. I’m talking your whole perspective. It’s a reggae musical festival in Northern Nevada, freakin’ beautiful and everyone is sleepin’ in tents, trippin’ on something or other, singing songs and hugging, you know? You get there and you’re just like, WOAH, there is 80 naked chicks on motorcycles and everything is as it should be. You get me?”

“Sure, sure.” I said. But, wait… excuse me?

I was delighted by his absurdity. What, I wondered, was Jeffrey “trippin” on right now? It didn’t matter. I encouraged him to tell more, and that’s when he got heavy.

“So I’m standing outside this bar in Portland, just crying my eyes out, right? I’m just freakin’ losin’ it over some girl who I never should have been with anyway cause she is a bad person. Really, though, an awful person, no soul or whatever. The chick sucks, and I’m just crying outside the bar, trying not to puke on anything, when my friend calls me from Chicago.”

I kept eye contact, giving a nod of understanding and support. Meanwhile, I had no idea what he was talking about or where this could possibly be going.

“So he says, ‘Stop crying man! Just have some wine, or whatever, and get over it. Let’s meet up, write a musical, and tour the world.’ And I’m like, ‘You’re right dude, right on. Let’s freakin’ do it. And so we just did it, you know? 10 months later we’re touring Thailand and India, following our script through festivals, just seeing shit, living, you know? Then the tsunami happens. It was 2004. 10,000 people in the city around me? Dead. I’m helping bury bodies and suddenly, I’m over my ex-girlfriend. Like, she couldn’t matter anymore. Nothing, no one did.”

He went on to talk about several other of the 38 countries he’s seen, from Europe to South America and Africa. “Then there is India. Girl, you GOT-ta go to India. But not on a vacation or for any less than 3 months. Promise me you’ll go!”

I thought he had a lot of audacity to demand I make a promise that requires at least a 3 months time commitment, seeing as we had only been acquainted for an hour, but I humored him. “I promise, Jeffrey. Next on my to-do list. Please, tell more.”

“You’ll meet absolutely nutty people, it’s the dirtiest place you’ll see, and you’ll get a grip real fast on the luxury of being American.”

Hmm. Interesting selling points, I thought.

“You’ll wait for a thousand trains that will never come. It’s a country without order. There’s no room for schedules or plans, you just have to go with it. ‘Maybe tomorrow’ is their favorite phrase,” he said, laughing wildly at what I assumed was a private memory neither you or I could really understand.

He had me on that one, though. Learning to live without a schedule, without worrying what plane or when or who is on it might be good for me. Anything, all new things, could be good for me.

Or you, you know. We all need to do something new once in awhile.

I said a casual goodbye and good luck to Jeffrey as we parted ways behind the cab and took note of how he made no claim or effort to remain in contact. In a world of facebook and texting, I found his detachment refreshing.

Mostly, I thought he was bizarre and cartoonish, and those happen to be my two favorite qualities in cab sharing strangers. He made me think a little too, which was nice.

On the plane from Roma to London, I watched the TV screen for a long time, displaying the route of our plane and zooming in an out of images of Europe and the whole world. My brain was ticking. I started taking notes––places I’ve been, places I’d like to go, how I can get there and when. Ambitious planning for someone who has yet to land on American soil after a 2 month trip.

I am writing this now from the sky, just two hours away from landing in Boston and the complete culmination of a summer I couldn’t have dreamt up––the good, the bad, the delicious, and the foreign.

Normally, I’d be sitting here wallowing in self-pity and drowning in the feeling that I have no control. The feeling that I’ve lost something. That I can’t have everything I need.

At the moment, I am at peace. I just experienced something really wonderful and I’ll be home soon, with the family I love, resting in my own bed with fresh sheets. I don’t need to catch any trains or planes tonight.

But someday I will and the good news is, I have time to figure out where, when and why. I’m going to try not to worry so much, because really, there is nothing to worry about. There are only reasons to be excited. I’m going to try to keep a casual, optimistic attitude. I’m going to drink more juice. What I don’t figure out today? It doesn’t really matter.

Maybe tomorrow. Right?

On a Bicycle Built for Three (Or Me)

I had a sit down, candlelit dinner at a romantic Roman restaurant tonight. Alone.

Well, that’s not completely true. There were dozens of couples and families around me enjoying their meals and each others company, as well as a suspiciously attractive wait staff dressed in white and black, buzzing around filling glasses of wine and delivering checks. Anyway, I can’t say I was alone because there were plenty of people. The catch was that I didn’t know any of them.

It’s a curious thing, eating by yourself. I’ve never been afraid to do things alone but this was a first for me. There is something inarguably awkward about sitting at a table, facing an empty chair while sipping your soda and trying to appear natural.

I must say though, I think my solo act had a direct effect on the quality of the restaurant service. My order was taken, my food delivered and my change returned with record speed. I kept getting the feeling that maybe they were hurrying me along because they wanted to get me out of there. Perhaps I was killing the mood, what with my lack of date, makeup and appropriate out for dinner dress. Maybe they found me a bit depressing.

They really shouldn’t have though! After all, I had a great day. If they had seen me during the afternoon, they wouldn’t feel so glum for me. My stroll was without direction and it lasted an hour or so, until I ended up in a park with hilly bench lined roads. It was there that I had lunch and decided to rent a bicycle.

I swear I didn’t intend on taking a family bicycle for just myself, but the friendly Indian rental man was too busy selecting a fresh ride for me to understand my request for a mountain bike. He was eager and I liked that. Still, I started to say no when he rolled the 3 seater with a steering wheel and over the head canopy. But then I thought… why not? I rode for an hour, enjoying the hills and light breezes, utilizing the silver bell whenever possible.

This extravaganza was followed by more strolling, gift purchasing, and even a quick pause to have a caricature of myself drawn by a charming and flirtatious street artist who didn’t seem to mind how sweaty I was, post bike ride.

I needed this day by myself before coming home. I had thinking to do. There was fun to be had.

I am a strange being.

More on that later.

My Last Day

2 safe months traveling on my own, and miraculously, no major incidents.

 

I’m staying the night at a cheap hotel by Roma Termini and catching a flight home tomorrow. My hotel is … modest, with a 50 year old elevator that doesn’t always work, and an elderly staff. They speak only Italian to me, and they sound rather angry. I don’t think they like this place anymore than I do. Luckily, I understand enough and I don’t think anything terrible will happen.

 

But let me just say this.

 

If I get robbed or kidnapped at the last minute, I’m going to be upset. I leave it at that.

 

Off I go. Time to Rome Alone one more time.

The Good News

After 3 weeks away from the Pollicino’s, I’ve officially learned enough Italian to both understand and speak to 2 year old Chrisitian.

 

Meanwhile, apparently curious about my weight, Roberto asked “How much is you fat?”

 

Finishing up in Sicilia, then a heartbreak train to Roma. Ciao Ciao.

Unreal

Roma to Venezia. Venezia to Palermo. Palermo to Altavilla and Altavilla to Rometta.

 

So there I was, reunited with Roberto and the rest of the family. We were having a strange and typical dinner at the family restaurant, everything was wonderful.

 

Then we took a walk down the street and what did we find? A mini carnival. I can’t escape. My own survival is not gauranteed.

 

Pray for me.

Rome Alone

I try not to be selfish, but sometimes, I just do whatever I want.

When working as an ACLE English tutor, you’re constantly moving around and exploring a new country with a frequently changing group of near strangers. The situation calls for consideration and good manners.

“Do you want to stop and eat now? Or later?” you’ll hear one ACLE tutor ask the other,  “Are you hungry? I can wait. I mean, I could eat too, but I can wait if you’d like to wait.”

“So you went there yesterday? OK, we can do something else today. Any ideas?” says the ACLE tutor when making a plan, “Well… oh, you want to do that? Today? I wanted to save that for tomorrow. No, but really, whatever you like.”

“Doesn’t matter to me!” says tutor #1.

“I’m OK with whatever.” says tutor #2.

“I was just thinking it would make more sense if we––” Ok, OK! You get the point.

Anyway, I don’t have the energy or desire to push a group to do anything, and so for days, I’ve been walking along with few opinions. However, I have even less energy and desire to be pushed by others. I don’t want to debate or consult. I don’t want to plan. I want to just do what I feel like, whenever I feel like doing it.

The nature of group travel is not conducive to my attitude. I had to break out.

Today was wonderful. It was the best day I’ve had in a long time because I did Rome alone.

Nick, if you’re reading this, please don’t be upset with me. It was broad day light, I was careful, and if I’m going to get robbed it will happen with or without other ACLE tutors hanging about me. I’ve been very conscious of my surroundings and of course, very lucky. Va bene, mio fratello, va bene.

The other tutors were making ambitious plans of a 7AM wake up and all day extravaganza at the Vatican. I’m only a little embarrassed to say so, but I wasn’t trilled by the idea. “No thank you,” I told them. “Tomorrow I do Rome Alone.”

Some of them seemed suspicious. Others seemed jealous. I didn’t offer much else to anyone. I just woke up around 9, when I wanted too, made breakfast, dressed and hopped on the 60 bus toward Palazzo Venezia. I didn’t know where I was going or why. I figured I’d just hop off when I felt like it.

I spent the morning wandering neighborhoods and crowded streets full or tourists and vendors selling the same toys and souvenirs for the same price––roses and asian looking umbrellas, books about Rome, magnets shaped like the Colosseum and bottle openers colored red, white and green, noisemakers and squishy, bright, gack balls that astonish children from all over the world, and more. I continue to resist all of this treasure and more, everyday, believe it or not.

I stepped in and out of shops and paid little attention to street signs. My main focus was on people.

Rome is the first location in all of my Italian travels to offer any kind of diversity. Sicilia was full of the same dark features and bright eyes, the same olive skin, language, attitudes and ideas. Despite my similar appearance, even I stuck out.

“Hey Alison,” Ricardo half whispered to me one evening over dinner, “Do you find that people tend to.. stare at you around here?” We were in the small Sicilian village of Altavilla and it was safe to say he was the only large man of Haitian origin for miles and miles.

“Yes,” I said after faked thoughtful consideration, “They stare at me because this is a small village and they don’t recognize me. But they stare at you for other reasons.” We both smiled. I told him only what he already knew.

Rome is different. Walking through these streets is like walking around Boston, New York, or London––all different sounds and faces, both tourists and natives. The most interesting part, I think, is observing Asians, Indians, Africans and all other kinds of people speaking Italian to one another. It seems it is possible for them to make a home here, despite their original places. It’s a beautiful thing but sets the stage for a less authentically Italian experience.

Here in the big city, my brave attempts at ordering food in Italian are met with rolling eyes and an English “Yes, here you go. Enjoy.” It makes me miss the small town learning experience.

I walked by myself, up and down hills, pausing at the Trevy Fountain and eventually settling on the Spanish steps. I sat there, with a new notepad and a David Sedaris book, and enjoyed silence. Sure, it was loud around there, full of people in every direction, but there was a distinct silence––one that was all my own. Once in a while, the best feeling in the world is when I just shut up. As I’m usually more vocal than necessary, I think my friends and family share in the occasional joy of my independent days.

But then again, here I am, writing it all out anyway. I hate that about me. I have this awful way of making even the world that exists only in my mind a public story. I don’t know why I do this.

Anyway, I hope to return to the steps to keep relaxing and reading. I discovered that the English poet John Keats passed away in the house next to the steps and I’ve been thinking about hanging around there and reading some of his poetry tomorrow.

I know. I’ve honestly never been geekier in my life.

I don’t care though, really. I just do whatever I want.

Worries

If it sounds like I’m complaining, well, that’s because I am.

After a 12 hour train from Palermo to Roma, I arrived with Meg, my current travelling companion and it only took about 2 hours and 15 minutes to find the “ACLE Office Apartment”. It isn’t far from the train station but we, of course, were lost––thanks to our own ignorance and some truly crappy directions.

“Where is your map of Roma?” asked an American mother, while directing us to the appropriate bus. “You.. don’t have one??” She shook her head disapprovingly.

The apartment is in a neighborhood called Nomentana and there’s a lot of green and grey. Big green trees and grey streets, covered in the shade. I’m not in Sicilia anymore.

When we finally arrived, both Meg and I passed out. Hard. It was both pathetic and necessary. It felt wrong to sleep through my first day in Roma but I didn’t mind. We have alllll week after all. After waking from our slumber, we picked up some groceries and wasted the rest of the evening watching TV and telling stories. “Tomorrow”, I thought “Will be a more productive day.”

I woke up this morning after some bad dreams, and I couldn’t fall back asleep. I was inexplicably uneasy. And worse: sneezing. I caught Meg’s cold. I want to kill her, but I won’t.

I don’t know why, but I started to feel homesick. I miss my family, and baseball, and peanutbutter. I started to worry about what comes next. Taking the GREs, applying to graduate schools, finding a job––moving forward. At the moment, I am behind. I am in a beautiful place having a great experience but I am so far away from where I will want to be, eventually.

I broke out my laptop and started to research flights home for mid-late August. The main issue here is, I can’t afford to come home. Flights are well over a grand and I simply don’t have that to spend. I’m in trouble. And I’m angry with myself.

This kind of homesickness is not like me. I am not this person, really. Well, maybe I am, but I don’t want to be. Until this minute, I wasn’t worried about coming home and I shouldn’t be. For the love of God, Rome is outside my window. Home will be there whenever I can afford to get to it. I need to man up. I need to blow my stupid nose. I need to get out of this dark room and try to embrace the greys and greens of the neighborhood.

Ready, go.

I’m in Roma.

Now what?