Setting out on a journey can either be an easy task, or it can be the most difficult undertaking in the world. Which of the two extremes prevails, has much to do with the mindset of the person travelling. Is a journey an adventure, a pilgrimage or a chore? Those words are only a few that can be used to categorize a trip, but even with three words the spirit of the journey is changed greatly.
Amanda’s journey began as a sort of pilgrimage. She was travelling to Italy. Not because she had chosen the journey, or because she had worked hard to finally reach her goal of travelling to Europe, but because her school required it. Those words were dreadful words in her mind – “Oh, it’s a required trip,” people would say when she told them of her journey. “How lucky for you!” She did not think it was so lucky. As exciting as the prospect of finally confirming that the world did have a whole different set of countries on a separate continent seemed; she was not choosing the trip for herself. She was not taking the journey after months of planning and saving. Instead the school was doing all the planning and banks were paying for her fun. Even worse, she was going to be forced to spend time with a group of people, during her private excursion. Every experience she had would be spent with someone else; for she knew that no one would allow her to escape off by herself.
Luckily for our heroine, most of the time spent preparing for her trip was a happy time. Instead of focusing on the negative aspects of her trip, she lingered on the intense joy that came with the thought that she was to travel to a country that was rich in history and life. Through out the quarter leading up to the trip, she would find herself looking out the window, imagining what Rome would really look like. Soon her dreams manifested themselves as doodles, whistled tunes and scrawled out journals, describing in detail her fears and hopes for the trip. Actual preparations for the trip were saved for the last minute, as is expected of a habitual procrastinator like herself. In fact, she did not pack for the trip until the morning that she was to leave. This of course left her scrambling to find items that were…essential… for her trip. The one item that proved to be of greatest value, once the trip was completed, was a blue hooded sweatshirt. Oversized and borrowed from a friend, the sweater provided to be a welcomed protection from the cool weather that was to come. Many of the other things brought on the trip turned out to be not as necessary. Needless to say, she did not finish even one book on her trip, let alone read portions of all seven books that accompanied her. The plastic knitting needles that she had borrowed from her mother and then broken were not used either. Her camera was mostly unused, except to take pictures of peace flags and people taking pictures. The marvels of sharing digital photographs had freed her from the shackles of photography. Even her journals, including the gorgeous new one, purchased specifically for the trip, were only used during the first half of the trip. Some time after Florence, she realized she was spending more time worrying about journaling that she was enjoying herself, and set the two aside. Internal promises were made proclaiming that she would someday return to finish her narrative, but those promises have remained unfulfilled to this day. The rest of her bags were full of unremarkable things, necessities and frivolities, all except for her beloved Zebra, strapped onto the back of a day-pack. The Zebra’s name was Abby, and she had sworn a solemn oath on her first journey, a trip to Washington DC that was an early graduation present, to always take Abby with her on any journey she might take.
The airport came, not a moment too soon for our heroine. She had stayed up all night, in preparation for the time change, but she was not tired. The thrill of seeing her fellow classmates huddled together, near the Air France check-in counters was more than enough adrenaline to keep her awake. Despite her excitement, the airport was mostly a dull place. She spent a lot of time philosophizing about the kinds of people she saw, but the thoughts were more of a personal requirement, rather than a spontaneous process. By the time the group had wound its way through security and to the terminal where they were to depart, there was not much time before they were to board the airplane. She, having missed both dinner and breakfast, stopped at a little café in the airport. It was there that she got her first taste of international life, as two women were discussing food items in French. As they used broken English that was much better than her broken Italian or French, she realized how typical arrogant American she was. She said a silent prayer of thanks to God for having decided to buy both languages phrase books and hoped she’d take the time to learn.
Being in a crowded airplane was an interesting experience. She had flown before, but never for such a long journey. At first everything seemed like it would be good. She was sitting next to two classmates, much to her disappointment, having dreamt of sitting next to her soul mate who just happened to have a beautiful Irish or English accent and who had no plans for the coming week. However, the two classmates she sat next to were interesting people and she looked forward to talking with them. Of course her hopes were not quite the reality as the small talk was soon exhausted, leaving her repertoire of conversations skills empty. The two seatmates drifted off into other activities, and she was left essentially to herself. Journaling took up a small chunk of her time, but the majority of the flight was spent watching bad movies and drifting in and out of sleep. Overall the flight was about as good as any international flight in business class can be, and she was grateful that her trip had turned out so well.
Paris offered an interesting opportunity. Now she could say she had been in Paris, but unfortunately she was unable to leave the airport. The group she was with got separated, and then lost in the airport. They made it to their gate, just in time, but all of the jumping around had made it obvious that attempting to leave the airport would have been disastrous. The one good thing about the stop over in Paris was the French stamp in her passport, the first stamp in her first passport was a sacred thing and to have the ritual take place in Paris was like icing on her cake. As the plane took off, she wondered if it was possible to see the Eiffel tower from her window. She swore she had seen it on entry, but the journey away from the city held no reward for her vigil.
Then the moment came! The moment when our heroine stepped off the airplane and onto Italian soil. This was the ground that she would be walking on for a week. This was the ground that belonged to another country, to another history; this was her first European soil. Sadly, her first few hours in the country were quite unremarkable. The rumpled feeling that accompanied departure and the sleepy atmosphere on the tour bus that she entered did not seem to belong to the adventurous journey that she was crafting in her mind. Despite this disappointment, many good things did happen on the trip to the hotel. Her class was reunited with the two missing members who had travelled earlier. Unfortunately they were forced to endure the tales from the master cynic who would later be the archivist photographer for the group. It seems the cynic and his companion had been left alone at the airport, instead of greeted as they had expected. After calling collect to the one who had been in charge, raising him out of bed at an unearthly hour of the morning, they decided to explore. The cynic saw nothing but the inconvenience, the added expense and the way that the downtown area seemed just like the areas he was used to. Secretly she wished that she could have come with them, and seen the sites for herself, instead of having her first taste of Italy come through a filter, but as her mother always used to say “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride” and wishing would not change her first experience. What could change was the impression itself. She watched avidly out the window for glimpses of Italy, and was rewarded this time with many interesting sites.
The hotel was beautiful. The rooms were small and the hotel seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, but a certain overused adjective, ‘charming,’ fit it perfectly. Every morning as she walked to breakfast, the girl was treated with the site of a small stream that meandered in a small wooded area off to the side of the buildings. Every night, she was serenaded to sleep by its melody of rushing water.
Other things about the hotel were not so nice, until they were viewed in retrospective. The meals were one of those things. Breakfast was not a fun time, as the same packaged croissants were served at every meal, along with warm milk and an odd assortment of cereal, clearly present because of the group’s American origins. The dinner meal was better, although some fusses were made over people claiming to be vegetarian in order to escape eating meat that didn’t fit their dietary guidelines. Compared to the other hotels, these problems were a minor thing and later the time spent there would be seen as a blessing. Yet, despite these small mishaps, meals were usually a pleasant time. The small groups that met at the tables talked through out the meals about a variety of topics. This allowed her time to listen to the others without having to carry the conversation. By just listening she was able to learn many things about her fellow classmates. This of course was a double-edged sword. On the one side, she was able to be a part of the “group experience,” without being forced to contribute significantly. On the other side she felt a bit ignored and wished she spoke up more, and actually was involved in the group instead of just present. This same sword became a bit of a pendulum, and she tended to be on one side or the other through out the trip. Some times she felt witty even included, and yet relieved at the lack of a social burden placed on her. Other times she was sure she would collapse from the constant interaction with people and her perceived uselessness.
Rome was an interesting place. Her first day spent in Rome felt surreal and forced as she followed a self proclaimed, “Tour guide Nazi” through the major sites in Rome. Her favourite experience that day was when she turned off the headphone blaring the tour guide’s words regarding the “Art History of the Sistine Chapel” that seemed better suited for a classroom, wandered away from the group and sat down on some nearby steps. She had ‘accidentally’ forgotten her camera, but secretly wondered if it had been more of a subconscious attempt to divorce her from its lens. This enabled her to contemplate the attitudes of the visitors, the enormous history that surrounded her and the beautiful site that lay in front of her. The rest of the day was a blur of events. Some were important, some a waste of time.
One of the more memorable events was her chance to view a powerful peace march – her first one ever. The fact that she experienced another item on her list of things-to-do before she died list, while in a foreign country, made the event seem almost magical. She was unable to spend much time there, but purchased a rainbow “Pace” or peace flag and proudly tied it around her waist as she saw many of the young marchers doing. Visiting Trevi fountain was an important time for her as well. The legend of Trevi fountain is if you throw a coin in, you will someday return. Our heroine longed deeply to return, and in a ritual like fashion including some fellow travellers, threw in a penny. Secure in her belief that she would be able to return, she then turned and took in the scenary surrounding the fountain. It was here that she first approached an Italian man, to ask for a picture, here that she had her picture taken with a photo with a group of Italian officers. It was here that she first learned to appreciate the blend of ancient and modern that was present in all of the cities she visited, and for that, Trevi fountain was a beautiful place for her.
Another monumental event was her first trip to a café. Here was THE place where she felt like she belonged. Despite the hurried nature of her visit, being able to order “un cappoccini” in Italian, and drink it at the bar like a native made her feel like she had found herself. Later trips to other cafés would only solidify this feeling. In the café, she was free to imagine herself a struggling author, experiencing the European tradition of all struggling authors and a content soul. She was herself, Amanda O’Reilly, and yet she was an entirely different creature, world traveller, conversationalist, and content. Cappuccinos became her lifeblood, a necessity. Despite her long held love of coffee, it was in Italy that she learned how bastardized American coffee really was, and became a true connoisseur. While ordering in a small crowded café, she ended up sharing a table with a fellow American traveller, and discussing life histories for a few precious moments. This was her first significant Alice moment, and she was proud of it.
“Alice” moments were an important part of her journey. Some Alice moments were more of a group experience, such as the little jokes about needing nuns to cross the road in reference to Bill Bryson’s book, or the group desire to see the Spanish Steps in order to better understand Alice Steinbach, the person referenced in the term “Alice moments.” “Alice” moments were often remarked on by various members of the group, and provided a kind of justification for the elevation of certain events. Alice was treated seriously by some members of the group, and not so seriously by others. However, some moments were personal. An example of this was her experience in the café, and her decision to cut her hair in Florence, despite not being able to talk with her butchers. One particular Alice quote that was utilized often was the proclamation that “Mishap = Excellent Adventure.” The application of this quote lead to an enlightening conversation with a Spanish man living in Italian and ending up lost. Alice was a guiding force, shaping her trip and providing her with a sort of kindred spirit in which to look to for advice.
The second day in Rome was all about wandering without any particular event. She enjoyed this freedom immensely, and felt she got a better understanding of the city. This day was also important because it was the time when the core group that our heroine interacted with was formed. It was not a conscious thing, but the six people who happened to sit down at a table together for the lunch that day, was the group that happened to travel Rome together that day. These people along with the young one, who had gone to Pompeii that day, formed a kind of group for the rest of the trip. Other people joined the group and they sometimes separated, but at the end of the trip, those seven were a group. Only those seven bought shot glasses to celebrate their inside jokes. Others partook of the jokes, but only the seven were truly dedicated to them. When she first tasted the long awaited gelato, all but the young one were with her. That she would share that moment with them, later seemed to be another thing that just felt right. It was also with those original six that she received her first flower, thanks to the kind attentions of the three males to their female companions. Later, all the females would receive flowers from the males of the group, but to know that she had received a personal flower was a more poignant moment.
A particular spiritual type of moment also came on that day. Our heroine was regretting her inability to ditch the group, but when the people divided, she suddenly found herself feeling a lot less burdened. With this separation, she had more freedom in her roaming, due to the casual attitudes of the group. Her main epiphany came while the group relaxed on the steep steps of a cathedral tucked back away from the main roads. She wandered up to the top to take a picture, and lost her accompanying group member by ducking into the church for a glance. That she knew of, no one else in the group had entered the church. The beautiful site she was privileged to belong to her and her alone. Unlike many of the other cathedrals, this one felt homier - like it was in use for normal people, yet it still remained grand. Crystal Chandeliers lined the edges of the church, and pictures of saints were tucked into alcoves along the main walkway. The best part of the church was the candles by each icon. These candles to the saints were not elegant, but instead were cheesy lights that would come on when you deposited a coin in the offering box. She chose to say a little prayer and light a candle under Jesus. She did not feel much holier or suddenly demonic for her catholic tribute, but somehow it felt right.
Sienna came the next day. Located in beautiful Tuscany, Sienna represented a sort of pilgrimage for many people in her class, but to her it was instead beautiful as a working city that was entirely composed of old buildings and old traditions. Real scars from the World Wars still marked the city, and it was all the more beautiful for its flaws. Rather than tour the city, she and a good friend ate at a good restaurant, and then sat in the square writing postcards and eating gelato. It was in Sienna that she learned how to say “Dov-ey ill cass-eh-ta postal-ley”, or “Where is the post box.” It was in Sienna that she was able to have her only personal conversation with the young one.
Sienna was only a stopping point in their journey to Florence. The bus ride was typical of all of the bus rides undertook on the journey – a quiet time to catch up on journaling, read a bit and possibly sleep. She sat next to her good friend, but they rarely talked on the long rides. She was disappointed, as she had hoped that the two might reconnect after a having been distant the previous quarter due to the music responsibilities of her friend. The bus rides exposed her to the abrasive wit of the male sponsor, and intensified her decision to ignore the other group.
Her first impression of Florence was the indifference towards a faceless city that would only be another place they travelled through, not a destination. Her mistaken idea originated from the spelling of Florence on the signs as Firenzia. It was not until the tour guide pointed out that they were in Florence that she realized her mistake and began studying the city in earnest. Unfortunately dusk had settled and the stark industrial areas they travelled through did not provide her with any “fodder” for her journal.
Fodder was another interesting term that was overused during the trip. Anytime an amusing or memorable event occurred, someone would invariably describe the occasion as “fodder” for the travel journals they were told to keep. She thought it was interesting that she came to hate that word and her journals before the trip was over. Usually she would write profusely over the silliest things, and there was nothing she loved better than a fresh notebook, but on this trip her journal was more of a chain, rather than a beloved item. The term fodder was a perfect example of this chain. Instead of enjoying moments as they took place, people would objectify the moments and turn them into mere items – information for a paper. Events changed from memorable incidents to functional fodder.
Her next impression of Florence was just as odd as her first. After getting out of the bus that had been her prison, she expected that they were at their hotel and that she would soon have to settle into another room. Instead the tour guide took off, running through the streets of Florence. She was shocked, but followed him closely, afraid that she might get lost in the midst of the unfamiliar city. The whirlwind tour of the city was great fun in her opinion. She was able to see both the utilitarian and touristy sites, all in one hurried blur. At one point she was running through a train station, the next she was running through a crowd of street vendors all peddling fake “cucchi” bags and then she looked up and saw the most gorgeous cathedral yet. Like many of the cathedrals she’d seen before it was enormous, but the jagged edges and colourings reminded her of rock candy. Before she had time to examine the building any further, the tour guide ran on, and she was forced to jog backward in order to keep the beautiful edifice in sight. She tried desperately to memorize her surroundings, in hope that she might later be allowed to wander through them at a more leisurely pace, but everything moved too quickly. Eventually the guide stopped at an unremarkable restaurant and announced that this was where dinner would be for the night. It seemed they would not dine in the hotel, but rather in restaurants during their stay in Florence. Upon sitting down, she noticed that a large number of people were missing. Slowly, through out the course of the night, people trickled into the restaurant and joined the rest of the group. The meal was delicious, and the waiters kind. One of the people that served them had grown up in California and had only moved to Italy a few years back. He chatted in English with everyone and seemed happy to meet people from his home state.
That night in Florence was one of the most dreadful of the entire trip for our heroine. She had finally become comfortable with the members of the group and was beginning to enjoy being part of a group experience. A slightly sour note was the fact that she shared a room with two girls, dubbed the “Material Girls” by the young one. She felt uncomfortable around them, as they were philosophically and socially different from her in every way. The very first morning in Rome she had come out of the bathroom and was faced with one of the girls offering to move so she could do her makeup. She hadn’t expected such a confrontation, and so could only answer, “I don’t wear makeup.” The two girls looked shocked. One of them spoke up, “No makeup?” and our heroine was sure that they were trying to imagine how someone could live life with out using any beauty aids. By the time they had reached Florence however, she had realized that it wasn’t as devastating as she had imagined. The girls, other than their love for the more material side of life, were very considerate and intelligent people. The room they shared in Florence was tiny, and barely fit the three twin beds it contained. In an attempt to belittle the hotel and cheer up her roommates, the girl mistakenly attributed a tie purchased by one of the girls as an odd welcoming gift from the hotel and pulled it out of the box. The horrified look on the owners face and the patient explanation of how very important and expensive that tie was, were enough to destroy the carefully built up confidence that she had been feeling. She was out of her class and tired of dealing with people. She sought refuge from her depression by joining the large group of people gathered around a TV, secure in the knowledge that the best place to be alone was in a crowd. Later the 6, along with one of the material girls, went out in search of a café. She joined them, and participated in the adventures, but her outlook on the events was one of cynicism and despair at the fears expressed by the other girls in the group. She lagged behind the rest and was glad when the group finally reached their destination.
Oddly enough the thing that brought her back out of her depression was the chaotic attempt to split the bill. Attempting to decipher the bill was a complicated procedure involving several people. In the end she ended up paying twice as much as she owed, in order to make up for deficiencies caused by the miscommunication between the people examining the bill and everyone else. This upset her at first, but the other people involved with the bill also overpaid in order to fix the problem and one poor guy ended up paying 7 euros for a slice of pineapple that he hadn’t even wanted to order. The friendly nature of her fellow travellers impressed her and she slowly came out of her depression.
The next day was another one of her favourite days. After a brief tour of the most famous sites of the city, including the awe-inspiring cathedral she had glimpsed the night before, the group endured a commission based sales pitch and then were free to wander the city. The sky outside was grey, and mist surrounded her as she walked. The young one made arrangements to meet with her and her friend, but that meeting would never happen. Instead she and her old friend wandered the city, spending most of their time indoors nursing cappuccinos, chatting and observing the city. A few lazy attempts at shopping were made, but after the rain began, the two found it very convenient to spend their time in the various cafes. One attempt to avoid the rain, lead our heroine to a salon. Inside here, she braved the horrors of getting your haircut in a place where you cannot tell the clerk exactly what you want. Later everyone would admire her for her bravery, but secretly she had been hoping to do this ever since that trip began. She knew that hair always grows back and she loved the idea of getting a daring European haircut. Happily, her gamble paid off and she received a well-priced, well-cut, style.
Her second adventure involved children. Usually she avoided kids at all costs, but in one of the cafés they stopped in a cute little girl and her brother began to watch them. Finally the little girl began speaking to the two in English. It seemed her parents were American and she was excited to be able to practice her English. She chattered away happily to the two, telling them all about her day and her life. Rather than becoming annoyed and brushing the girl off, like she usually would, our heroine instead delighted in the narrative provided by the girl. The only uncomfortable point in the conversation was when the girl asked the two if they had boyfriends after she had described her crush. The two were shocked, but as soon as they said no the girl’s mother intervened asking her to please eat her food and stop bugging the tourists. The two assured her that they were more than happy to talk with the girl. The little boy didn’t speak much, but his sister was more than happy to tell them all they needed to know about him and his role in the family. All too soon the family left, but our heroine was pleased to have experienced two Alice moments in one day.
The rest of the day was spent purchasing stamps and finding the restaurant where there were to meet the group. They passed an Irish pub along the way and she begged her friend to allow her to stop for a pint. Unfortunately they were late for the meeting, so she was forced to give up on the pint. She decided it was for the better, if she was going to drink alcohol to celebrate her cultural roots, she might as well wait until she actually was in Ireland.
That night was another night of wandering about in search of a café. The tour guide had arranged for them to attend a free club across the bridge, but after hiking through the streets to find it, the clubbing people were disappointed to find that there was no one in the club. She took the opportunity to convince her friend to dance…simply for prosperities sake. She, her friend, the young one and the sophomore guy danced together to some lame American dance song. After showing off her rusty break dancing skills, learned in gym class, they joined the rest of the non-clubbing people and went off to find a café. On the journey over, she indulged in a little illegal bridge walking along with the young one. The café they found was an unremarkable place. Located in a touristy area it felt fake compared to the café they had visited the night before. The group talked and laughed, but the evening felt bittersweet to her. It was their last night in Italy, and soon they would be returning home.
If she felt the first stabs of disappointment that night, she felt them even stronger the next day. A lazy day of bus riding gave her plenty of time to contemplate the impending departure, and she became very frustrated. Another upsetting aspect of the journey was the fact that the group they toured with planned to go to Paris the day her group was to leave. It was agonizing to know that once again she was missing a chance to visit one of her meccas.
That night, she felt like collapsing into bed. After spending all day in the bus, except for a stopover in Pisa, she felt the weary exhaustion that follows long trips. Instead of sleep, she sat with the Rome group for dinner. The food seemed to be the most awful combination of Italian food and French food imaginable. However, the people she was with were giddy with energy and she was invigorated by their presence. By now the group was very close, so it was no surprise that after dinner they all headed off to play pool, without a word of dissent. They had discussed swimming in the hotel’s outdoor pool, but the cold weather had convinced them that playing pool would be more practical. Playing pool with people in various stages of exhaustion is definitely not something that should be done with strangers, and many personal anecdotes were shared. She felt very close to all the people, and began to dread the inevitable separation that would occur after they returned.
Monaco was a gorgeous place. She had heard of the great casino Monte Carlo, but never knew where it was. However, even greater than the romance of the casino was the stunning image of an old castle by the sea. The whole place seemed to be a throw back to an older time, even with the little reminders of modernity. It was easy to ignore the buzz of street traffic and crackling of electric lights when you have the crashing of waves or a marching band proclaiming the change of the guard to focus on instead.
Compared to Monaco, Nice was dull. The oceanfront walkway reminded her of the Santa Monica pier back home, especially as swarms of rollerbladers whizzed by her. The only stores and cafés nearby catered to the tourist clientele and were horribly overpriced. The Mediterranean was gorgeous, but even though it was a bit overdone, the quaint atmosphere of Monaco was a better backdrop for the water than Nice. Her one treasured moment from Nice was the moment she gathered up her skirt and waded into the cold sea. While she was not as brave as the young one, who dived in clothes and all, she still was among the few who braved the gentle waves. Rather than soft sand like she was use to, the shoreline was covered with piles of small rocks. Her flip-flops, which had sometimes been a bit impractical, suddenly came in handy as she was able to protect her feet without fear of ruining her shoes. As she waded, she found bits of orange rock like objects. On one of them, was a bit of writing, and she began collecting pieces in order to try and puzzle out their meaning. Secretly she wondered if they were somehow relics of an ancient age, but closer inspection revealed that they were probably old tiles that had been cemented to the streets at one point.
Nice, despite being the last place she visited, held no pleasure for her. Too Italian to be French and too French to be Italian it seemed like a place that existed only for tourism. Unlike Monaco that had the charm to pull off the tourist existence, or Rome which had a real city intermingled with the tourism, Nice was not an interesting experience for her. To top off the vile atmosphere, the bus got lost on the way back to the hotel and the Rome group was unable to meet for a final time.
Coming full circle, the airport was now a dreaded experience. Instead of the excited attitude that had permeated the location at the beginning of the trip, there was an air of sadness and longing. She wished she could just leave and never come back. The only thing that stopped her was the knowledge that visas are usually required for long term residency and that starving is usually not fun. Instead she nursed one last cappuccino, and drifted around the airport. The airplane ride was smooth and she slept for most of it.
Stepping into Heathrow airport, she felt like she had come home. As soon as she picked up her bag, she ran for the ticket counter. They had four hours to kill in London and she planned to take the train into downtown London for a few minutes. Nothing was going to stop her, she would finally see one of the cities of her dreams. The British accents that filled the airport energized her and along with the young one she eagerly plotted ways that she could somehow be forced to stay in London. Then, something that she had never even dreamt of, allowed her the opportunity. The flight they were to take was overbooked. Eagerly she filled out the papers that might be her ticket to a night in London. She began to plan what she would do with a whole glorious all-expense paid night. The only downside was, in order to be available she was unable to go out into London, but instead waited impatiently in the airport. As the time came nearer, she tried hard not to expect anything. There was always the chance that the airline would not need her, but she hoped that since they had been four hours early she would be the one to stay. Finally the terminal opened and she sat down inside, waiting for news. After a long waiting period, the people in the group began to be given their seating assignments. When she didn’t hear her, or the young ones name, she knew that it meant they were still in the running for a ticket. Everyone boarded the plane, and still she sat. Then, an older couple near them was told that they would need to stay, and that they were the last ones to be given this opportunity. She was stunned. To be so close to her biggest dream for the trip and have it ripped away at the last minute was too much to bear. She stumbled onto the airline in a daze and tried valiantly not to cry. She didn’t need to deal with the questions of her fellow classmates on top of her disappointment.
Once she had collected herself, she sat down next to a pair of random classmates. Too weary and frustrated to care who was near her, she plugged her headphones into the armrest and began to watch as a map plotted their course across the Atlantic. Her trip was over. Soon she would be asked to leave behind the camaraderie of the group and new experiences of the trip for the alienation and routine of home. She thought back to the person she had been on the trip. Instantly her mind jumped to the little categories that had been drilled into her head in the travel class they had taken before embarking on the trip. After having been on a journey, it seemed harder to classify herself than she had thought it would be. To label her precious journey seemed wrong. However the one word she remembered mostly vividly from the class was the idea of travelling as a pilgrimage. Her journey had been about running away from reality to a foreign country in order to better understand herself and to pay tribute to a few of the places that had shaped her as a person indirectly. While not a pilgrimage in the traditional sense, her intentions constituted a personal pilgrimage. Another category that came to her mind was the difference between tourism and traveller. As had been her position in class, she still did not think that it was possible to classify herself as one or the other. On some days she had been a tourist, visiting sites simply to say she had been there. Other days she was a traveller, hoping to better understand the culture and interact with the native people on a more personal level. The final category that seemed to fit her journey was the idea of modern travel versus ancient travel. If modern travel was a journey undertaken out of choice, and ancient travel was a journey undertaken out of necessity, than her journey was one of a more ancient sort. As much as she loved her trip, it was more one of necessity than it was one of conscious choice. The places she visited were dictated by a power higher than herself and her decision were based on those people around her and the wishes of the higher power. This did not mean that her journey was any less for having been taken in this spirit, but it did change the way that she looked at the events on her trip and how she related to the others travelling with her.
She waited quietly on the sidewalk for her parents to come pick her up. Would she be able to relate to these people? College had slowly been changing her from the little girl they loved, but this week had acted as a catalyst for this change. Could she tell them that she now longed for nothing but to spend her life travelling? Could she describe her feelings as she stared at the Sistine chapel to her father who had never even left the west coast? How would they react to her haircut, how would they relate to this person who had been impacted by people they would never meet? The hardest part of her journey awaited, not one characterized by new experiences and foreign languages, but rather the one of finding her place among the familiar sights of home and reconciling her old and new lives. Home seemed like such an alien word, she lived in so many different places and states of mind. She had her whole life waiting for her to live, but right now she could only think of the love of her parents and the life they would never know. Her cell rang, and real life came crashing back on her. Her parents drove up, her mother jumped out to hug her, and she gave one last look at the airport before sliding into the car.
“Welcome back honey, it’s good to have you home”
No matter if she had a real home; it was good to be in this place.