Planes and Plates

“There are no foreign lands. It is the traveller who is foreign,” Robert Louis Stevenson.

My parents met in Bermuda, my father a traveling Italian chef and my mother a Canadian hippie, they got married after three months of not speaking the same language and moved to Italy to have me.

After five years of my mother adapting to la vita Italiano, it was my father’s turn to immerse himself in the unknown. They moved my brother and I over to Canada and opened modest Italian restaurants. I spent my childhood helping out in the kitchen until my parents divorce when I was 15.

My father went back to working on cruise ships and made his way around the globe, keeping close with a postcard from every new experience. In my room hundreds of postcards hang on the wall from countries I had never even heard of. As soon as I finished high school, I knew like my parents, it was my turn to explore.

I packed my bags and moved to live with my grandparents in Italy who spoke no English. I got myself a job and started re-teaching myself Italian. For the first time I was the one who couldn’t pronounce menu items or answer the phone properly. For the first three months, I was discouraged and terrified. Then I made a choice; in order to be happy I needed to embrace the change. I had to embrace everyone I met, the culture I met, and learn how to be adaptable.

I stayed for eight months and by the end considered both places my home. I go back when my wallet permits, crossing off new European countries every time I go. I will never forget the first time I flew into Athens, my first trip entirely alone. No family or friends, just myself and a notebook.

I arrived at the airport, a language I couldn’t comprehend, and symbols I had never seen. I walked out of the airport to board the metro. I had no phone or computer, instead I had hand-written directions on how to get to a hostel. I was so nervous I never stopped clutching my purse, I almost fell over in my backpack and my gaze never left the window.

Locals crammed onto the metro, the ride felt hazy. I finally exited the train into a busy platform that led to a hectic square. There were market vendors, busy restaurants, and children speaking Greek. I felt nervous, like I had made a mistake in coming to this place alone. Then, I looked behind me. There on a hill with the sun setting behind it, was the acropolis. One of the most beautiful views I had ever seen and a feeling of tranquility that I will never forget.