so… what day is it?

Fourteen hours after departing from my beloved ATX, the wheels of our 767 hit Italian asphalt with a satisfying thud. I subsequently patted myself on the back for deftly avoiding the following fiascoes:

• airplane crash and/or drowning in the Atlantic (hey I never said these were logical.)
• ending up in the wrong city al la Home Alone II
• spilling any colorful liquid on my clothing
• losing my luggage
• tears of exhaustion
• major cultural fumbles
• deportation

I promptly attributed my successful flight sanz any of these misfortunes to my superior international travel savvy and set off to find my group. Navigating through the swarm of fellow travelers toting two rather cumbersome suitcases, however, proved troublesome to say the least. The very instance that a corner of my suitcase ever so slightly brushed against the leg of another person, I immediately came to the realization that I had FORGOTTEN ALL THE ITALIAN I HAD EVER KNOWN.

Game. over.

I wanted so desperately to say “excuse me” but I could not for the life of me remember the formal form of scusa (its scusi, in case you were wondering). My following thought process, however illogical, is outlined below:

Me speaking: Scu – uhh I’m sor- uhh mmmm…. okay.

Me thinking: scusa? scusi? a? i? ahhh what is it?!?! Wonderful, I have been in this country all of TWO minutes and I am already flawlessly fulfilling the role of the rude, thoughtless American. a? i? A? I? crap. Oh no. Don’t cry. Come on, Kelsey, PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER WOMAN.

Okay so perhaps I exaggerate a bit. But you catch my drift. Those of you who have spent time in the library with me, the fluorscent lights of the PCL sucking the life and joy out of our- ok I’ll talk about the Pickle another time- Those of you who have studied with me know that I study Italian by writing extensive color-coded notes on the whiteboard.

As I continued to bump into people and stumble over volcabulary, visions of these whiteboard notes flashed through my mind, clouding my vision, and stressing. me. out. I began to imagine painfully muted meals with my host family, the cacophonous clink of silverware breaking up the otherwise uncomfortable silence. Only one thing could prevent the inevitable nervous breakdown.

C O F F E E

I made an immediate and unapologetically frantic beeline towards the nearest cafe, reached the counter and said, “Prendo un’espresso per favore.” As soon as the words left my mouth, an overwhelming peace washed over me. No matter that the cashier answered in English, clearly recognizing me as oneofthoseamericanstudenttouristthingswhoincessantlyinsistonpracticingtheirderelictitalian. No matter that it was still the only phrase I could think of. It was something. It reminded me of why I was here and, more importantly, why I wanted to be here. To learn Italian – to soak in the language and culture like a sponge, absorbing all the nuances and slang and other cool tidbits of Italian life.

She handed me my coffee. 

I said grazie. 

She said your welcome. 

And thats ok because I still have SIX WHOLE WEEKS LEFT! Just wait. I’ll probs be fluent tomorrow.