Putting the Pieces Together

Friends who knew about my trip would ask me why. Why Italy? Why now? The irony is that people were generally looking for a simple answer. The why, however, was not really a simple answer. I suppose you could say as it started as an impulse.

One day in June, I desperately wanted to visit my Uncle Danny (my father's yougest brother). The first major issue was that my uncle lives in Italy. In retrospect, I actually think I wanted to talk to my dad. I wanted to tell him about my second bad breakup in the space of a few months, my restlessness at home, and the tattoo that I had recently gotten. What I didn’t want, was for my mother to have that much information about my life.

My parents have been married for 25 years, and I am their only child. That being said, I wouldn't say we are a particularly close family. I love my mother, I do. She's great --she tells me to take my vitamins, she supports me financially through college, and she believes in me. That being said, my mother can be very conservative and narrow minded. She hates tattoos, she thinks that being gay or lesbian comes from something in the water, and that Islam is a dangerous, fundamental religion. She also has trouble being empathetic to situations she's never been in. My father, though he too has his flaws, tends to be more open in general (although I would come to find out, an ironic twist of events, that he hates tattoos almost as much as my mother). I didn’t want to talk to my mother because I didn’t want to be judged. I didn’t want advice. I just wanted someone to listen. As ridiculous as it seems now, I didn't talk to my dad, because I was worried that he would talk to my mom, and I wasn't ready to share certain parts of my life with her.

My uncle was the next best choice. Growing up, he was the relative I kept in touch with the most. We have similar views- on politics, tattoos, crazy adventures, and a whole host of the other issues. He has a great sense of humor; he loves to play jokes on people.

Once, when I was little, my dad went to purchace a Subaru Justy he had been looking at for a while. When he got to the dealership though, the manager said that the car had just been sold to another customer, not five minutes before. My dad got very flustered, and began to get angry with the salesman. They had already discussed the fact that my dad was coming in to buy the car that day. The salesman suggested that my dad talk to the man who had supposedly bough the car. My dad agreed, and the two walked over to the man who was sitting in a chair with his back to my father. The man turned around, and turned out to be my uncle, who was on leave from the Navy, and have come to visit, and give my dad a hard time. My uncle had arranged the whole set up with my mother and the salesman! My dad still laughs about it, years later.

My uncle Dan is a very young-at-heart kind of guy. Another perfect example: the t-shirt he wore on the day we went to Rome says, "I do all my own stunts." It might look a bit strange on any other 40 year-old, but my uncle can pull it off.

We also have a shared sense of adventure. My Uncle Danny has been around the world with the Navy; at that point I'd been up and down the East Coast, to Canada, Bermuda, Ireland, as we as to Italy once before for his wedding, twelve years earlier. My uncle is also the master of pulling stupdenous traveling traveling tricks- like the time he flew from Japan to New York for my aunt's, his sister's, wedding in 12 hours!

So, after a few days of debate, and discovering an exceptionally good airfare ($290 roundtrip, New York to Milan), I booked a seat on a flight to Italy. I didn't tell either of my parents. And my uncle agreed to keep my secret, which he did.

That answer is not what people generally want to here, though. So I simply tell them the other half of what I was feeling -that I decided to starting living one day at a time.

Solo Andata

Hopping off the bus and grab my suitcase and backpack, I wonder where in Milan I am. I don't stop to gaze up at the enormous white-stone building in front of me; I, instead, pause and gaze at the people milling around, and carefully watch which way they are headed. I panic slightly; this doesn't look like a train station to me- which way do I go? I surge forward, noticing quite a few people heading into a door way a short ways down. I thank the powers that be upon noticing a Tren Italia sign stuck to the inside of the dingy office window. I squeeze my way through the door way, behind a man and woman wearing hiker's backpacks with Canadian flags sown on the back. The space is small and dark. The walls are covered in dark paneled wood, and the only light streams from the doorway, windows high on the walls, and small lights hanging above the counter, behind the glass. I wait patiently in line, listening to people chatter in Italian. Finally, it is my turn. I step up to the window and smile at the heavy-set balding man with half-moon spectacles.
"Bon Giorno," I start. After "good morning", I become uncertain. I search my brain for the right words: "Ehhh, Solo Andata por San Remo, por favore?" I inquire.
"San Remo?"
"Si." I say. At least my Italian isn't so bad that I'll end up in the wrong city. The man starts rambling in Italian and writing on a piece of paper, and trying to ask me when I want to leave, I think.
"Scusa?"
Finally, he takes pity on me. "English?" he asks.
"Yes." I say, relieved. Minutes later, I leave with a train ticket for my destination and an important lesson, one that will stay with me the rest of my trip: mostly, if you attempt the language, the locals will have pity on you. This picture is one of the very first on my trip and the beginning of what turned into a five hour train ride.

Delayed Flights and Window Seats

It's 11:30am, and my flight has already been delayed almost two hours. I'm sitting as patiently as possible in a terminal at Logan International, staring out the window, and willing my Jet Blue flight to pull up to the gate. I shiver as I shift in my leather seat; while it's August outside, it seems more like November in here. I have moved at least three or four times to different chairs, chasing the sun around the room. I have to admit, though, it's not just because of the cold. I'm also ridiculously excited to be here; I love to travel, and the novelty of flying has not yet worn off.

Finally, I see my plane- destined for JFK in New York-pull up outside the window. My heart tap dances in my chest; there's no turning back now. A few moments later, I hear the announcement that calls passengers in rows including mine to board the plane, and I spring up, eager to get on the aircraft and get settled.

On the plane, I walk down the aisles, searching for my seat. I breathe a sigh of releif and can't help but smile when I realize I have a window seat. I love window seats. I love to watch to watch the guys work on out on the tarmac, and the way ground fades away during take off (even though it makes me nauseous) and how the land comes back into sharp focus during landing. Window seats also provide unique opportunities to take pictures from a bird's eye view. This picture is the very first picture I took on my trip.