PROMPT: Start by freewriting, beginning with the words "Your mother." You can go any direction you want, so long as those are the first two words.
Your mother never tells you that it’s easier to stay in the same place than to change. At least mine didn’t. Mine told me to work harder, that I was a bit of a slacker. Mine told me that I could go to an Ivy League school if I wanted to take on the loans. Mine told me that after four years of college, she wanted me to have a career. She told me that I just needed a foot in the door and then I could stay there. New York is the place people move to, not the place people leave. So she wasn’t too happy when I told her that I was quitting my full-time job, foregoing full health benefits, and giving up my apartment. To be fair, I didn’t have a real plan. I had been making money for six years, working day in and day out. I didn’t see a point in continuing to stockpile money that I would never use. So I decided to take some time to travel.
It wasn’t that there wasn’t a
specific plan, though I’m sure that would’ve helped a little bit. But I think
that had I had an itinerary, a budget and a book of maps of the world, she
still would have made it seem like an irresponsible decision. It was amazing
that no matter how old you are, telling your mother about a risk you’re taking
always makes you feel like a frivolous teenager. And I’d never even made
decisions like this in high school.
Still I had gotten through the
month of packing and shopping and guidebook reading. I had made it to the
airport despite the guilt and tears. Despite the crushing feeling that I was
doing something wrong. I knew I would get past that feeling once I got to
Italy.
I handed my ticket to a smiling
woman at the gate and slowly made my way down the ramp and onto the largest
plane I’ve ever been on. Shuttle trips down to Miami didn’t do it justice. This
plane was massive. They were multiple aisles and sections. There was more space
than made sense to me, but the seats still seemed crammed together. I made my
way to the back of the plane, where my recently scanned ticket indicated I
would start my journey.
I stepped over two people to take
my window seat and buckled up even though we probably wouldn’t be moving any
time soon, let alone taking off. I wasn’t the nervous flyer I once had been,
but there was still some residual anxiety from my childhood fears that made me
just a little uneasy. The man next to me noticed me checking my seat belt every
few minutes and decided that patting me on the hand would somehow make the
flight more comfortable for me. “Okay, yes” he said, enthusiastically, with a
strong accent that I could only assume was Italian. I offered a closed-mouth
smile in return.
I pulled out my guidebook and
started flipping through the post-it marked pages. I had the gist of it
memorized by now, especially for this first leg for which I actually had a
plan. After Rome, Florence and Venice, I didn’t really know where I was headed.
It was part of the appeal to me. I figured I would know what to do as I went
along. Plans would form themselves. “You go to Italy first time?” asked the man
next to me. I nodded. “Yes.” He smiled “You can come for dinner?”
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