I'd always been really focused on getting into a good college. Back in high school, you name it, I did it. AP classes, National Honor Society, varsity lacrosse, mock trial, all-state chorus, and the Italian Cultural Club. Mom had told me it was important to have at least one extracurricular that was personal, and she was Italian, and we'd grown up watching 'The Sopranos,' and we lived in New York, so it just made sense.
Which meant, at 18 (and a half), I knew enough Italian and had enough credits stacked up to attend my school's study abroad program in Italy for a summer semester. Standing at the airport, I felt a mixture of pride and anxiety, glancing at my beaming parents. The moment of departure was bittersweet. Hugging my mom and dad tightly, I could feel their love and support enveloping me. The airport bustled with the sounds of chatter, clinking luggage, and the intercom announcing flight departures, adding to the palpable energy of anticipation.
Once on the plane, I settled into my seat, feeling the soft cushion beneath me as the aircraft roared to life. The gentle hum of the engines resonated through my body as the plane ascended into the skies. Looking out the window, I watched the city below -- which I'd only ever left for family vacations up in Maine once a summer -- shrink into tiny specks, leaving me with a sense of both nostalgia and eagerness for what lay ahead.
The cabin lights dimmed, inviting passengers to rest and recharge for the long flight. I leaned back in my seat, pulled a blanket over me, and closed my eyes. The soothing hum of the engines and the gentle sway of the plane created a lullaby that eased me into a dream-like state. As I drifted in and out of slumber, the hours passed in a timeless reverie. When I finally awoke, the plane had begun its descent. The captain's voice filled the cabin, announcing our imminent arrival. A renewed surge of adrenaline coursed through my veins, and I peered out the window, eager to catch the first glimpses of where I'd be spending my summer.
As we descended, a breathtaking panorama unfolded beneath us. The azure Mediterranean Sea glistened like a sapphire jewel, its waves crashing gently against the rugged coastline. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow that bathed the landscape in a surreal radiance. My eyes drank in the beauty of the terrain below, from the lush green hills dotted with quaint villages to the ancient ruins that stood as silent witnesses to centuries of history.
As the plane touched down, a thrill of anticipation surged through me. Stepping out into the terminal, the air greeted me like a warm embrace, carrying the scents of flowers, sea breeze, and a hint of cypress trees. My heart pounded as I followed the signs to collect my luggage. I lived at home for school and had never been on a vacation away from my parents. This trip was going to be a bunch of other 18-21-year-olds with minimal supervision, and the thought alone was enough to keep me at a steady hum of energy despite the jet lag I knew would be hitting me in the face soon enough.
I spotted a group of students gathered near a large sign with the program's logo, and as I approached, I saw a diverse collection of faces, mostly other girls. Introductions and smiles were exchanged as we bonded over our shared anticipation of the adventure ahead. Some were already striking up conversations in Italian, their enthusiasm evident in the animated gestures that accompanied their words. The camaraderie among strangers felt like a promising start to the journey we were about to embark on together.
With our luggage in tow, we made our way outside the airport, where a row of comfortable vans awaited us, bulky men ready to load up our luggage. As the vans departed from the airport, we merged into the vibrant tapestry of the city. The narrow streets were alive with the sound of honking scooters, animated conversations, and the sweet melody of church bells ringing in the distance. We drove past historic landmarks, each steeped in centuries of art and history, reminding us that we were now in the heart of a land rich with cultural significance.
Over the next six weeks, we'd be diving into all the historical sites and cultural markers, but, for this afternoon and tomorrow, we were just supposed to get acquainted with the area, each other, and our host families. I exchanged numbers with a few of the other girls so that we could get in touch before any of the "scheduled fun" in the coming days.
The driver expertly navigated the labyrinthine streets, allowing us to soak in the sights of colorful buildings adorned with flower-filled balconies and charming cafes spilling out onto the sidewalks. Vibrant murals and intricate mosaics adorned some walls, adding an artistic flair to the urban landscape. Gradually, one by one, we reached our respective destinations. As we bid farewell to our companions, warm hugs and well wishes were exchanged, accompanied by promises to meet up and explore the city together soon.
Finally, it was my turn. The van came to a gentle stop in front of my host family's house. Nestled on a quaint street, the two-story residence exuded an old-world charm that made my heart flutter. Red and pink flowers crawled up the sides of one corner of the house. The cobblestone path leading to the front door beckoned me forward, and I stepped out of the van, feeling a mixture of gratitude and nervousness.
With my suitcase and duffel bag in tow, I walked up to the house, trying to keep the wheels of my suitcase from stuttering over the deteriorated stone pathway. Before I could knock, though, the door swung open. A small old woman in a pink dress stood in the doorway. I was gangly at 5'10", yes, but she had to be an entire foot smaller than me.
She began to speak in rapid-fire Italian, which I only caught bits of. Student, darling, dinner, excited. There's always a huge difference between speaking a language casually in classrooms and speaking to locals; getting to that point was part of the purpose of this trip.
A man, also shorter than me, with a full gray beard, appeared behind her with a smile. Much slower, he told her, "Tori, Tori, she's an American. We're here to help her learn, not overwhelm her." Then he turned to me and said, "I'm Martino Marcini, senior. Marty. This is my wife Vittoria. Vita. Two of our grandkids are here with us for the summer -- and our youngest, too. But don't worry; we've got a spare suite for you, so you'll have all your privacy. You're Adelina, yes?"
"Addie."
I offered them a handshake, but they both wrapped me up in a hug first. I stiffened a little bit but then relaxed, remembering that I'd have to get used to a lot of cultural differences now that I was in Europe. Marty and Vita showed me around the house; Marty insisted on carrying my suitcase even though I was pretty sure that I was stronger. Wanting to be polite, I didn't put up much of a fight.
My suite was up in the attic but it had been finished nicely with a half bathroom. Against one wall was a bed -- bigger than the twin I had at home -- with soft red sheets and what I assumed was a handmade quilt. There was a little desk with a lamp and some office supplies, an empty scratched-up wooden dresser, and a comfortable wingback armchair. A small bookshelf held a crooked collection of books, mostly on Italian history, art, and architecture, definitely a collection curated for international students.
Marty picked up a thick purple journal from the top shelf and said, "We have a, ah, what's the word? The- the book, Vita?"
"Scrapbook," she explained. "We keep a scrapbook where our past students have left some notes and photos and things. You're welcome to add whatever you'd like."
After showing me around the suite and putting my things down, Marty led me through the rest of the house while Tori went back downstairs, waving her hands about getting a special welcome dinner together. Their grandkids -- both boys -- shared a room with bunk beds on the second level; when they weren't there, Marty used it as a weight room. There was the master suite, which we didn't go into, of course.
Then there was the last bedroom.
Marty knocked on the door and there was a passive grunt from inside. He pushed it open to reveal a small but cozy bedroom, mostly taken up by a queen-sized bed, with a mix of childhood and adult decorations.
On the bed, feet up in the air while she lay on her stomach, flipping through the book, was the most beautiful girl I'd seen so far in Italy. She had a strong, heavy brow with meticulously manicured eyebrows. Her nose was that of an empress, not dainty and sloping but proud and commandeering. Her almond eyes were hazel green with long, dark natural lashes. She was curvy where I was lanky, all hips and breasts.
Marty beamed with pride and introduced us, "This is our baby, Carlotta. She studies at Padua up north during the year, but she's here for the summer, too."
"Lottie." She didn't look up from her book for another few seconds, then spared me a quick glance. Her eyes lingered for a brief moment on my bare legs but quickly returned to the small text on the page. "You're the new American?"
"Yeah, I'm from New York. Addie." I would've stretched out my hand to shake hers if I felt any sense that she'd reciprocate. "Nice to meet you."
She mumbled something and we went back downstairs.
Tori made for us -- for me, really -- an entire feast, even though she kept insisting it was just dinner and she'd do much better later in the summer when the produce was better. No matter her caveats, I was thrilled to dig into homemade gnocchi, marinated mushrooms, and perfectly ripened tomatoes, all followed by an olive oil cake that practically melted in my mouth.
The two ten-year-old boys -- Martino Jr., Tino, and Giovanni, Gio -- thundered inside right before dinner and snarfed down food. They didn't treat me with the disdain Lottie had; they asked all sorts of questions about New York at a rapid pace that had me laughing and talking through mouthfuls of delicious food.
After dinner, I settled in upstairs to social media stalk the other people from the program, adding them on different sites. Most of them accepted right away, likely doing the exact same thing in their host houses. It was a weird situation already; if we didn't have each other, we'd have to brave the city alone, trying to make connections with locals using hand gestures and half-formed Italian the first few weeks.
