European Euphoria: A Two-Week Travel Diary

I recently wrote this recollection of my trip to Italy and Greece this summer for a college creative non-fiction course. There were far too many people and memories to include in my 3,000 word count limit, so I chose some of the most humorous/significant/relatable/PG-rated experiences to share in a workshop with my professor and classmates. One day I will expand this piece to include everything... :)

Day One: I am frantically scrambling to clean the spilled shampoo out of my perfectly packed suitcase.  My hairbrush has grown legs and walked out of this house.  I just stepped on my cell phone and shattered the screen--but luckily I wasn’t planning on using my cell phone in Europe.  I arrive at the airport frazzled, terrified at the thought of missing this first flight in a complicated series that will eventually end in Rome, Italy.  Laura, my college roommate, and I approach the ticket counter proudly holding our passports, only to be met by a frantic look from the perky airlines agent. “Your flight time has changed.” Fabulous. Those dreaded words always send me into an instant cold sweat.  In order to make it to our next connecting flight, we are forced to take a different route-- and the plane leaves in 30 minutes.  We run through the airport Home Alone style, bags flying in every direction as we race through the hell hole of airport security.  Do I really fit the profile of an Islamic terrorist who has planted home-made bombs in my sports bra?  Thirty minutes later and we are miraculously zooming down the runway in a big silver bird.  The teenage girl seated in front of me is already hitting stage three of her panic attack, crying and screaming that she doesn’t want to die in a plane crash.  Someone get this girl a Xanax and a straightjacket. Not the most comforting entrance to a plane I’ve ever experienced, but my breathing finally slows and my stress is left down at the baggage check-in as I scan the Nashville landscape below me and willingly depart with my familiar turf in exchange for a Summer adventure to Italy and Greece.

Day Two: I’ve been on this plane for eleven hours now, and my total sleep time is maxing out at 30 minutes.  My neck has a crick, my legs are stiff, and my eyes are bloodshot.  And I am giddy like a 5-year-old on Christmas morning.  It’s not just the glamour of travel I ache for; I love these quiet moments of waiting and reflection in the airports and in the clouds.  I’ve got my novel in one hand, my coffee in another, my headphones in my ears, and a cheesy film playing on the back of the seat that faces me-- it’s an introvert’s playground as the rest of the passengers’ thoughts turn off and their heads occasionally jerk up in their efforts to sleep sitting straight up.  Normal people groan at the thought of being trapped inside a plane for more than a few hours, but this is when I feel like I’m home.  My spirit has always been made for the skies.  I picture Dad in his youth, soaring valiantly through space in his jet and rescuing other members of his Black Aces squadron-- a Vietnam hero; and later, the handsome face under his white pilot cap and crisp uniform as he charmingly announces, “Thank you for flying Pan Am Airlines”-- every  little boy’s hero.  I imagine our hearts meeting up here, 23,000 feet above sea level; 23,000 feet closer to Heaven.  

Day Two (and a half): I rub the tiny bumpy edges of the euro version of the penny between my fingers as I contemplate what I could possibly need to wish for as I am here, on the trip I have dreamed about for years.  The Trevi Fountain is packed with tourists and locals on this beautiful August evening.  The buzz of happy chattering tourists snapping away with their cameras, paired with the soothing sounds of the running fountain water; the lingering big city smell and the aroma of freshly tossed pizza--together, they create a relaxed bustle of charm that the Italian culture seems to have patented.  The fountain itself is so much larger than I had ever envisioned in my mind: gorgeous white stone sculptures stretch in front of the eye as far as your vision can reach from atop the stone steps surrounding it.  The giant white columns frame Oceanus, the ancient Greek Titan of Water, with nothing to distract the eyes from his naked muscular body but his long ringlet beard.  He gazes at the crowd with a look of intrigue and pride, as if he knows that all of these people are here to see him in all his glory, and I know that he is right.  I have forced my way to the front through the massive throngs of loitering tourists for a chance to join the thousands of tourists who travel to this same spot in Rome every year to sit and throw a coin over their shoulder with a silent wish.  What more could I possibly ask for when I am in the city of my dreams?  I don’t believe it’s possible that my heart could be any more full than it is in this moment, but nevertheless, I toss the coin over my back with a giggle, and I am suddenly alone amidst the hundreds of people; captivated in this moment, I unswervingly believe in the magic of the Trevi Fountain and its power to return me to Rome one day and to grant my wish.  I wish to find love here. 

Day Two (and three quarters): I wonder if it is acceptable for me to refer to today as day two and three euros...ba-dum tssh. The program I am touring with has planned this two-week trip for me and 30 other college students from all over the United States, 25 of us being females.  I’m not sure whether to feel sorry for the few young guys with all of us college girls, or to congratulate them like they’ve won the genetic lottery.  The girls have all begun quickly bonding although we have yet to be in Rome for 24 hours, and a group of us are wandering the city by night.  Candace and Melissa, two gorgeous Italian sisters from New Jersey with thick (and surprisingly charming) Jersey accents and luscious long dark hair lead the way, in pursuit of an “ice bar” that they have heard about through a friend studying abroad in Rome.  Thirty minutes, nine girls, six maps, and a few wrong turns later, we arrive at the bar on an empty-looking back street.  But we walk into a futuristic-looking entrance room with blue lighting and a closet full of heavy silver insulated cloaks.  We all decide that the 20-euro cover fee to enter the bar made entirely of ice is absolutely worth it for this unique experience and the chance to escape the Italian heat.  We cloak ourselves and head into the frozen igloo with a voucher for one free drink.  The ceilings, the walls, the seats, even the shot glasses are all made entirely of ice.  We shriek with delight, huddling together for warmth and biting off chunks of our shot glasses.  The DJ spins songs like Neal Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline,” and we laughingly wonder whether these 40-year-old tunes are just now hitting the charts in Europe (better late than never, right?), or if perhaps the DJ hears our American girl chatter and hopes to win our hearts over with an American classic.  After 20 minutes of negative degree temperatures in our shorts and flip-flops, we decide that it’s time to thaw out.  Would you believe me if told you that another American classic, “Ice, Ice Baby,” marked our grand exit?

Day Four: I have fallen in love with Florence.  We have been here for a couple of days already, and today I walk the streets comfortably alone as the other girls continue on in their unspeakably impressive shopping capacities.  Armed with only my camera and a few euros, I slowly stroll through the already familiar streets, soaking in the beautiful views and the prime people-watching with an occasional click of my camera.  I pass through the Piazza della Signoria, the main square in Florence, through the famous Michelangelo statues and the massive red-roofed Duomo Cathedral, and I wonder at the incredible skill and intrigue of the street performers.  A man is casually free-handing the famous Mona Lisa on the street sidewalk...in chalk.  A man spray painted from head to toe in gold stands posed, fooling onlookers into believing he is a statue.  An older woman  sits painting romantic images of Florence on her easel-mounted canvas, and I stop to purchase a few pieces of her art.  The crows have left their footprints around her eyes, and she smiles freely, exposing frequented laugh lines that veil the pure heart of a woman who is content in her skin.  She is the epitome of beauty, a kind of beauty that no breast-size or complexion can compete with.  And I instantly know that this woman has seen pain, but more importantly, she has seen unsurpassable joy in her lifetime.  This is a woman who loves.  “Bellissima, beautiful,” I remark as I pick up a painting and hand her my money.  “No, you bellissima,” she softly whispers as she cups my face in her fragile but strong hands weathered by time and motherhood and paintbrushes.  “Take another” she utters in broken English with a shy smile, pointing to her portfolio of paintings as delicate and beautiful as her own very essence.  I easily choose a second painting, but my efforts to pay are met with steadfast resistance.  “No, for you, Bella,” she sweetly insists, and I reach for her hand in gratitude.  One of the most coveted landscapes in the world surrounds my new friend and her workshop, but it is forgotten as I am momentarily captivated by the incredible beauty of a stranger I feel I have known all my life.  My heart revels in childish delight at our encounter long after I meet up with my friends, who are now loaded down with shopping bags like pack mules.  I show off my two new pieces of art, and I am reminded of the stranger on the street corner who silently taught me something about womanhood.

Day Four (and a half): Laura and I, and our new best friend and European roomate, Amanda from Chicago, devour our second (okay, third) gelatos of the day as we stand gazing out at the Ponte Vecchio, Florence’s world-famous bridge.  The faded warm colors of the bridge, the open shutters wallpapered with brilliantly red flowers climbing alongside masses of ivy, the tall arches hovering over the cobble-stoned streets, the oh-so Italian sound of street musicians with their accordions -- this part of the city is like a glimpse into Heaven, where nothing can touch you but the warm sun as it sinks below the bridge.  It is our last day in this city that we have so quickly come to love, and we cherish this last view before heading to a wine tasting and dinner with our entire group.  After our stomachs have reached more than their full capacities, Amanda, Laura, the two sets of sisters from New Jersey and New York, and I head to the plaza square with a few bottles of wine.  We chat the night away under the stars, passing the wine bottles around our circle as we silently form bonds that we know time and distance will never erase.  We are learning about the world, and tonight, we learn about each other.  

Day Five: Today we travel back to Rome.  Most of the bus is asleep already, but I am plagued with curiosity, as usual, unwilling to miss any of the gorgeous Italian landscapes we pass through.  Mere blinking is the enemy.  The sunflower-filled fields that surround both sides of our bus steal my breath away, and I wake up half the bus with my childlike excitement.  Heads bob up in the seats in front of me as the sleeping passengers briefly drink in the beauty of the fields of gold before returning to their dreams.  I pull out my iPod and pick the perfect song that has already put into words the nostalgic serenity I am experiencing now with my eyes.  Today we wander through the Roman Colosseum and the ancient ruins of Rome.  As I gaze at the empty remains of the past glory of Rome, I am reminded for the second time this week that perhaps the greatest beauties are those that are broken by time and the devastations of weather and life itself.   

Day Six: As I sit devouring the best pizza that has ever touched my taste buds (extra cheese with cherry tomatoes) with seven of my new closest girl friends, I sigh a sigh of pure full-hearted, full-stomached contentment.  We have just spend the morning touring the Vatican, home to the Pope and Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel.  I made decent marks in my college Art History class, but no textbook picture and description can contain the overwhelming essence of true art.  Despite the claustrophobic amounts of tourists jam packed inside, elbowing you in the gut as they crane their necks and sneak photographs whenever the vulture guards turn their heads, there is a kind of holy reverence inside the Sistine Chapel that ushers out hushed admiration from its visitors.  I love the story of Michelangelo’s refusal to paint the ceiling for this church that he tried so desperately to rebel against; how the people gossiped in confusion and doubt as to why the Pope would choose this hellion of a sculptor for such an honorable task--why not Raphael, the most talented artist of the times? they cried; how these same skeptics’ were left in awe-filled silence when they saw Michelangelo’s masterpiece.  The Pope later explained that he chose Michelangelo because of his lack of experience and technique with a paintbrush-- he felt Michelangelo’s flawed but impressive frescoes accurately mirrored the beauty in the imperfection of humanity.  It seems to be a recurring theme throughout my Italian experience that what the world views as crumbling, aged, and flawed--are perfectly magnificent in all their imperfection. 

Day Six (and a half): I realize that you might stop believing me as I continue using superlative forms every time I speak of food, but tonight’s dinner was hands-down the best lasagna the world has to offer.  Italy has proved to live up to its reputation of good eating-- the extra skin on my stomach that’s starting to emerge stands as a proud testament to a successful week in Italia.  But don’t worry guys, it’s just water weight, we all assure each other as we help ourselves to another gelato.  Tonight’s last night in Italy is spent at a modern outdoor bar, complete with a swimming pool.  It’s no surprise to anyone that crazy little Jenilee, who we’ve named “Tour Guide Barbie,” ends up at the bottom of the pool at some point in the night, to the delight of the infatuated local men.  I think we have all begun to realize that we want to stick Tour Guide Barbie in our back pockets and carry her home with us next week for guaranteed endless excitement and laughter. It’s a good thing she’s not as great of a navigator as she claims; what would our last night out in Rome be without getting desperately lost one final time as we trek back to our hotel? 

Day Seven: Overnight ferries seem to be a common mode of transportation around here.  So the other passengers seem quite surprised and amused by our group of 30 Americans emulating Titanic’s Jack and Rose poses on the bow of the ship, playing “Ninja” spread out in a circle across the entire deck, taking more shots of vodka than a freshman on Spring Break, and conga dancing through the cruise liner’s discoteca as the DJ blasts “We Are Family.”  And we are.

Day Eight: We just arrived on Greek turf, and I’ve already decided I never want to leave it.  The sun is beginning to set as we make our way to the seaside town for dinner, perfectly illuminating the majestic Mediterranean Sea as it kisses the shore line topped with lonely-looking mountain peaks.  I turn up the new Bon Iver album in my headphones, and my heart seems to breathe a sigh of relief as it meets the slow, mystical serenity that Greece embodies. We arrive at our outdoor seaside restaurant as the sun gives its final goodbyes to the earth; a warm wind flutters against my face as I gaze out to sea and smell the salt of the ocean.  I savor my dinner of warm robust tomatoes stuffed with rice and peppers with the same sort of lustful relish as I do the landscape.   

Day Ten: Today we depart Delphi after seeing the mythological Greek ruins and arrive in Athens, a harsh contrast to our first view of Greece.  The big city is much like any other in the world-- dirty and touristy and busy.  But today we leave the bustle of metropolitan life as we hike up to the glory of Athens, the site of the Parthenon and the 

Acropolis.  Beauty in the ruins is once again confirmed although we 

have left Italy.  The sun blazes down on our bare-skinned bodies atop the mountain that overlooks the entire city of Athens.  A large Greek flag waves proudly in the wind at the highest point of the overlook.  The sun saturates the brilliant blue against the white in the fabric.  I catch myself comparing the Parthenon to the “real one” in Nashville.  This ancient “replica” is under much construction in order to conserve it.  Aren’t we all under a considerable amount of construction?  I’m starting to believe these two weeks in Europe are a re-building inside me of the curiosity and passion and appreciation of pleasure that often become dormant in a life structured by routine and the inevitable ticking of the clock of a logical lifestyle.  I’m often told that my head is too far in the clouds, that I’m too unrealistic and I dream too big and too often for something too different from what’s expected out of me.  So I feel right at home in the clouds overlooking Athens with Athena, the goddess of courage and strength and everything I want to embody as I become a woman.  

Day Eleven: I am wearing my new floor-length white cotton dress today over my swimsuit.  It blows in the breeze around my toes as I stand at the bow of the miniature cruise ship.  It is the last official day of the trip, and we are spending the day island-hopping via boat.  Shouts of “Opa!” burst forth every few minutes as the crew play Greek music and circle up the passengers to teach us traditional dances.  I pull up my white dress to my knees as I kick my feet in time with the music.  The world has probably never seen a prettier day, and my insides squirm with excitement as we exit the boat to the island of Hydra, a quaint town on the Greek Isles with no modes of transportation more advanced than a donkey, which is what I am met with as soon as I step on land.  Laura and I climb onto our donkeys sidesaddle in our white dresses, and the Greek locals smile as we ride by with more delight than two little children on Christmas morning after Santa has left his signature.  We circle the tiny island atop Amazon and Diva, misleading names for our anciently slow, gentle animals.  Perhaps my donkey’s sign on her marked “Diva” refers to her passenger?  Bells clank charmingly as we ride past the sailboats of the island’s harbor, welcoming us to Greek paradise.  The blue and white flags are strung across a line above the masses of colorful parked sailboats.  The bright pink hydrangeas burst forth against the white-washed buildings and blue roofs.  Hardly any restaurants have indoor seating; even the shops of fine silver and turquoise jewelry have opened their doors, welcoming the sunshine and the smell of the salty waters.  We make our way to the top of the rocks on the edge of the island, passing oversized umbrellas made of straw and outdoor bars, stray cats and friendly old local Greeks, looking permanently crusted but content from a lifetime in the sun.  We reach the top of the cliff, and my toes curl over the edge of the rusty rock of safety.  I don’t hesitate--there’s no time for it in life.  I plunge off the side, holding my breath as white noise invades my ears and my heart is left at the top of the rocks.  Time freezes mid-leap and my heart threatens to burst as it holds everything good in the world.  I feel my toes tingle as they smack the Mediterranean water.  The sea swallows my fear, and I swallow crystal blue water, laughing in pleasure.  The bobbing corks of heads who have already jumped welcome me to the water--to adventure, to love and friendship and laughter, to beauty and chaos, to life.  

Everyday: I think back on that wish I made that first day in Rome at the Trevi Fountain: to find love.  Alex from Atlanta and Amy from Virginia found it in each other thousands of miles away from their homes.  A group of strangers found it in each other over shared plates of pasta and bottles of wine, over laughter and dance-offs and Mediterranean Sea skinny-dipping and seaside stargazing. I found it in a little lady painting on a street corner in Florence.  I found it in the noises and the sights and the smells and the tastes of foreign lands-- in sunflower fields, ancient ruins, and cobble-stone streets; in Nutella gelato and sun-dried tomatoes and baked lamb gyros; in Athena and Michelangelo and Whoever created all of this beauty to begin with.  Under construction, broken buildings with gaps and holes and crumbling remnants--that’s all any of us are.  Perhaps the broken seams are there so love can burst through them.  

“That was the real you runnin’ through the fields of gold wide open,

Standing in places no picture contains. 

That was the real you windows down, we could smell the mint fields crying

Singing to the radio to a song we can’t name.

That was the real you sayin’ ‘maybe I’m not too young to be a cowboy,’

Hey brother, we’re all learnin’ to love again.” -Mat Kearney