The Long Trip Home: Cosa Pensavo--What I Was Thinking

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Cosa Pensavo: What I Was Thinking
by Corrie Cook

I remember sitting at the airport in an uncomfortable chair. Three other Ball State University students on the same study abroad program tried to find a comfortable position in their own chairs. Above us, a television replayed the same news-brief for the sixth time. It was a story from Italy, I honestly don't remember what about. Between the newscaster's bits of text flashed brief images of Italians offering an answer to some question, the soft curves and elegant movements of their lips in ugly contrast with the sharp sound of an English translator's voice-over. I remember wondering, can I get one of those? Some minuscule chip implanted under my hairline that translates Italian into English inside my ear and English into Italian inside my throat?

"Sabena flight to Brussels with connections to Rome will begin boarding in twenty minutes."

The loudspeaker interrupted my translator chip marketing plan, and I fumbled for my ticket. On the boarding pass, my name, my seat assignment and my destination were written clearly, unmistakably. I was going to Italy. I didn't even speak Italian.

For the first time, the question seeped into my brain—what on earth was I thinking?

I kissed Mom, hugged Dad, found my seat and tried to think confidently as the plane pulled away from the gate. We taxied to the runway, the pilot introducing himself in several languages. After ten minutes of watching other planes take off in front of us, our plane turned and the familiar sight of the airport came into view. Passengers around me started mumbling questions in a variety of languages. Finally the pilot's voice popped into the plane's stale air. I waited for him to explain in German, French, finally English. Calmly and eloquently he announced that we would remain at the gate for some time and that he was sorry for the delay. A less tactful stewardess told us why as she passed out cups of water.

"Oh, they have to weld something back onto the tail. Water?"

I chose a bottle of water and a pink container that looked like it might be yogurt. The cashier ignored me after I gave her the voucher so it must have been enough to cover my breakfast? Lunch? What time was it anyway?

"Yes, thank you."

What was I thinking?

Our cramped legs walked us onto the Brussels airport three hours behind schedule. A petite, blonde woman in a professional looking, navy blue suit asked our names and directed us to our new flight. We confirmed our seats and set out to use the meal vouchers that the airline had issued us. A cafeteria-style eatery offered sandwiches, salads and cold drinks in exchange for any type of money. I chose a bottle of water and a pink container that looked like it might be yogurt. The cashier ignored me after I gave her the voucher so it must have been enough to cover my breakfast? Lunch? What time was it anyway? I ate half the strawberry goo and tried to get my ears to pop. Finally we boarded our flight to Rome, and I attempted deep breathing to calm my swaying stomach. My first international lesson: don't eat yogurt from Brussels. I grabbed the airsick bag just in time. Even the two-year-old a row in front of me seemed disgusted.

What was I thinking?

We arrived in Rome just in time to catch the last train out of the city. Our luggage wasn't so lucky. After using charades to describe our missing bags at the Italian luggage department, we sprinted to buy tickets and find the corresponding train car. With our eyes cupped to the windows, the train puffed black smoke and lunged towards Macerata, a small town on the eastern coast—and our new home.

The rocking of the rickety, old train and the whoosh and whir of the wheels teased our weary bodies and bleary eyes. Over thirty hours ago we'd left our American bedrooms and American friends and American families. Anxious fear and curious excitement kept our heavy eyelids open, awaiting the sight of our stop.

Suddenly, it came. We scrambled from the train, smiling uncontrollably. The light of the platform's bare bulb twinkled like diamonds on a blue sign with block white letters: MACERATA.

We had made it! We took pictures, congratulated one another and then faced our next challenge with renewed energy and excitement. We had to find the hotel. It took us fifteen minutes just to figure out how to get from the track side of the station to the street side. It was a small building, not more than twenty feet wide, but the doors were locked and fences blocked both sides. Finally, one of us found the exit, or rather, the entrance.

Beyond the quilt of rooftops extended a border of flowing green—the country hillside expanding to the horizon. We breathed deeply and smiled again. We were in Italy.

Amazingly, there was a taxi in front of the station. (During the rest of the five months I lived in Macerata, I never again saw a taxi waiting in front of the station.) The four of us and our four carry-on bags piled into a car no bigger than a dining room table. The gears skipped into first, and we sputtered away from the station.

For the first time, the question appeared optimistically—what was I thinking?

A bed never felt so good. The worn, woolen blankets were exactly the warm welcome we needed, understandable in any language. I slept—really slept. I think I dreamed I went to Italy.

When we awoke the next morning, my roommate and I pulled up the blind and opened the inside shutters. The view silenced us both. We pulled the rusty hinges and opened the windows wide, the first breath of Italian morning air inflating our American lungs.

A cloudless sky let the sun shine freely on tiled roofs. Their dusty browns, light tans and crimson reds were like a magnificent patchwork quilt covering the city. Beyond the quilt of rooftops extended a border of flowing green—the country hillside expanding to the horizon. We breathed deeply and smiled again. We were in Italy. Italia. It was beautiful and welcoming and bursting with the promise of new experiences.

I stood with three days worth of bed-head in clothes I'd slept in and worn the day before and the day before that. It was then, facing the Italian morning for the first time, that I knew exactly what I had been thinking.