Post date: May 01, 2014 11:4:39 PM
Welcome to Genova!
I arrived to Genoa a hot mess. After 20 hours, three planes, and much unidentifiable airplane food, I found myself standing alone on the curb outside the small Genoa airport. With the salty wind stinging my eyes and ruffling my hair I took a deep breath: I made it. Now all I had to do was make it to the mysterious “nunnery” I would be staying at safely without reenacting the nightmare of the movie TAKEN.
In the taxi on the way to the “nunnery,” the driver told me a brief summary of the violent and fascinating history of Genoa. Driving on the overpass over the old port, I saw the water for the first time. Crystal and blue it gleamed and sparkled on my right, while the old, rusty colored buildings on the left stood sturdy and close, rising to the green hills above. Before long we arrived.
Passing the big oak tree we drove around the long green stretch of grass up to the large yellow building. Towering above everything around it, the building looked like something out of a World War II movie. Either that or an american horror story episode. Before I knew it I was standing in front of a massive staircase trying to communicate, in broken italian, with a petite nun. Finally, I got to the right place. An ancient nun with a round face and weary eyes hands me a small key on a huge pool ball keychain. Opening the door to my room I want to cry.
It is a small single-serving room. It has a lonely looking bed in the middle of the room with one desk and a small painted cross hanging on the wall. As the dull blue light flickers on I open the window. As the cold fresh air and bright light seeps in from outside I calm down. This is the first time I’ve traveled alone to a foreign country. With my 300 Euros, patchy Italian, and anticipation for whatever Genoa has to offer, I am independent, excited and completely and utterly terrified.
While normally annoyed and embarrassed by my family’s extreme touristy-americanism, I found myself as the epitome of everything I tried to avoid. I could no longer hide my Americanism. I could no longer blame my inability to blend in on my dad’s fanny pack and large maps, or my moms constant photo taking and asking questions. I could no longer afford to be embarrassed by these little things because they define exactly what I am here: wonderfully out of place.
June 3, 2013