How I caught the bug
When I was very young, I remember being enthralled with stories of my grandparents' life of travel. They traveled all over the United States, flew to Italy for a week or shared drinks with Australians. All these places that seemed so impossible for me to reach being a child and very aware of our family's limited finances. Little did I know the majority of their travel was strictly for work, they didn't get to explore much, and as I got older I learned just how much they truly disliked that aspect of their jobs. Recently even a co-worker told me how she left a high-paying job because living out of a suitcase just to earn a paycheck wasn't worth the stress of never being home long enough to relax.
Neither my grandparents, nor my co-worker really got to enjoy their new surroundings and instead spent long hours in meetings and less time having glamorous lunches outside a cafe. However, despite all their naysaying I still see their jobs through rose colored glasses. I want that life... well, my version of it.
These days I don't shy away from living out of a single bag, body aching from traipsing all over lugging that stupid bag with me. I don't really envision a lot work happening, but I do see days spent in cafes, early mornings with a sketchbook, afternoons in glamorous dresses... Head's up, this has never been a reality. Ever.
An entire day in a cafe is wasteful. If I remember to pack my sketchbook and the accompanying art utensils, they barely get touched. And where exactly is that glamorous dress going to fit in my backpack carry-on? I don't have time to get pretty... there's too much to see! (Cue my completely obvious envy at those girls with their effortlessly glam instagram tavels.)
But I digress, let's go back in time to January 2011 when it all really began...
I was 20 years old, slightly heartbroken over a boy who didn't show up to meet my family for Christmas, and scared shitless in a Rome airport. I was dying of thirst, desperately trying to understand what the hell signs I needed to follow, convinced that they were in language that didn't even resemble Italian. (They were in both Italian and English, but past me won't believe you.) The whole plan was my boyfriend at the time was going to fly to Texas, meet my mom, step dad, opa, and step grandmother then we would fly back to his home in Manchester to spend the New Year together. It was going to be magical. It was not. Instead I was alone in a foreign country, all my friends (can you call other classmates friends? I like to think we became friends during our time there, but they may feel differently) had arrived on an earlier flight. I had to get from the Rome airport, on the train to Castiglion Fiorentino with 4 months of luggage by myself. It seemed like an impossible feat. There's no way I could manage that all on my own.
I approached what I thought was customs, but I don't recall ever getting my student visa or even my passport checked by anyone. In my flurry of confusion, I'm almost positive I skipped right through. I made it to the trains, approached the ticketer and said in my most practiced accent, "Parlez-vous francais?" (Oh yeah, did I mention that I didn't know a lick of Italian? Yeah, I came armed with a handful of semesters of French under my belt. It had to be similar enough, right? No. No, it was not.) "No," he replied. I think he must have caught on based on my crestfallen face since he then slowly and clearly told me, in English, where I needed to go and how long until I would get off the train. I thanked him with some form of Spanish I'm sure, and bee-lined it to the first stand selling water. I asked for a bottle of water and clearly understanding that I was American asked, "Wiz gazzzzzz or wizout?" I managed to mutter "without" without unintentionally mocking his accent, purchased my water and happily guzzled it as I drug my luggage to the platform. I was feeling good about this. I had managed thusfar, it wouldn't be so bad, right? Look at me, 20 years old and killing it.
Then came the train ride. It wasn't bad for most of it. I struggled loading my large suitcase and overstuffed carry-on, but then I found myself a seat and settled in for the 3+ hour ride ahead of me. Halfway through, I met a nice Colombian girl who was also traveling solo, but she had been doing so for many a month by the time I met her. I'll always remember Paola for being so friendly to me and telling me that it wasn't so scary once you got used to it. She got off on the stop before mine and wished me luck.I waved goodbye and suddenly realized that it was dark outside. Not dusk, but dark. It was 8 o'clock at night, in January, and I was in a foreign country headed to a school I had no idea how to get to. Paola's warm words suddenly froze in the pit of my stomach. There was a handful of people left on the train and not only did they look like what every Italian I had encountered so far in my journey, they were also soundly asleep. I had a series of small panic attacks over the next 40 minutes to my stop.
The train eased to a stop, the station was eerily deserted, but by some unknown internal alarm, half the passengers woke up on cue and headed for the doors. I yanked my luggage off the train, envisioning the train moving ahead with my luggage still on it and then sat on the nearest bench absolutely frozen on my next step. I had miraculously made it to Castiglion Fiorentino, but now what? I remembered my instructions told me there would be someone waiting for my luggage and then to just head up the hill. There was no one there for my luggage and the hill loomed ahead of me in the dark. I went into full on panic mode. I dialed the one person I knew would help me regardless where I was in the world, my mother. She gave me the number for the school and never once mentioned how much this was all costing her. I called the school, where amazingly someone happened to be walking by the office and answered. All the newly arrived students were eating dinner and I was sitting at a train station by myself, back to being scared shitless.
After what I felt was like forever, an older Italian man in the tiniest truck I had ever seen came puttering toward me. "Santa Chiara?" he yelled at me. My eyes got wide and I hesitantly nodded. He grinned at me and greeted me with a friendly, "buonasera!" He loaded up my suitcase, motioned for me to place my carry-on in the back with it and then opened my door for me. I remember he hummed along to the radio as I realized what an impossible hike it would have been up to the school. Once we reached the door of the school I was beyond grateful for whoever had sent this kind man to pick up me and my things. Mind you this is a blog aimed towards fat women, and even at 20 I was particularly fat and not remotely active. This walk would have been significantly uphill for close to if not more than a mile. It would have taken me forever and I probably would have stopped halfway to have myself a little cry. This whole semester was going to be a lot harder than I thought.
After unloading my suitcase, I was greeted by the two women running the program. They told me to leave my luggage in the foyer and hurry down to dinner. I still had not seen a familiar face at this point, but I figured what did I have to lose? Just all my clothing and supplies for school, but no big deal. At least I was no longer lost.
I found myself led down a narrow staircase, taken through a maze of small rooms until it opened into the dining hall filled with people happily eating their first Italian meal. Professor Flippin saw me come in and immediately greeted me with a sense of relief. I was the absolute last to arrive. He pointed me in the direction of my peers and said he'd be sitting up front with the rest of the professors, but after dinner we would all meet in the studio to discuss the following days. I walked towards my group, but saw there were no spots available and instead settled at a nearby table. I honestly cannot remember who I met that night, I was just thankful to have finally found my place. I ate with gusto and drank my body weight in water, hurrying to catch up with the dinner almost finished. I felt my whole body relax.
Finally I had found my place.
Neither my grandparents, nor my co-worker really got to enjoy their new surroundings and instead spent long hours in meetings and less time having glamorous lunches outside a cafe. However, despite all their naysaying I still see their jobs through rose colored glasses. I want that life... well, my version of it.
These days I don't shy away from living out of a single bag, body aching from traipsing all over lugging that stupid bag with me. I don't really envision a lot work happening, but I do see days spent in cafes, early mornings with a sketchbook, afternoons in glamorous dresses... Head's up, this has never been a reality. Ever.
An entire day in a cafe is wasteful. If I remember to pack my sketchbook and the accompanying art utensils, they barely get touched. And where exactly is that glamorous dress going to fit in my backpack carry-on? I don't have time to get pretty... there's too much to see! (Cue my completely obvious envy at those girls with their effortlessly glam instagram tavels.)
But I digress, let's go back in time to January 2011 when it all really began...
I was 20 years old, slightly heartbroken over a boy who didn't show up to meet my family for Christmas, and scared shitless in a Rome airport. I was dying of thirst, desperately trying to understand what the hell signs I needed to follow, convinced that they were in language that didn't even resemble Italian. (They were in both Italian and English, but past me won't believe you.) The whole plan was my boyfriend at the time was going to fly to Texas, meet my mom, step dad, opa, and step grandmother then we would fly back to his home in Manchester to spend the New Year together. It was going to be magical. It was not. Instead I was alone in a foreign country, all my friends (can you call other classmates friends? I like to think we became friends during our time there, but they may feel differently) had arrived on an earlier flight. I had to get from the Rome airport, on the train to Castiglion Fiorentino with 4 months of luggage by myself. It seemed like an impossible feat. There's no way I could manage that all on my own.
I approached what I thought was customs, but I don't recall ever getting my student visa or even my passport checked by anyone. In my flurry of confusion, I'm almost positive I skipped right through. I made it to the trains, approached the ticketer and said in my most practiced accent, "Parlez-vous francais?" (Oh yeah, did I mention that I didn't know a lick of Italian? Yeah, I came armed with a handful of semesters of French under my belt. It had to be similar enough, right? No. No, it was not.) "No," he replied. I think he must have caught on based on my crestfallen face since he then slowly and clearly told me, in English, where I needed to go and how long until I would get off the train. I thanked him with some form of Spanish I'm sure, and bee-lined it to the first stand selling water. I asked for a bottle of water and clearly understanding that I was American asked, "Wiz gazzzzzz or wizout?" I managed to mutter "without" without unintentionally mocking his accent, purchased my water and happily guzzled it as I drug my luggage to the platform. I was feeling good about this. I had managed thusfar, it wouldn't be so bad, right? Look at me, 20 years old and killing it.
Then came the train ride. It wasn't bad for most of it. I struggled loading my large suitcase and overstuffed carry-on, but then I found myself a seat and settled in for the 3+ hour ride ahead of me. Halfway through, I met a nice Colombian girl who was also traveling solo, but she had been doing so for many a month by the time I met her. I'll always remember Paola for being so friendly to me and telling me that it wasn't so scary once you got used to it. She got off on the stop before mine and wished me luck.I waved goodbye and suddenly realized that it was dark outside. Not dusk, but dark. It was 8 o'clock at night, in January, and I was in a foreign country headed to a school I had no idea how to get to. Paola's warm words suddenly froze in the pit of my stomach. There was a handful of people left on the train and not only did they look like what every Italian I had encountered so far in my journey, they were also soundly asleep. I had a series of small panic attacks over the next 40 minutes to my stop.
The train eased to a stop, the station was eerily deserted, but by some unknown internal alarm, half the passengers woke up on cue and headed for the doors. I yanked my luggage off the train, envisioning the train moving ahead with my luggage still on it and then sat on the nearest bench absolutely frozen on my next step. I had miraculously made it to Castiglion Fiorentino, but now what? I remembered my instructions told me there would be someone waiting for my luggage and then to just head up the hill. There was no one there for my luggage and the hill loomed ahead of me in the dark. I went into full on panic mode. I dialed the one person I knew would help me regardless where I was in the world, my mother. She gave me the number for the school and never once mentioned how much this was all costing her. I called the school, where amazingly someone happened to be walking by the office and answered. All the newly arrived students were eating dinner and I was sitting at a train station by myself, back to being scared shitless.
After what I felt was like forever, an older Italian man in the tiniest truck I had ever seen came puttering toward me. "Santa Chiara?" he yelled at me. My eyes got wide and I hesitantly nodded. He grinned at me and greeted me with a friendly, "buonasera!" He loaded up my suitcase, motioned for me to place my carry-on in the back with it and then opened my door for me. I remember he hummed along to the radio as I realized what an impossible hike it would have been up to the school. Once we reached the door of the school I was beyond grateful for whoever had sent this kind man to pick up me and my things. Mind you this is a blog aimed towards fat women, and even at 20 I was particularly fat and not remotely active. This walk would have been significantly uphill for close to if not more than a mile. It would have taken me forever and I probably would have stopped halfway to have myself a little cry. This whole semester was going to be a lot harder than I thought.
After unloading my suitcase, I was greeted by the two women running the program. They told me to leave my luggage in the foyer and hurry down to dinner. I still had not seen a familiar face at this point, but I figured what did I have to lose? Just all my clothing and supplies for school, but no big deal. At least I was no longer lost.
I found myself led down a narrow staircase, taken through a maze of small rooms until it opened into the dining hall filled with people happily eating their first Italian meal. Professor Flippin saw me come in and immediately greeted me with a sense of relief. I was the absolute last to arrive. He pointed me in the direction of my peers and said he'd be sitting up front with the rest of the professors, but after dinner we would all meet in the studio to discuss the following days. I walked towards my group, but saw there were no spots available and instead settled at a nearby table. I honestly cannot remember who I met that night, I was just thankful to have finally found my place. I ate with gusto and drank my body weight in water, hurrying to catch up with the dinner almost finished. I felt my whole body relax.
Finally I had found my place.
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