When I Look at the Stars, I am a Traveler

Out of the window of an airplane. No one had ever told me that this was the perfect vantage point for viewing the stars. On my right, the man next to me was asleep, somehow, slumped over with the airplane-provided pillow under his head and airplane-provided blanket draped over him. I had spent the better part of two hours trying to get those airplane provisions situated in a comfortable– or comfortable enough– way to let me sleep... with no luck. Sleeping on the plane was a challenge too great for me. But I didn’t mind anymore. Because I had opened my window. About two hours before, I had closed it as part of the equation that was supposed to equal sleep. I followed every step of that equation but could not get it to yield the expected result. I should have known. I’ve never been any good at performing equations. Looking with wonder. That’s what I’m good at.

So I looked with wonder at the stars. It didn’t matter to me at the moment that I would land in Italy with no sleep to operate on. I figured the excitement would kick in and take over the control panel anyway. How wonderous it was to look at the stars. They were still so far away from me, but being up in the plane, I was closer to them than I had ever been before, those little specks of light on the navy blue sky. Soon, I started to see little specks not only above me, but below me too. But these specks of light were different. This was Europe appearing in my sight. And soon I would be there for the first time in my life, farther away from my American Midwestern home than I had ever been before.

Europe would take a homebody and turn her into a traveler. This was my resolution. Me, young but not getting any younger, too afraid to take many a chance but regretful in the aftermath. I had a few lessons to learn so I could start living before another moment passed. I wanted to carpe every diem, and what better place to do that than Europe? I had four months ahead of me, four months of living in Italy. Non vedo l’ora. Viva al lupo. Forza Italia. 

Italy was different from Illinois, but I was disappointed that I didn’t feel more different. I was disappointed that I felt homesick the first couple of days. How could I possibly want to be in Illinois, rather than Italy? How could I become the “carpe-er of all diems” when the four months ahead of me felt daunting rather than exciting? Disappointed as I was, this was my reality. I sat alone in my tiny dorm room thinking about how long it would be until I was home again. This was only day one. 

That was only day one. The feeling didn’t last forever. Within a week or two I found myself achieving the goal I had set. I was spending less time in my room, and spending that time roaming instead. I traveled to England then Switzerland then the Czech Republic, and explored Rome in the in-between. I was truly living, I felt in my soul. Rome had taken a homebody and taught her how to carpe diem. It taught me to eat blocks of parmesan cheese and arancini, to contemplate history as I stared at the Colosseum, to get lost in the cobblestone streets at night and ask for directions in broken Italian, to enjoy pizza and beer and friendship after a night of playing soccer, to wake up at 5am to see the Pope, to wander around the Vatican gardens when the rain has rendered them vacant, to trek through the rain, shoes soaked through, to the Trevi fountain all for the purpose of throwing a single coin over my shoulder. 

“We’re being sent home.” I’ll never forget those words, spoken by my friend as we sat at a bar in Prague. I’ll never forget my tears. They came uncontrollably as we listed everything we would miss when we returned home. Coronavirus was spreading quickly through Italy and we had to evacuate. Coronavirus. We had joked about it earlier, thinking it was nothing to worry about after our school assured us of that. Two days later. Two days after they had told us to be careful, but not to cancel any plans, to wash our hands, but not to worry, we were evacuating. 

They say, “all good things must come to an end.” This end came much sooner than I expected. A month and a half after landing in Italy, I was leaving. Sitting on the plane, heading home, I was disappointed because I didn’t have the chance to prove myself. If I had lived abroad for four months, I would have been able to call myself a traveler, and adventurer, something other than a homebody. But, I thought, anyone can spend a month and a half away from home. After just a month and a half, I can’t call myself any of those things.

Then I was home. I was sitting in my backyard in Illinois as the light drained from the sky. This felt like a visualization of the disappointment I was facing. The light went quickly, as if unexpectedly. But soon, the first little pinprick of light appeared, followed by another and another. The stars were sparse that night, but present; small reminders that hope can appear when darkness is falling over the world. And they were not so different from those specks of light I saw below me from the plane. Those lights traced a map of Europe. These lights traced a map in the sky. I looked up to the stars. They were so far away from me, farther away than Europe. But I was taking part in them. While my hands touched the cold Illinois ground, my eyes touched the lights that lay millions of miles away. And there was nothing but atmosphere between me and the stars. Nothing truly separating me from them. They were far away from home, and I was there with them. When I looked at the stars, I was a traveler again.