The following is my favorite paper that I wrote about Siena. Just for the sake of context, I'll fill you in a little. The Buon Governo is part of a fresco in the Palazzo Publico in the city center, known as the Piazza del Campo. I've always been enchanted with Siena's intermingled relationship between religion and government... so it was only natural that I chose this piece to write my first anthropology paper on!
Buon Governo: Historical Context and Significance Of all of the art housed in the Palazzo Publico, one of the more poignant—and popular—pieces is kept in the Sala dei Nove: the Buon Governo. This fresco, painted by Ambrogio Lorenzetti between 1338 and 1339 (Polzer), was commissioned by the Council of Nine, Siena’s oligarchical governing body. The Buon Governo and surrounding frescos are unique in that they present a civic, not religious, focus. Ultimately, the fresco itself was meant to serve not only as a reminder to the council, but to the people of Siena of the importance of a fair and just government. The Allegory of the Good and Bad Governments were completed at a time of great political turmoil within Italy. Siena itself was only sixteen years away from a rebellion that would ultimately overturn the regime of the Council of Nine in 1355 (Hook). Just as Italy was beginning to enjoy a new era of mercantile prosperity, the Black Plague began to spread across Europe, economic and social depression were quick to follow (“14th Century”). In the wake of the plague, social reform was imminent; merchants had begun to view themselves as a vital part of the noble ruling class. As Siena dealt with several unsuccessful rebellions between 1302 and 1346 (Hook), the importance of creating a bridge between the citizens of Siena and its governing body became paramount. It could be argued that the nature of the Buon Governo fresco is largely influenced by the council’s desire to include contemporary Sienese values. Wisdom sits not only as a symbol of the city, clothed in its colors—black and white—but as a representation of the council. Over his head are inscribed the letters CSCV, Commune Saenorum Civiats Virginis, the designation of the Council of Nine. To each side, Wisdom is flanked by stately virtues: Peace, Fortitude, Prudence on his left and Magnanimity, Temperance, and Justice to his right. The Buon Governo fresco flows easily into the representation of a peaceful city. This “peaceful” city is easily identifiable as city of Siena because of symbols such as the Duomo in the background of the fresco. This representation of Siena is not present in the Allegory of the Bad Government at its opposite as to distance the viewer from the idea that Siena might fall into a similar predicament. These contemporary Sienese values that Lorenzetti has painted alongside the wise proverbial figurehead of Siena only serve to emphasize the importance of the civic focus of this fresco. In theory, a good government would adhere to these virtues and in turn, the people would prosper. In a time marked by political strife, the Buon Governo reminds the Sienese people of the benefits of peace. This fresco works in tandem with the representation of a peaceful Siena to reaffirm the idea that the work of the Council of Nine serves only to expand the wealth and happiness of the Sienese people. In turn, the Sienese people should not only place their faith and trust in their government, but rejoice in it. While this effort ultimately failed when the Council of Nine were pushed out by Emperor-Elect Charles IV in 1355, its message still maintains relevancy to this day. Many core modern beliefs on how a government should fundamentally operate are still reflected in the virtues within the Buon Governo fresco. Lorenzetti’s work lives on not only on the walls of the Sala dei Nove, but in the hearts and minds of free-thinking citizens as hopes for what their government might someday achieve.
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Goodbye.
So much emotion packed into one little word. Goodbye. Sometimes, it doesn’t feel good. Today, it doesn't feel like anything at all, and at the same time, it feels like everything. I’ll admit it: I only slept two hours last night, and what rest I got was fitful. I’m a notoriously anxious traveller, but it wasn’t so much the journey as it was the end of the journey that frightened me this time. I asked myself if I’d done enough, if I’d said the right things, made the right mistakes. Where I thought diving into the unknown would prove to be an insurmountable task, leaving it is far more difficult than I ever could have imagined just three months ago. I was grateful that a friend chose to accompany me to the airport this morning. Not only did it put my mind (and probably my arms) at ease, but it afforded me the opportunity to take one last stroll through the streets of Siena. Where the last few weeks have seen Siena flooded with tourists, this morning was entirely reminiscent of the tranquil, slow off-season Siena I originally fell in love with. Don’t get me wrong—the experience is not tarnished by the tourists, but it was nice to get the chance to say goodbye without having to worry about watching where I was walking. Goodbye. There I go with that godawful word again. It felt just as surreal to walk away as it did to walk in. I’m surrounded by hundreds of other weary travelers (and believe me, that’s a reality in and of itself that I didn’t want to deal with this morning), but I feel almost as though I should wake up from this dream, warm and cozy in my charming Sienese apartment once more. How could three months go by so fast? How could the dream be ending? How will I wake up in America and ever be the same? The short answer is that I won’t. I have dreamt my dream in Siena. I have walked amongst her palazzos, amongst her people, amongst the deep set pride that they have for their city, and it has changed me. I can’t say for certain which parts of me are different, but at my roots, I know I am no longer the same girl. I left some terrible pieces of me behind in Italy; the scared pieces, the angry pieces, the depressed pieces. I hope I left some good ones, too. That apartment shares the memory of my laughter, those streets the tales of nights well spent. Two days later. Three days? Time seems like such a frivolous concept now, especially since it all seems to have raced by so quickly. It seems like just yesterday I was anxiously counting down the days to Siena—time went so slowly then. Where it crawled in the weeks leading up to my departure, it learned to run by the time I was settled in Italy. I promise you, I dreamed of home, too, but now that I am here, I have learned the truth in the saying “home is where the heart is.” Siena will always have a piece of my heart, and if—no, when--I return, it will be a second homecoming. I longed for familiarity when I first left, but in time, those streets became familiar. I longed for family when I first left, but in time, I found them. I fell in love with Siena, and Siena helped me to fall in love with myself. Today, I am not homesick, but I am the next closest thing. Goodbye isn’t fair to say, but it’s the only word that fits until the next time I get to say hello. ’Til then, I’ll be sleepless in Savannah. So, I think by now I’ve spent a lot of time talking about myself. And yes, I know you came here to hear (read?) about Siena, but please—hold your horses, I think I’m getting somewhere on this whole personal growth thing.
These blogs have been overwhelmingly focused on what studying abroad does for your perception of yourself, but what about your perception of others? I have never had very many friends. There, I’ve said it. Full permission to run through all the loner jokes. I was (and very much still am) one who saw fit to keep myself limited to a small friend group. I am conservative if only because of my sneaky under-cover introversion. I love people, to an extent… but there is no one in this world I love more than my friends. Coming to Siena was hard in part because I felt uncomfortable. I had one friend—one reassurance—coming on the trip that I knew of, in combination with a familiar face from high school. I knew that in the end it would be bearable, pleasant even. I was entirely prepared to push myself out of my comfort zone, but mostly because I’ve never had trouble making friends on a fairly casual basis. I placed a lot of faith in the unknown. What Siena gave to me in turn was far more than I could have ever expected. Don’t get me wrong, living with almost strangers has been a struggle. There is friction in any household, especially in such a relatively high-stress situation. I don’t know that I was anticipating it in the capacity that I should have, having only lived with the perfect roommate-turned-best-friend (oh hey, Erin), but I was at least somewhat braced for the inevitable discord. True to form, I was thinking about what could go wrong from day one, not what could go right. Shit did go wrong. It has gone wrong about a thousand times. Luggage got lost. Trains were missed. Phone and internet service went out. Ankles were sprained. Hearts were broken. Fights were had. Shit went completely and utterly wrong, and I don’t doubt that it will continue to in these next few weeks. Because so much went wrong, I wasn’t sure what I was going to return to when I got home. I wasn’t even sure if anyone would even care that I had, with the exception of my family. I felt, however wrongly, that because life beat on, life would just beat on and the stories I would have to tell wouldn’t matter to a soul. I would only have this perfect-imperfect experience with these perfect-imperfect strangers… and for what, in the end? My heart breaks to think that even one short month ago, I felt this way. I am at peace now with the idea that no one will care if only because of the bond I have formed with those who are here. Even though they will not follow me home (not right away, anyways), I know that I will always have them to lean on now. I am going home, but I will not be alone. Not thanks to these strangers. I didn’t change who I was for these strangers. Maybe I toned it down, or occasionally kept it under lock and key, but I never changed. In turn, I never expected them to change—even when shit went horrendously wrong. I love them for never changing. I love them for never wanting me to change. I love them for sharing these perfect-imperfect experiences with perfect-imperfect me. More importantly, I love them for caring. They care even though it’s not their job to care. I cannot tell you the countless hugs I have received, or the countless tears that have been shed in tandem, or the laughter, or the snark, or the advice. I lose sleep in this house, but only because I want to. Thank goodness for you. You know who you are. You are so much more than just this trip to me. You are a lifetime. You are the friends I’ve never had. I would say that I didn’t deserve you—but you taught me better. I do… and so do you. Let me be good to you like you have been to me, because you have been everything and more. To the Siena family. Last week, I went on my final excursion to Florence. As we were strolling through the crowded streets and discussing our respective weekends, I mentioned to my professor that I had spent two days in Venice with my grandparents. I was—and still am—enamored with the city, awed not only by its beauty, but by Italian ingenuity. It was Rebecca (my professor) who mentioned something poignant: only the Italians would think to build a city on top of the water.
While this isn’t necessarily the only case of humans building cities on top of water, it is the only surviving water-top city that I’ve had the privilege of enjoying. It was jarring to step out of the train station and not to be presented with rolling Tuscan countryside. Instead, I was welcomed by the berth of the Grand Canal. The water was not the green-brown that I have grown accustomed to on the shores of Savannah, but a startling shade of turquoise and grey. I knew not to expect roads in Venice, but despite the fact that I was well aware that we would be doing the majority of our traveling by boat, I was still a little taken aback. Gondolas slapped the water cheekily, bobbing up and down in the wake of the taxis that bustled past. We took a private water taxi along the Grand Canal to our hotel, and let me tell you, I’ve never been so close to breaking my neck in my life. The water was hardly choppy—no, in fact, it was a beautiful day on the water—but there was so much I needed to see, and so little time to see it. As we cut through the traffic, gondolas and water taxis and little cargo carriers alike, I did my best to survey both sides of the canal. Gardens and palazzos and museums alike alluded me, no doubt, but the colors… I will never forget the colors. While Venice is not as warm as Siena, nor as medieval, it embraces an endearing renaissance palate. It is as pastel as it is pale. Delicate, almost. A lady in her own right. She is a marvel still, decorated right down to the trimmings. Not even Venice (especially not Venice, more accurately) could escape the grasp of tourist season. Having lived in Italy for nearly two months already, it was important to me that I looked at the city not through the lens of a tourist, but through the lens of a student. How was it different from Siena? How was it the same—if it was the same at all? After all, I was no longer in familiar Toscana. Piazza San Marco, though overwhelmed by travelers, was the epitome of Venice. Napoleon himself called it “the drawing room of Europe.” Filled with life, there was no better summary. Bells chimed overhead while people queued up for their chance to tour St. Mark’s Basilica. Caddies and tables dotted the stones underfoot, while orchestras competed with one another from across of one of the piazza’s arms. Exhausted as I was from a day of traveling on little to no sleep, in that moment, I was alight again. After a day’s rest and a brisk evening walk through the Piazza and the Giardini Reali, I was read to tackle the task of learning again. We booked a tour of the island of Murano and sat in on a glass blowing session before we were whisked away to the highlight of the afternoon: the showroom. Each work was a one-of-a-kind, (so I’ll use that as my excuse for why I boast no pictures) and I was blown away by the craftsmanship inherent in every piece. Each showroom had it’s own theme, but the one I remember most distinctly is that of the elegant crystal chandeliers. I know you’ve met me, so you’ll understand when all I have to say about that is freaking Cinderella moment. We returned to Venice in short order for a walk through the basilica, lunch—underwhelming at best, but mostly because I hadn’t thought to do research on where we should eat, shame on me—and an hour’s rest. We had a boat tour booked for the afternoon and I was (rightfully) the most excited for this adventure. We boarded a private boat that afternoon, setting off on a winding tour of the smaller canals that webbed their ways through the city. It was not a tour in the traditional sense; there was no loudspeaker barrage, no fact assault… only the occasional interlude from the driver as we bobbed our way towards the Grand Canal. We had come to a mutual understanding early on, I think. I was here to soak in what I could in the short time I had, and I was grateful to him for allowing me to. I felt that even though Venice was saturated with tourists and their unfortunate by-products, I had her to myself for a brief moment—and what a wonderful moment it was. While Venice was one of the highlights of my trip, it was not the highlight. All of her majesty and beauty did not compare to the joy implicit in being with those you love. I owed my trip to Venice to a little piece of home away from home: my grandparents. Grandmom and Grandpop, it was a privilege to explore with you. Thank you for the sweet memories. Returning to Siena—to my other home away from home—was made all the better only because you were with me. To good travels. I cannot help but to love Siena.
There is an innate charm about this city. Something indescribable clings to its edges. I cannot take credit for being the first to notice how it basks in the warm glow of the sun; all due belongs instead to my roommate (and very dear friend, as though that were ever an afterthought), Blair. Though the stones that line the streets may occasionally feel uneven underfoot, they are each deliberately placed, a cobble conglomerate that might threaten your ankles but will sooth your soul. When I went to Florence, I loved Florence, but not in the way that I loved Siena. I loved Florence’s bustle—even if the crowds were a bit overwhelming at times—and I loved the culture. The duomo took my breath away and kept it there within reach of its muted green marble. The Venus awakened something in me, and for a moment, I was the pearl cradled in the shell. Florence was glorious and loud and omnipotent. Florence demanded my love and admiration. Siena never needed to ask. Siena was love at first sight. Siena can bustle. I have seen Siena bustle on Saturday nights, but also on Monday mornings, when the Piazza del Campo is awash with light. There, people spread themselves across the bricks and they partake in the city’s finest joy: they too glow in the sun, even despite the occasional nip of winter’s chill that descends upon them here and again. It is here in the city that I found my favorite object. It is unassuming and humble, a parallel of the unapologetically beautiful Fonte Gaia that rests at is opposite. Beneath the splendor of the Torre del Mangia, you may not even notice it… but there it stands, nestled at the very heart of the Campo’s brick shell: the grate. I’m not sure what drew me to it first. Perhaps it was that my eye was naturally drawn to follow the slope of the Campo’s nine wedges or perhaps I was swept into a rare moment of keen observation, desperate to memorize every dreamlike detail. There is nothing particularly special about the grate aside from it’s design; I can’t even find anything mentioned about it on the internet. I’m sort of insulted that there isn’t anything—not even one picture. It is little more than a grate, after all, but it is precious in ways that I cannot describe. It is charming, green metal curled delicately into the form of a leafy tree. I find that more often than not, I pause to admire it for a moment. I haven’t been brave enough to lay down on my belly in order to get the proper angle for a decent photo (I mean, I just told you how busy the Campo was, didn’t I?) but someday before I leave, I just might. You see, this grate is so much more than a grate. It feels like a statement. So much of the beauty of Siena is wrapped in small details like these. The Piazza is magnificent and the Duomo is breath-taking, but they do not dwarf the beauty of a shrine to the Virgin Mary perched high on a wall, or the intrigue of a face carved onto the stone underfoot, or even the majesty of a simple drainage grate. I beg of you, look up every once and awhile. Then look down. Perhaps left and right—and not just when you’re crossing the road. Looking straight forward, looking for the expected… you might just miss your grate. If there is anything studying abroad doesn’t brace you for, it’s loss.
When I arrived in Siena, I felt as though all of my dreams had been realized. I half didn't believe people when they said that studying abroad would change not only your life, but how you choose to live it. I had plans back home; when I returned, I was certain I would find structure and order once more. I clung to that when I felt as though things were messy and disorganized in adjusting here. The promise of home held just as much temptation as the promise of travel. And then the dream changed without warning. My precious life’s plan fell out from under my feet. A romance that I had fully intended make up the rest of my book—my happy ending and beyond—suddenly became only a chapter. There was never a moment where I thought the book was worth closing, but damn if I wasn’t tempted to lay down the pen and recover my bearings. Being in a relationship taught me about who I was much the same as Italy did. It tested my patience, my empathy. Stubborn as I was (and as I very much still am), I refused to let it change me… for the most part. I was never one to walk on the wild side of life, but I could dip my toes in the water here and again. The fact of the matter is, however, that that was never living to me in the way it is to other people. I enjoyed living my life quietly. But it was Italy, not Georgia, that taught me that just because I am the quiet Sunday morning girl doesn’t mean I am complacent. I am not naive. There is a keen difference between comfort and complacency. I was comfortable at home, but regardless, I ventured out into the world and now anything can be my comfort zone. In Siena, I am still the same person I was at home, but it is because of Siena that I don’t play into the idea that I am not enough simply because I am comfortable with who I am. I didn’t realize it in sweet, slow Georgia, but here I have discovered I am marble, and as I grew into myself, I learned to love the cracks as much as the craftsmanship. Nobody else pushed me to do this. I wanted to travel the world for myself. We all know how I feel about this; this trip was rather selfishly all about me. I have never been more grateful to myself for listening to that tiny voice in the back of my head telling me that there was something more. I was a fool not to listen to it when it spoke to me again the second I stepped into the Piazza del Campo. It may have taken me three weeks abroad to figure it out, but that voice was right: there is so much more. My trip to Italy was a love letter to myself, and though I have walked along the Via Roma, I will never forget about the road that leads me to home. I have thought long and hard about the kind of person I’ll be once I follow it back. I’m not ashamed that I still have every intention of being myself. I will enjoy my life for what it is instead of continuing to reach for a life I know I’ll never be comfortable with living. I had it in me to be the person I’ve become without this trip, but it is because of Italy I will have realized my potential in record time. And—more importantly—I know how to make some really bitchin’ fresh pasta. Unapologetically signed, the quiet Sunday morning girl. Why am I here?
At face value, the answer to that question seems easy. I am here to broaden my horizons and to experience things I had never dreamed of experiencing back home. I am here to see the sights, to smell the smells, to tastes the tastes. I came to Italy because I wanted a break from the mundane. I wanted to learn by experience. I wanted to experience what it was like just to be--just to exist somewhere that was unfamiliar. If you’re wondering why I haven’t posted pictures, I’ll tell you honestly: I don’t know how to take a pretty picture. Even if I did, I would never be able to capture things the way they are or, perhaps more importantly, the way they ought to be seen. So many people have told me that they are living this trip through me, that they are eager to see pictures and to hear stories, but I can’t. Maybe it’s that I’m selfish. Maybe it’s that I’m pretentious. I know I’m afforded a huge privilege; so many never get to travel in their lifetime. I am eternally grateful for the opportunity. I feel guilty every time I feel a pang of homesickness. I am living in the moment, wistfully, blissfully so. Perhaps that’s why I can’t share all of this with you. I’m sorry I bring you back week by week to suffer through my introspection when you were expecting details about the pizza and the Piazza, but what is travel without a little indignant self reflection? It's about the Italians, but in the same breath, it isn't. It’s not even really about Italy, sometimes. Italy never needed me, but I desperately needed Italy. Which begs the question: how can I be comfortable with taking when I have nothing in turn to give? Italy has given me plenty. Confidence, independence, a new perspective. I never asked for these things, but I half expected them. They have fallen into my lap, precious gifts that I’m not quite sure what exactly I’m meant to do with yet. More importantly, I don’t know what I’m meant to leave in return. Are my footprints enough? Is it sufficient just to say “I was here,” or is there some sort of work I’m meant to do? Perhaps I was selfish to expect to come here and expect that this was about me—but it is, isn’t it? This is about me. Never has it been more about me. I don’t feel as though I should apologize for that. You’ve likely read my story by now. You know that I was so desperately unhappy for the first half of my college career that it was stifling. Even as I made the transition to a better path, I clung to the familiar, even if it wasn’t necessarily what was best for me. Back home, I spent too much time giving bits and pieces of myself away to people who didn’t always necessarily deserve it. Here, I am removed from that. At first, I may not have recognized that; I held onto my guilt for leaving and tighter still onto my guilt for wanting to go back. I had not braced myself for the unexpected pang of loss, but when loss found me, I found that I did not shatter. Italy gave that to me. The least I can do is be grateful. It’s difficult to be bitter, when your heart gets broken in a foreign country. You get up and you go on with your day. I am doing, where before I would have been… I don’t know where I might have been, if not for Italy. Someday, Italy, I will find a way to pay you back that isn’t in footsteps or kind words. Forgive me, Italy, for not knowing how I am meant to pay proper homage to you. I’m sorry, Italy, I don’t know how to do you justice with words. Thank you, Italy, for the person I am slowly becoming, tucked in your hills, living from your land, amongst your people. Someday, Italy… I will know what I am meant to do, and it will be because of you, and I will owe you everything. To many the discovery of independence is the first death knell of childhood. I found my independence amongst the ringing of bells here in Siena; every hour on the hour, every half hour, they sing their song far and wide across the city. They are the tune to which I have found myself again, suddenly anew and suddenly alight. There is a bitter reality in flying the coup for the first time. To the chime of bells, I have at last been made to explore the world entirely on my own.
Where there is innocence to be found in childhood, it is intrinsically intertwined with dependence. As a child, you cannot explore without someone to set boundaries. There are questions to be asked, expectations to be met, dangers to be avoided. As a child, it is simply that one does not know any better. Independence is fleeting. We learn to buckle our belts, to tie our shoes, but there is almost always someone there to make sure we’ve done it correctly. As we venture slowly but surely into independence, we lose that double-checking safety net. I will be the first to admit that I have lived nearly the entirety my life in a rather plush and cozy comfort zone. I didn’t necessarily like to be pushed out of routine, however mundane I found it to be. The slightest upset was a major adjustment, and I did everything in my power to avoid it. I rebelled against excitement only because I found it to be not only wholly overwhelming, but wholly terrifying. I was essentially still a child. I had grown dependent on the familiar. Far too dependent. Traveling wrenched this dependence from my hands, despite the fact that I was still innocent to the ways of the world. In Siena, I am at once the most independent I have ever been and the most childlike I will ever be. The world is new again. It’s no small decision, leaving everything you know behind. I wasn’t even comfortable with everything I was absolutely certain of back home. There are times here where it is almost unbearable. I have no safety net. Only the ever present toll of the bells welcomes me here. I hear their song in the little magical things, too. The first view of the Piazza del Campo. The chill of the magnificent marble duomo. Mary’s cool stare as she holds an infant Jesus at her breast. I know there is magic in these things that I never knew at home… but I have found that there is magic in the fear that comes along with finally cooking for yourself, in navigating foreign cities, in simply not knowing whether or not you are capable. There are days, though they grow less frequent now, that I feel I am entirely unable to do this by myself. I’m not wrong, either. My independence was fast forged, but there is a pang—a bittersweet pang—that reaches my heart when I hear the echo of my father’s voice telling me how proud he is. I hear it. It echoes like the bells, and while it does not chime on the hour anymore, it rings just when I need it… and I am comfortable with being a child again, if only for a moment. "But what am I to do? I must have some drug, and reading isn't a strong enough drug now." - C.S. Lewis When I was little, there was nothing I loved more than to read. I fondly remember the time I spent tucked under my loft bed, enjoying fantastical series the likes of The Magic Treehouse and Harry Potter. In a sense, I grew up on magic; from a young age, I learned to explore worlds far more vast than I had ever imagined. I cannot tell you what books like that meant to me then. I still cannot say what they mean to me now. They will have a place in my heart. Always. Just as words grew on me, they grew with me. I am a self taught writer. My eloquence is borne of years of self-inflicted suffering on public forums. I still cringe to think what I’ve left out there on the world wide web, but I’d like to think it’s all buried at the bottom of long dead forums on long forgotten websites. Every once in awhile I’ll take the time to begrudgingly glance at a month old piece and a tiny piece of me will die every time I find even the most minute of errors. I can promise you now that as you are reading this, I am too. I am picking over the details with the fine-toothed comb of self-doubt. I have likely edited this post at least three times and I still feel that it isn’t good enough. That’s just the thing: writing is the one thing I’ve any natural talent for. I can pride myself on it, but my sense of humor is a pieced together mash of all the jokes I’ve laughed at over the years. My sense of style is a scrapbook page ripped out of the books everyone carries around me. My affinity for goats is likely the product of some meme or another. I’ve hodgepodged everything I’ve ever been and while my writing is no exception, it’s certainly the one thing I’ve ever felt that I’ve been able to successfully make my own in spite of my outside influences. Is studying abroad likely to have an impact on the way I write? Perhaps. Has it shaped how I feel about my writing? Most definitely. There are a lot of things about leaving home that you never consider in the midst of the excitement of planning to leave home. You don’t think about how you’ll feel in a country where your mother tongue is not universally spoken. Instead, you’ll think about what boots will go best with the majority of the sweaters you’re packing. You don’t even begin to consider how absolutely and totally incompetent you’ll feel at even the most basic of social tasks. You’ll wonder if your hair dryer is going to work and how you’ll style your hair if it doesn’t. That vulnerability—that complete and utter sense of idiocy that overwhelms you when you can’t even answer a waiter—forces you appreciate what you are good at. I’ve always been proud of my writing. I might be quietly proud, but I am. There are some who say that artists with a natural talent for their craft have the touch of God; I am not qualified to say whether or not they do, but me? I was not touched. I did this. I sculpted this talent for words. When I am overrun by the unfamiliar, I run to this. When I am stressed, I run to this. When I am sad, when I am desperate, when I am lonely, I run to this. I run to this ever-changing constant. Whether or not studying abroad has changed the way I write at the end of this experience has suddenly become a moot point. That’s no longer the sort of growth I’m after. This newfound confidence, however? Siena and I could definitely stand to keep working on that. Perhaps it’s a bit young in my trip to write a memoir, but even now I have a feeling that at the end of this journey, I will look back and one thing will stick out: a runway.
Dawn had just barely begun to peak over the horizon as we prepared for landing. My flight between Atlanta and Amsterdam had been fairly uneventful. The turbulence was soothing, a welcome distraction from my aching heart. The first leg of my journey was spent fighting back tears, but even then I wouldn’t have been tell you what exactly I was feeling. My emotions had become a mushy conglomeration of elation and fear. My heart hadn’t stopped pounding in my chest since Hartsfield-Jackson. Having only slept three hours over the course of the flight, I was caught somewhere between the pull of exhaustion and the draw of sheer adrenaline. For nearly an hour, I’d been glued to the inflight entertainment system, watching on the map as the distance between the plane and the Netherlands grew ever shorter. The ping of a seatbelt light being switched on jolted me from sleeplessness; I was no longer concerned about the pounding in my head. For the seasoned traveller, a landing is a non-event. As a pilot’s daughter, I’ve never had any doubts as to my safety on an airplane. I owed my curiosity to my inexperience, and as such, I slid the cover of my window open as we began our descent over the wide expanse of runway. While I’m sure it would have been no less magical a landing by daylight, at night the tarmac is lined with glowing lights—red and green, if memory serves, and their meaning is lost on me—and it twinkled like stars on the flip side. When this journey began, I could have never imagined how I would feel the second the wheels touched ground in Amsterdam. It was not my final destination, but as someone who has never been to Europe, there was an inherent excitement in that sudden jolt. Instantly, my eyes welled, and my heart felt so very full. While the past few months had felt like nothing more than a slow climb, it suddenly felt as though I had been pitched over the top of a hill on a roller coaster. When we finally landed, it was not relief that washed over me but contentment. My dreams had come true, and yet, I still felt as though I was in their midst. I have always been one to find magic in little things, but I am certain there was magic there that morning. As I watched the sun rise from across the world—dawn breaking over the swirl of airport activity on a busy runway—I realized that if I had asked myself even six months ago if I would have simply imagined myself there, I might have said yes. Six months ago, I never would have imagined that it I could be capable of making it a reality. But here I am, writing a blog in Italy, crying about a landing… |
AuthorA junior college student with a dream somehow managed to convince her parents to let her study abroad despite the fact that she's grown and sometimes she can't get the lid off of a jar. ArchivesCategories |