The day of my big scary move to Italy could have got off to a better start. I lost my coat. A fact that is completely inconceivable to me for two reasons: 1. Coats are pretty bulky and 2. I was wearing not one but TWO lucky necklaces at the time – they must have cancelled each other out. Won’t be making THAT mistake again, I say (type), surrounded by lucky purse, mascot and lego figure of myself – vain but has been proven to work in the past. You know that feeling of panic you get when you need to be somewhere and you’ve just lost something that prevents you leaving the house? It becomes somewhat magnified at 4am in the morning. When the place you need to be is the airport. And when your next likely return home to locate said item is in about three months time.
Still, not one to wallow in self pity (ahem), I shrugged off the coat dilemma, donned a jumper and it seemed like no time at all had passed until I was waiting, jumperless (turns out it’s still summer), at Lamezia Terme station for a train to whisk me off to Reggio di Calabria, my home until next Summer. My arms are absolutely killing me today, a fond reminder of the amount of time I spent yesterday lugging cases from binario to binario, desperately searching for somewhere to convalidare my tickets. (Right next to where you buy them, if you’re ever in that neck of the woods. Funny that). Still, i’m comfortable at train stations. Waiting for trains is something of which I have plenty of experience. It’s ‘familiare’ as the Italians would say. Or maybe they wouldn’t, I can’t remember. Proof of why I need to stay here a good year and improve! A bleak cloud descended over my sunny disposition however when I sent a cheery text to my future landlord divulging my eta and received the unnerving response ‘chi sei?’. Fair enough, I thought, I didn’t actually sign off, but he has my number and realistically how many people can he be expecting at the station today? When my explanatory reply was met with silence, I started to panic. But in that very English, can’t make a fuss in public, way, in which I did nothing.
All came good in the end, though, as it always does, and my landlord was there waiting for me at the other end, to show me my room, help me settle in and even cook me dinner that evening! Turns out I had the wrong number, I hope whoever I actually texted wasn’t too disappointed that Isobel di Inghilterra wasn’t in fact waiting for a lift at the station.
I’ve not even been here 24 hours yet but my fridge is full (thanks to Santina and Juri), my room is sorted (bar the million photos I brought with me for company) and the prospect of this being my home for a year is almost as exciting as it is terrifying.
Next task: leave the apartment on my own. Try and stop me, world.