Amtrak, Train 712 to Bakersfield (Aug 31st)
Singapore Airlines, JFK Int'l Airport, NY (Sep 1)
My First Look At Europe: Flying Over Frankfurt, Germany (Sep 2)
I peed in a Starbucks and I took a look in the mirror. If it hadn't been for the cowlick I was trying to subdue, I might have actually realized that this was my moment to do that thing where the main character in the movie checks out their reflection and says, "here we go."
Zach and I walked across Drumm Street in San Francisco's Financial Center and stood at the Amtrak bus stop. There was only one other man waiting, and he was pacing back and forth and sipping nervously out of a Starbucks cup. He was a good distraction--I just tried to think of where this guy was going...not where I was going. It was getting close to 7 AM when the bus was supposed to arrive, and my mom, Zach and I had been up since 4:30. It was definitely time to get on that bus and go, no matter how badly I wanted to just stand there on that street corner with Zach all day and watch that guy pace back and forth.
A white bus appears on Market Street and makes a turn towards us and we both know that the hardest moment of the past year--which merely consisted of planning for this trip--is finally here. This hurts. This hurts very, very badly. I sit down and I watch San Francisco get smaller and smaller, and the next thing I know, I'm at the station in Emeryville.
Train 712 to Bakersfield slides down the tracks and I step inside. (See first photo) This is the second time I have been on a train, and the first time alone. I do like the others do. The ticket taker--Ms. DeSilva--is so nice that I actually feel like I am going to be alright, and that the worst is over. Now I'm sitting at the end of the last car in the very last seat, occasionally glancing out the windows at the landscape outside that, since I have been going to Chapman University in Southern California, I now associate with leaving home. I decide to go through the photos that I have just put on my computer, all of which are from this past summer. The past three months click by in a half hour and now I don't feel like I'm going to be alright. I try to keep from "going there," but it's very hard.
The train ride is shaky, sometimes so much so that it's a bit frightening. We roll past large lots of cars that have been stripped for parts, and small towns of compact, boxy homes. Martinez. Antioch. They all seem the same: bad. Now I'm wishing I were in Italy.
I'm tired, but sleeping seems nearly impossible. There's simply too much going through my head that just needs some time to swirl around. This past summer was so busy that I had no time to think about Italy and all that it meant: leaving California, my boyfriend, my parents and all my good friends behind for four solid months. It all comes flooding in. The bright side: I realize that this trip is undeniably building character by the minute, and I think of how many staunch Grandfathers in this world would appreciate that.
This will be the longest period of time for which I will be away from home. During my freshman year at Chapman I returned several times during the first semester. Vocal communication will be much more rare because I won't have a cell phone, and I can already tell how much more I am going to appreciate hearing people's voices when I get back. This semester abroad is going to change me in many ways. It already has. Stockton. Now I can nap.
Cow country. I'm feeling comforted by the big black and white blobs zooming past. They eat, they sleep, they poop, and sometimes they tip over, but they never try to throw their babies in your arms so they can pick your pockets. Cows are not like gypsies. Cows are not like Italian men. Italian men oogle blond Americans--cows don't oogle...ever. (Forget what you've "learned" in the California Cheese commercials) I wish there was some way to imagine everyone in Europe as big cows so that I could walk down the street without constantly worrying about someone trying to steal something from me. In the end, there's only so much I can do to avoid getting mugged (or worse). The rest is chance.
3:30. Union Station, Los Angeles. I easily made the connection from the train to the bus in Bakersfield, and I slept during the ride into LA. Union Station is a grand, art-deco style building with tall ceilings and comfy lounge chairs. Its a Historical Landmark because it was built so long ago: another surprising shred of what remains from the past. Just as I am about to leave a country with barely any historical architecture--as compared to other countries/continents--I realize while walking through Union Station, that I am about to travel to and live in a country whose historical architecture remains. The people who pass through time and space in Firenze accept what has been there for so many centuries and merely move in and around it. They leave it be and use it as they are able. It defines them and they are proud of the richness of their environment. They are not governed by the past, but rather, are most likely inadvertently influenced by it. I know I am.
I wait out front to be picked up by my godfather. My godfather Farrell and his wife Diana are taking me in for the night, and are giving me a ride to LAX in the morning. They are both seasoned travelers. I figure that not only will they be able to give me some good advice, but they'll cheer me up as well. They're awesome, and they do.
3:30 AM, Labor Day. Farrell and I head to LAX, which is surprisingly close to their apartment. He drops me off and it all begins. "Where do I go? Then what? How do I...?" I pull it together and figure it all out. I get on the plane just as the sun rises. It's so metaphorical I can't stand it. I wait for the plane to get in the air and then I pass out.
3 PM, JFK Airport. I need to find terminal four. I am in terminal 7. I have never been to New York. I ask around and find out that the "AirTrain" will get me there. I find it, hop on, and wait. The car gets further and further away from the airport. I begin to see homes and basketball courts and I'm wondering what the hell I've done. The robot loudspeaker alleviates my worry by saying, "The AirrrrrrrTrain stops at ALLLLL terminals!" Another bright side: I saw a little bit of New York.
I purchase internet access so I can make some contact with home. I have a seven hour layover, but it goes by fast. I go upstairs to the international flight check-in area and I'm instantly convinced that this is the most interesting place that I have ever been. The diversity is amazing. There's so many stories crammed into this terminal that it overwhelms me in the best way possible. A screenwriter's delight. All of a sudden, I remember why I signed up for this program in the first place: stories.
9 PM. Singapore Airlines. (See second photo) I am headed for Frankfurt, Germany. I have never been to Europe. I am about to make a journey across the Atlantic ocean. This is the big leap. I'm tired but the flight attendants are so sweet that once again, I feel like I am going to be alright. They bring me food. I lean against the window and pass out.
I wake up and it is daytime. I take a look at the screen up front that is showing the course of the plain from NY to Frankfurt. The little white Airplane icon is hovering over some green splotches--I realize I am over Europe. I look to my left out the window and spring for my camera. (See third photo) Little villages surrounded by trees and patches of modern windmills pass by the window. I start getting nervous about making my connecting flight to Florence. I only have an hour and have absolutely no clue what I'm doing.
I mess up. I wrongly assume that I can just go to the gate and get on the plane. Not only am I unable to find the gate, but I learn that I have to go to "Transfer Check In." I wait in line so long that by the time my turn comes around, the clerk exclaims "Oh! You must go there right now! They have a check-in deadline! I can't give you a ticket!" The excrement hits the fan...I'm sure that I've just stranded myself in Germany.
I run.
I get through passport control and security and just as I am running up to the gate, I hear a German voice yelling, "Passengers to Florenz?!" I throw my arm in the air and say, "I am! I'm...going there!" I stop at the desk, breathing heavily, and he says, "I know, I know, you just got in from Denver and you're tired. Ticket please." That was not very nice.
I barely make it. I hop on a bus with a bunch of Germans, Italians and American students and we go. It pulls over and we all crowd into the tiny plane--all the Americans are wondering how this thing is even going to lift off. It does, and now I'm really nervous. What am I going to do once I get there? No more traveling--now I actually have to set up shop in a strange, unfamiliar place. In my head, all I hear is George Carlin telling me to "Take a f****n chance!" Thanks George, that helps.
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