When I was thirteen, I made the choice to select Italian as the language that I would study in middle and high school. I didn’t have much of a reason to, if we’re being honest. Unlike a lot of my classmates, I have no Italian roots; people preached the practicality and usefulness of Spanish to me. I knew that French was the language of love, but for some reason, Italian charmed me with its rich vowels and the way it rolled off my tongue.

I loved the language so much that I studied it for five years, and I learned enough about the culture and the landscape that I dreamed of going one day – but I never expected that it would take a trip to Wales to finally see Italy.

Remember my friend Meredith, the one studying in Orvieto, Italy? It’s because of her that my spring break Whirlwind took me to the beautiful Italia, as the whole trip was structured around reaching her by Good Friday and spending Easter, or Pasqua, in Orvieto before continuing onto Rome.

Though the day prior to arriving in Orvieto was long and stressful, our time in the tiny town in the region of Umbria was anything but. Mer greeted us with open arms and introduced us to the winding streets of the place she had been calling home. In stark contrast from the big cities we had visited thus far, Orvieto was a quiet, peaceful sanctuary. The shuttered windows of our Airbnb looked out onto the Corso, or the main road that runs through the town.

Upper Orvieto (the portion high on a hilltop that you need a funicular to access!) has narrow, lazily intertwined streets dotted with sunny squares, clock towers that chime on the hour, beautiful churches, and buildings with gates and gardens that look right off the front of a postcard. Upon arrival, Jamila opted to nap as I opted to take a walk and get some gelato with Meredith, our friend Emmy who was also studying with Meredith in Italy, and our friend Veronica who had been studying in Oxford but happened to be stopping in before returning to the States.

(It was especially special to be able to spend time at an outdoor cafe, chatting and laughing with these lovely ladies, as we knew it was just a taste of the time we’ll have when we all live together in the fall.)

We let Emmy and Veronica act as tour guides as we wandered the streets in no hurry to do anything but enjoy our time together. We wandered in and out of shops both touristy and off the beaten path, scouting locations for a delicious dinner and catching up on our months apart and our individual study abroad adventures. Fragrant wisteria and espresso wafting from cafes gave our afternoon a comforting aroma as we meandered in the (warm!) Italian sunshine, finally arriving at the magnificent Duomo.

After collecting a freshly-rested Jamila, we spent some time taking in the best views of our trip: Umbrian countryside sprawling in all directions, green and brown, all vineyards and gently swaying fields of vibrant yellow that I would later discover to be rapeseed.

The experience reminded me a bit of my time with Grace in Oxford as I took in Meredith literally looking out over dreams made reality.

After satisfying our souls with the landscape, we went to satisfy our stomachs with some incredible food. Orvieto is known for its wild boar, or porchetta, and there was no short supply at the restaurant we chose for dinner. While I went with the beef (don’t worry – I had a porchetta sandwich a few days later), my fellow diners chose the boar in a variety of different specials, most of which involved dark chocolate and all of which paired amazingly with the house red wine that our waiter recommended. The table was silent after our meals came, aside from the occasional noise that comes escapes when you eat something utterly unexpected and utterly delicious.

One of my favorite things about our time in Orvieto was how relaxed it was. We traded buzzing tourist hot spots for cosy cafes like Montenucci’s and tiny corner gelato shops like La Musa. We slept late and took leisurely walks, napped in sunny patches of quiet parks and browsed through airy outdoor markets without the pressure to keep moving, keep covering ground, keep making progress. The city is small enough that we could venture out on our own without maps, get lost a little along the way, and find paths that would take us back to familiar places. We took time to watch movies in bed and drink Orvieto Classico and listen to the cheerful chatter of townspeople below floating up through our windows.

We also found some incredible food, which included Jamila’s first ever “real” pizza (the poor dear had only ever tasted Domino’s or Papa John’s).

Two of my favorite memories of the Orvieto leg took place on Saturday, or Sabato Santo:

• Meredith took me to one of her favorite bits of the city to watch the sun set over the hills. We sat on the wall for hours and talked about ourselves, our journeys, our futures, and other truths of life that always seem to surface beautifully when she and I have a chat. It was so genuine, so needed, and so appreciated. In a perfect world, every day of my life would end with a long chat with someone I hold dear as the sun sinks behind the horizon.

• We had the privilege of attending an Easter Vigil in the Duomo itself on Saturday night. It started in the dark with just one fire at the back of Duomo that then provided the flame to light candles of each attendee as light spread through the large room, vanquishing darkness. The service was entirely in Italian, and though it’s been a few years and my Italian is definitely rusty, I was able to follow along as the priest greeted us as “carinissimi” (dearest ones) and read various passages of Scripture in the homily. Goosebumps rose on my skin as I sang out with those around me during the Litany of Saints, hearing our words bounce off the echoing walls of the Duomo and feeling more connected with the universal church than I ever have before. The Vigil concluded as the priest welcomed in (loosely translated) “the light of Christ, trimuph over death, and a reign of peace.”

The next morning, we traded our typical “Buongiorno” for “Buona Pasqua!” as we celebrated Easter with each other and the people of the town. We were able to attend mass at the oldest church in Orvieto and later joined Meredith and other students in her cohort for a traditional 5-course Italian dinner of bread and meat, lamb liver, umbricelli (regional pasta) bolognese, lamb and artichoke, and a crumbly apricot dessert.

Monday brought us one last espresso with Meredith before trading the light salmons and pale yellows of Orvieto for the burnt orange and buttery tones of Rome.

Unfortunately, it was drizzling when we arrived in Rome, and by the time we had dropped off our bags and set off for the Trevi Fountain, it was positively lashing. Not to be discouraged by a little water, we plowed on across the Tevere, known as the Tiber River in English, and managed to hop between the raindrops to the Piazza Venezia. It was in the middle of quintessential Italian flag pictures that Biscuit (or Biscotta, as I called her while we were in Italy) yelled out “Look!” Sure enough, the Colosseum was just ahead, and we joined the mass of umbrella-covered tourists that pressed towards it.

(Of all the cities we visited, Rome was definitely the most tourist-filled, to the point where I found myself thinking, “There are too many Americans here – don’t they realize they’re ruining MY European experience?!” Until I realized that they were probably all thinking the same thing about me… oops. But really, Americans, why so many tacky neon ponchos, and why are you all so loud?)

We made it to the Colosseum and weaved through the sea of neon ponchos and up a hill to find a picture perfect spot, laughing at the rainbow of umbrellas covering queue-ers below.

We continued to battle on-and-off showers as we explored the Roman Forum (one of my favorites), the Trevi Fountain (entirely too overwhelming and nothing like the Lizzie McGuire Movie), and the neighborhood of Trastevere (literally meaning “between/among the Tevere,” as it sits in a bend of the river).

Dinner was at a restaurant right down the street from our accommodation, a recommendation from a friend from high school who is studying in Rome this term (thanks, Linds!). Jamila chose pasta with meatballs while I ordered the gnocchi I had been craving since we stepped foot on Italian soil. It was all absolutely incredible, but that didn’t stop us from leaving in pursuit of gelato after the meal. The hole-in-the-wall gelateria we found offered offbeat flavors like avocado lime and almond apple, and we stepped out minutes later with cones stacked high with some of the best gelato I’ve ever tasted. I opted to pair blueberry cheesecake, lemon curd, and coconut, and I recall saying something to the effect of “When I die, I want to be buried in this gelato.”

Our ten days of travel were starting to wear on us, so we turned in early with plans to tackle Vatican City in the morning. Had we done our research ahead of time, we would have realized that ticket lines would stretch for upwards of four hours and no, you cannot enter just the Vatican Gardens without waiting for a ticket for the whole thing. We turned our lemons into lemonade by spending time in St. Peter’s Square and popping in and out of local shops, laughing as I translated the Italian expressions on magnets and postcards and picking out our favorites. The queue for the Basilica looked a little long, but we got pretty good at standing just close enough to American tour groups to hear the guides talk about history and fun facts!

Our last stop of the day was the Pantheon, and it was absolutely my favorite thing in Rome – so much so that when we turned the corner and it loomed ahead of us, I stopped in my tracks and stared, mouth open. There’s something so incredibly humbling about standing in front of such a masterpiece, this creation of man that has weathered the ages, and wondering how many people before you have stood precisely where you stood. It was a similar feeling to visiting the Forum: over thousands of years, a city was built up around these remnants of the past, yet they sit preserved for all to see, lasting pieces of the past. I would later write in my journal that I guess Rome is a bit of a museum in itself.

We sat on some nearby steps for a snack break while I continued to gape, and I would have sat there all day if we didn’t have a train and plane to catch. The time drew near to collect our luggage and hop on the express train to the airport, so we said one last arrivederci to the Tevere and grabbed a cannoli for the road.

I’d be lying if I said that we weren’t exhausted when we reached Fiumicino Airport, and the twisty-turny layout didn’t help matters. Craving comfort food, we flopped into a burger place for an early dinner and then took turns napping at the gate as we waited for our flight to Lisbon to board. After one last airport gelato (why hadn’t I been ordering nocciola all along?), we thanked our lucky stars that they had allowed our overstuffed carry-ons without a second glance and settled into the first part of the journey home.

Cheers!

I present to you the next installment in the Whirlwind: a story in three acts.

I. Two Lucky Nuggets.

There’s definitely something to be said for Airbnbs, because Jamila and I woke in Montevrain on a rainy Tuesday to a beautifully laid table of coffee and tea, fresh baguettes and jam, and a tiered tray piled high with pain au chocolat and madeleines.

The gilted china was fit for princesses, and it was the perfect start to what would prove to be a magical day… can you guess where we were going? Maybe our outfits for the day will give you a hint:

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Matching Mary Poppins and Stitch jumpers? Check. Mickey socks that I got on sale at Primark? Check. Hair finagled into some semblance of mouse ears? Check. Disney-obsessed Jamila practically bouncing up and down on her toes next to me? Check.

10 am found us queuing for the happiest (French) place on Earth. Biscuit all but took off at run once we passed through the turnstiles, and I snapped pictures of a park just as impressive as the ones we know in Anaheim and Orlando as I tried not to lose her in the crowd.

Disneyland Paris is smaller than the parks in the States, but no less grand. It exudes a personality of its own that is distinctly European: a little less bright and bubbly and in-your-face than the American parks, with an air of dignity and sophistication. Colors are more muted and pastel, and the best word I can find for the architecture is charming. The smaller size makes it feel a little less overwhelming and a little more intimate.

Though it has a little less sparkle and flash than the Magic Kingdom, I got the feeling that it might be an easier place to take little kids. It’s much more walkable for little legs and even has a theater building that plays Disney videos on loop all day, with plenty of seating for kids (and adults!) that might need a break.

(Wouldn’t that have been nice when I was growing up, Momma and Daddy?)

We rode coasters and met characters and noshed on Disney-branded snacks, enjoying the atmosphere and giggling at the “American”-themed sections of the park. In Frontierland, we stumbled upon a shop with a funny name and promptly dubbed ourselves a pair of lucky nuggets, taking the inaugural thumbs-up selfie and creating a tradition for the rest of the trip.

It was also fun to see little French touches here and there, like a bilingual version of the classic Mickey’s Philharmagic show, a French-speaking C3PO and Jar Jar on Star Tours, and rides like “Blanche-Neige et les Sept Nains.” Oh, and we were tickled pink by the color of the castle.

My favorite bit of the day was “It’s a Small World.” It’s cheesy, I know, but I’ve always been enchanted by the little boat ride that brings together so many languages, so many people, and so many cultures. For those scant few minutes, everyone appreciates all that is around them, and celebration of the other is something that this world so desperately needs. This adventure has also given the ride new meaning: there may be a lot out there to explore, but at the end of the day, it’s a small world after all… and to prove it, we grabbed some Mickey-shaped guimave for the road, took one last look at the park all lit up as night fell, and hopped on a bus to our next destination.

(Okay, y’all – this is intermission number 1. Go ahead and pop to the loo, add more water to the kettle, or fix yourself a blog-reading snack (I recommended chocolate Oaties). This won’t be over anytime soon.)

II. A love letter.

Geneva,

I can’t believe we almost never met.

If I’m being honest, you were kind of an afterthought when I was building my itinerary, motivated purely by a love for chocolate and one too many viewings of The Sound of Music. But from my first bus-window glimpse of distant mountains against early morning sky, I knew that you were something special.

You greeted two weary travelers with open arms, giving and expecting nothing in return.

Thank you for the “travelers welcome” sign and the free wifi in the tiny cafe around the corner from our hostel. Thank you that it was the only thing for blocks open when we arrived at 7 am, hungry and in need of a bathroom break. Thank you for sunglasses and shorts weather. Thank you for the free transit system that brought us to the United Nations, the waterfront, and even across the lake to the Old Town.

You were an escape from the hustle and bustle of Paris, allowing us to meander past outdoor cafes and fountains and into cathedrals full of stained glass with chimes that echoed through winding streets of stone. You charmed us with colored shutters and streets lined with flags, a slice of home-away-from-home.

You let us take our time, wandering and soaking up sunshine without the pressure to do this, see that, go there. Most importantly, you gave us the space to recharge. In the midst of bus rides and train tickets and attraction queues, you provided a day to admire snow-capped mountains, feel the mist off the Jet d’Eau, take long naps, and eat lots of chocolate.

So thank you, lovely Genève, for everything from your butterfly-patterned currency to your way-too-comfy-for-a-hostel beds. Though our time was short, you were a place of respite, a place of solace, and a place of peace.

You were everything we didn’t know we needed.

With love,
Annie

(Intermission number 2 – still with me?)

III. The Longest Day of My Life (told with the help of entries from my journal, in italics)

As with many things in life – traveling and journeying require patience. Patience with myself when my perfect plans are less than perfect, patience with others when I am tired and overwhelmed, patience when a five-hours-and-change bus ride becomes almost nine.

We were ready for our craziest travel day yet: an early bus from Geneva to Milan, a couple of hours to explore, a train to Venice for the evening, and a night bus to Florence, where we would hop on a bus to arrive in Pisa for sunrise at the Leaning Tower. From there we would journey on to Orvieto by way of Florence, arriving to meet my friend Meredith on the morning of Good Friday.

We had it all planned down to the minute: maps with all of the train and bus stations pinned, money for the metro ticket we would need, a restaurant to check out in Venice for dinner, even a 24-hour McDonald’s to stop at in the wee hours of the morning. But, as we learned, things don’t always go according to plan.

Our first bus was late to pick us up, eating into our exploration time in Milan – but that was fine, it was really just meant to be a stopover. It became clear that we would be more than a little late, however, as we were held up at the Swiss-French border. There was also heavy traffic leading up to the Mont Blanc tunnel, which we needed to pass through to get to Italy – but that was fine, we could just get a later train to Venice. And with the gorgeous views as the bus rose into the Alps, I wasn’t complaining.

Patience is rewarded, I remind myself, as our bus all but climbs Monte Bianco. Patience is rewarded with white-capped mountain views and bites of leftover Swiss chocolate.

It became clear, though, when we were held up again at the French-Italian border, that we’d only really have time for a quick dinner in Venice before hopping on our bus to Florence – but that was fine, because we’d probably be tired anyway.

Patience is rewarded with rolling Italian countryside that convinces me I’ve never actually seen the colors blue or green until today. Patience is rewarded with words I can read and conversations I can understand, moments of me and God, and road signs that read “Milano, Genoa, Turin.” And so I must remind myself, breathe. Absorb. Enjoy. Stop worrying. Patience requires rest, I am reminded as my eyes dip closed, pen still poised on paper.

We were doing our best to keep morale up, but when the bus was held up once again, just minutes from the bus station, it became clear that even dinner in Venice was no longer an option.

I’m not proud to admit that my first meal in Italy was at a train station McDonald’s, and I’m not proud to admit that my first Italian spoken in Italy was a desperate plea to the guy behind the counter for “una forchetta, per favore?” But I will say that Italian McDonald’s was markedly better than American McDonald’s (and not just because dinner was the first meal we had eaten that day).

We managed to snag seats on the last train to Venice that evening, which would get us to our destination just twenty minutes before our night bus to Florence.

Sometimes things don’t go according to plan. Like, missed a train AND an overnight bus type of not according to plan. So, it’s 10 pm, there are no trains leaving until morning, and you’ve already scrapped two cities from your itinerary. What do you do?

Well. You can either cry in a McDonald’s bathroom or you can book a room at a nearby hotel, buy a business class train ticket for the next morning, drink a glass of wine, and laugh really hard. I did both.

As if our day hadn’t been long enough, we ended up standing at the wrong bus stop and watching our bus drive past us into the night. After realizing that was our last shot (bus or train) at getting to Pisa by morning, we did some laughing (Jamila), some crying (me), some panicking (both of us), and ultimately called on the help of the wisest woman I know: my mother. She very gently but very firmly confirmed what I already knew. We were both exhausted, there was a hotel right across the street, we had money, and the next day would go much better if we got a good night’s sleep.

We had a glass of wine each to celebrate being adults who can adapt when things don’t go according to plan and then quite literally fell into bed. The next morning we were in higher spirits as we enjoyed the hotel’s massive breakfast buffet before settling into our seats for the train that would bring us to Florence in time to make our original connection to Orvieto.

For whatever reason, God said “not today” to Milan and Venice and Pisa… which I was upset about. But after a good night of sleep and a few sunny train rides through the Italian countryside, how can I be anything but immensely grateful? We have our passports, our health, our pictures, our experiences, and each other. I’m traveling through Europe, for crying out loud. Sono. In. Italia.

We were even able to squeeze in a jaunt through Florence on our stopover, with just enough time to see the Duomo, the Palazzo Vecchio, and the Piazza della Signoria.

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Finally, finally, we boarded our train to Orvieto and whooshed off towards the waiting embrace of a dear friend.

Besides the landscape being gorgeous, people here seem generally warmer than in France – a little less like porcelain and more like terracotta. The metro is full of people talking to each other, as are trains, and people smile more, I think. But how can you not, I think to myself, as the train flies past lush green hills and vineyards and tiny towns full of soaring clock towers and stone steeples and green, green, green.

Under the Tuscan sun, indeed.

And that, my friends, marks the curtain call of this story in three acts – but not the end of the Whirlwind. There still remains so much to be told! If you managed to make it through this behemoth, I really hope you enjoyed it. It was a labor of love, to be sure, and I would imagine that reading it is no different. I’ll leave you with one last bit from my journal that I think says a lot about facing disappointment and choosing to embrace the good:

If anything, I think the last twenty-four hours have taught me that you’re allowed to be upset… but you’re also allowed to not be.

Cheers!

So, now that you’ve got some context, the real story of the adventure can begin… at a bus stop in Cardiff, to be exact.

We were a little nervous when the very first leg of the trip was running late, worrying that it was a bad omen for the legs to follow, but it actually allowed us the time to grab a quick dinner before hopping on the bus to London. (Side note: in the UK, a sandwich from Subway, or any similar type of sandwich, is called a “Subway,” kind of the way some people use brands like Kleenex, Chapstick, or Advil to mean the generic type of thing. “Let’s grab a Subway for dinner.” It bothers me immensely.)

The sun was setting as we trundled over the border into England, and the blue ceiling lights of the bus bathed the beginning of our adventure in mystery and anticipation of things to come.

We were welcomed into the city by bridge lights reflecting off of the Thames, and we had just enough time to grab a couple of ciders at the Traveler’s Tavern and toast to the journey. Before we knew it, we were boarding a bus under a screen that read “23:30 to Paris.”

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We settled into our (admittedly not bad) seats and let the rhythm of the bus rock us to sleep, waking just before the border sometime around 2 or 3 am to show our passports. My dad later asked if we crossed by the ferry or the tunnel, and I still honestly can’t tell you for sure. All I know is that we woke a few hours later to blue skies just outside of Paris.

So, how was the overnight bus experience?

We slept pretty well, all things considered. Would I do it again? Well, according to my journal: Maybe, if it was crazy cheap and I’m still young enough to bounce back. Our bus even got in a couple of hours early, so we had time to relax, regroup, and enjoy a breakfast of fruit and granola bars in a park before crossing the Seine en route to our Airbnb.

It took a little longer than expected to get to our lodging, mostly because we happened to arrive on the morning of what appeared to be a local road race. The closer we got to our address in the Bastille area, the more roads were closed off and more and more runners whooshed past us. “We’ll just have to wait for a break and scoot through,” I told Jamila. But as we watched and waited, there was no break in the stream of runners. We ended up backtracking and finding a route with less closures. It wasn’t until we arrived at our Airbnb and we saw that our hostess was watching the same race on television that I asked her what it was. She gave me a funny look and responded with, “…the Marathon du Paris.”

It was a good thing we didn’t try to wait it out – with over 60,000 participants, we would have been waiting for quite a while. This wouldn’t be our last encounter with the marathoners, either; we saw neon-clad runners all over the city all day.

Our hostess Michele let us drop off our bags and freshen up from our bus ride, and then asked if we had any plans for the day. We didn’t, really, so she brought out some maps and pointed out the usual tourist spots: Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, and various museums throughout the city. With a map and a general plan to head in the direction of Notre Dame, we set off… and kind of did everything.

Following the Seine, we passed through an outdoor market selling the most beautiful fruits and veg and breads and cheeses before seeing the Bastille monument rising into the blue sky ahead of us. On a curious whim, we stumbled onto the grounds of a beautiful building that I believe we figured out was a natural history museum of sorts, admiring the bright flowers and squared-off treetops in the garden.

Heading back onto our charted course, I captured one of my favorite photos of the trip: Jem’s face as she laid eyes on the Notre Dame Cathedral for the very first time.

Throughout the day, we walked 19 miles (yes, seriously) across Paris. We visited the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre and the Pont Neuf and so, so many other iconic images of Paris. But in light of recent events, I treasure the moments we spent among the street vendors, staring up at Notre Dame’s spire across the river, as some of my most cherished from the trip. These photos were taken the day before the fire, and I am so grateful to have experienced it in its full beauty.

I really don’t know how we managed to fit in everything we did that first day, especially after spending the night prior on a bus…

…but I expect it has something to do with the magical powers of Camembert cheese and baguettes.

We wrapped up our first day on the Champs-Elysees, which had been conveniently blocked off to cars for the marathon, allowing us to walk around and marvel at the Arc de Triomphe and also at all the people who had just run 26 miles.

Our rambly path home took us through beautiful gardens and past sidewalks dotted with cafes and down wide streets studded with monuments. I remember reading once that a Frenchman designed Washington, D.C., and I could see the similarities in style between the U.S. city I’ve visited so many times and this new one I was exploring. There was something else unique about the feeling of Paris, and I tried to put it into words in my journal that night: You can feel the history here, in a way that’s different from Bath or Oxford. It’s not people living new lives in an old city; it’s a city and a people that have grown and lived together, maybe?

Our second day in the city was no less eventful than the first, although we did opt to take the metro instead of trekking everywhere on foot. The weather in Paris was really on our side, and Monday proved to be blue-sky’d, sunny, and high 60s. Jamila and I pulled out our sole items fancier than basic travel clothes, and we floated around the city, soaking up the light and culture and language (and food – we had crepes for lunch and crepes for dinner).

Our first stop of the day (after a quick stop to admire the brightly-colored Tuileries Gardens), was the Musee L’Orangerie, famously known as the home of Monet’s Water Lilies. The queue wasn’t long, and our UK student status got us free admission, so we entered the big oval rooms filled with greens and purples and blues. Note: photos of art are never as good as the actual art. If you ever get a chance to see them, go.

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The Orangerie also has work by other notable artists, and we enjoyed a morning of Cezanne and Picasso and Matisse, as well as some temporary modern exhibitions.

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After a quick crepes break (I told you, we ate a lot of crepes), we hopped on the metro to jet up to Montmartre, the neighborhood on the hill. Tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the city center, Montmartre thrummed with a completely different energy. The cosy cobbled streets twisted and turned to reveal tiny shops around every corner, squares full of street artists sketching and painting for eager tourists, and the magnificent cathedral Sacre-Coeur.

Blindingly white and somehow serenely imposing, Sacre-Coeur sat perched atop the city like a jewel in a crown. A large terrace allowed for views of the city center below, and through the haze of the day, Jamila and I took turns pointing out landmarks to each other. With the city laid out below us, it was the perfect moment to appreciate the journey up to that point – a real visual representation of feeling as though the world was set before us to explore.

After a couple hours of meandering and admiring and souvenir shopping, we grabbed dinner (crepes, of course) and jumped on the train that would take us to our lodging in the suburbs. We arrived in the most adorable rural-ish neighborhood just as the sun was setting, and the sky was painted with the same soft pink as the meringue Jem shared with me as we settled in for the evening. Finally taking time to reflect on two very full days, I let the pen do the work in expressing the words I couldn’t quite speak: Just as my journal is already bursting with postcards, my heart is absolutely full of love for Paris. How, in only 2 days’ time, did this city warm my heart and fill it with awe, admiration, and longing?

We fell into bed with smiles on our faces, happy and exhausted and already anticipating where our Whirlwind would take us next – stayed tuned for part 3!

(Per usual, here are some more of my favorite photos that didn’t quite fit into the story I was trying to tell. You can click on each photo for a full view!)

Cheers!

Okay, it’s finally time to put pen to paper (figuratively, of course) on my crazy, amazing, whirlwindy spring break travel though western Europe. I am not, by any means, going to attempt to put nearly three weeks of travel and over a thousand photos into one blog post – so I’ve decided to serialize my adventure. The story will probably have three or four parts, with this being the first.

And this part actually starts quite a while ago, because I can’t tell the story of my travels without telling the story of Biscuit… or Jamila, as most people know her.

I met Jamila at the church I attend here. It was my second week, and I was feeling lonely, and she happened to be sitting in the row in front of me. When she heard me tell the people next to me that I was on exchange from the States, she whipped around. “Me too!” she exclaimed. “Let’s be friends!”

And that was that. Suddenly, I had a ready-made friend who was missing California as much as I was missing NJ and Massachusetts, and we bonded over gelato and how on earth we ended up in this quirky city.

We wouldn’t find out until later that week that one of her best friends from home and one of my best friends from school are (ready for this?) first cousins. Yes, you read that right: I traveled all the way across the Pond to meet a girl who lives on the opposite coast as me, yet there is only one degree of separation between us. We laughed and marveled and thanked God, sharing our favorite parks and cafes and restaurants and secrets of the city (I have her to thank for tipping me off that movies at the cinema cost about $3 for students). We turned Friday afternoons before Bible Study into our weekly hangout time, sometimes getting dinner out but usually opting to cook in my tiny flat kitchen, where I ran her through Grannie’s Kitchen Academy (which is what I call me pretending I know how to cook).

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We became pretty fast friends, no longer out of necessity but as the product of good conversation and shared experience. So naturally, when I told her that I wanted to travel over spring break and that I had plans to be in Italy by Easter, she asked if she could tag along. And boy oh boy, am I glad she did, because I never would have made it without her. We bought bus tickets and train tickets and plane tickets and booked hotels and Airbnbs and looked at each other with wide eyes, saying, “This is crazy. We’re crazy,” over and over.

But let me tell you: Grannie (her nickname for me) and Biscuit made quite a travel duo. We spent nights on buses and in airports; we walked close to 100 miles through cities we had only ever seen on postcards; we complemented each other’s personalities in a way that meant we were always prepared. When one of us was tired, the other stayed awake so that we didn’t miss our stop on the train. When one of us felt overwhelmed, the other took control of the situation and found a quieter place to regroup. When one of us was crying in a McDonald’s bathroom, the other did her best to find new train tickets (don’t worry; I’ll get to that part of the story eventually).

And conveniently, we always seemed to get hungry at about the same time.

My mother is still kind of amazed that we spent two weeks practically joined at the hip, navigating countries where neither of us spoke the language, even though we had only met about two months prior. And honestly, so are we. But we did it, and we did it with smiles on our faces.

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These photos show just a tiny glimpse into the story, but there is so much more story to be told! So brew a cuppa, and settle in for the next installment of the Whirlwind.

(Until then, please enjoy these photos of Jamila hugging progressively larger plush animals throughout various European countries.)

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Cheers!

Okay, how about a break from Annie’s deep philosophical musings? Instead, I come bearing tales of ancient Roman springs and sun-bathed limestone. That’s right, ladies and gents; read on for a recap of my day trip to the beautiful city of Bath, England!

It started on a train platform (for the first time since I’ve been here, the train was actually cheaper than the bus), and I trundled swiftly through the Welsh and English countryside. The rolling green hills dotted with tiny white sheep have quickly become a sight I associate with my time here, and the scene popped against a blue sky like I had this particular day.

It wasn’t too long before I arrived at my destination, and I felt a giddy rush as I stepped off the platform and into a truly gorgeous city on a truly gorgeous day. Luckily, the train station is just down the road from the famous Roman Baths, my first stop of the day (and my rendezvous point with my dear Grace). I soaked up the sun as much as I soaked up the novelty of exploring a World Heritage Site, passing monuments and quaint pubs and hotels on my way to the main square.

The square was buzzing with life. Students in school groups milled about, surrounded by storefronts pushing postcards and souvenirs. At the same time, locals sat at outdoor tables in front of cafes and wandered in and out of shops and bakeries. A different street musician performed every hour: an opera singer, an acoustic guitarist, a man in a flowered shirt singing the Beach Boys. In front of me sat the Roman Baths, and behind me, the stately Bath Abbey soared into the blue sky.

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Following the lead of the clamoring groups of students, I entered the Baths and picked up my complimentary audio guide. Punching in numbers posted throughout the exhibits and listening to the corresponding audio, I was quickly sucked into the practices, culture, and architecture of the ancient Romans.

The upper level of the Great Bath was dotted with sculptures of the gods (I think) and boasted a breathtaking view of the city. The water of the Great Bath sat a level below… I would make my way there through the carefully structured path of the Baths in about an hour’s time.

The audio guide led me down through the museum past cases full of ancient coins, preserved stone and bronze figures, original piping and engineered mechanisms, and old brickwork – including a piece with paw prints found in it!

I encountered my favorite bit just before reaching the Great Bath. In a dim hallway, constructed walkways allowed visitors to walk “through” the ruins of the Baths, stones that have been in place for thousands of years. There’s a gravity to realizing how many lives a temple constructed in the first century has seen and touched (especially when your home nation isn’t even 250 years old!), and I spent a few moments taking it in. I stopped, closed my eyes, inhaled the smell of water and stone, and thanked God once again for these opportunities.

And then of course, I reached the Great Bath. And let me tell you, folks: it’s as pretty as the postcards. The water was my favorite blue-green and still as glass, reflecting the images of the gods from above. And in a separate chamber, I watched the water of the hot spring bubble, mist gathering on the surface.

(Tempting as it was to dip my toes in, I managed to restrain myself.)

On the way out, there was a stop to taste the water. Frankly, I thought it tasted like biting your tongue.

I ate lunch with Grace and some of her classmates in a local park, a group of young American academics bonding over peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, ancient Rome, and English literature. It was a perfect day for ice cream, so a handful of us stopped in a local shop and treated ourselves to flavors like blackcurrant and clotted cream before heading for the Pulteney Bridge.

In the afternoon, I posed as a student in Grace’s school group and joined them for a tour of the city with one of her professors, who grew up in Bath. We were enlightened by her commentary of architecture, culture, and history. Stops on the tour included the Royal Mineral Water Hospital, the Circus (not what you may think), the Royal Crescent, plenty of Jane Austen hot spots, and a classic Georgian Garden.

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All too soon, it was time to return to the platform whence I came and catch my train back to Cardiff. Grace and I shared a tighter-than-usual goodbye hug, knowing that our tandem European adventures have come to a close and the next time we see each other will probably be back at school in the fall.

With one last look out over the twisting River Avon, I boarded the train and settled into a window seat.

An hour later, my train whooshed through a dark tunnel and emerged on the other side of the Welsh-English border. “Croeso i Gymru” (Welcome to Wales), read the sign alongside the train tracks. I smiled to myself. It’s good to be home.

Cheers!