Lost in Translation

Jolene, George Clooney, and a Swan walk into a bar...

Leaving Switzerland was harder than I expected. I wanted to stay longer, to soak in everything the country had to offer. But life had other plans for me, nudging me in a different direction. It wasn’t entirely my fault—I blame inspiration.

At the start of this trip, I had no intention of going to Italy. Venice wasn’t even on my radar until I met Mickey at the castle. She encouraged me (thankfully!) to meet her there, and if you’ve read my post about Venice, you know how much I fell for its charm.

Now, because I treat my life like an anthropologist—constantly looking for patterns, meanings, and connections—here’s how I found myself back in Italy.

I was supposed to meet my brother in Bologna for his birthday, and I’d also been invited to dinner in Venice. My plan? Meet this person for dinner in Milan, then continue south to Bologna.

Simple enough.

Except my brother got sick and had to cancel. Suddenly, I had three open days and no plan. Actually, I had no plan after Italy either, but that felt like a future problem. All I knew was that I still had a dinner date to keep.

Italy has always held a bittersweetness for me. Twenty years ago, my friend and I were there when we met a group of men from the Italian Air Force. They invited us to dinner, and we couldn’t resist the chance to break in our new Italian shoes, fresh from a shopping spree earlier that day. What followed was a six-hour walking tour of Rome, and by the end of the night, my feet were screaming.

Those shoes didn’t make it out of Italy—I threw them away in disgust. (I kind of wish I still had them now). The lesson? Sometimes beauty comes at a cost, a theme Italy seems intent on reminding me of.

This time, Italy greeted me in Lake Como. I had visions of bumping into George Clooney, but instead, I found myself face-to-face with an enormous swan who had a vendetta against anyone near the lake. Eventful, to say the least.

The blurry picture is because I had to run from it.

And here’s where life, as usual, decided to play its tricks on me. (Remember, anthropologist mode activated.) If you read my post about Switzerland, you’ll know I went there because of a scene in What Dreams May Come, a Robin Williams movie that showcases a stunning Swiss landscape. That scene inspired me to see Switzerland for myself. But guess what? After I got back, I learned that scene was actually filmed in Lake Como. Who knew?

These moments trip me out, like I’m living in The Truman Show. You know the one: Jim Carrey discovers his entire life has been a meticulously constructed illusion for a reality TV audience. Sometimes, life feels just like that—a series of coincidences too perfect to ignore.

After two nights in Lake Como, I headed to Verona. Torrential rain welcomed me, much like Copenhagen had done earlier in the trip. But rain couldn’t stop me. I wandered through Verona’s streets like a woman on a mission, eventually landing at Juliet’s balcony late that night. The theater nerd in me was thrilled. Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet is timeless, after all. Verona, however, dropped me off at my hotel, soaked to the bone, and didn’t even offer a nightcap.

I thought about staying an extra night in Verona to give her a chance to show me some sunshine, but in the end, I opted for the train station.

One thing life has taught me is that even if you don’t have it all figured out, you have to act and allow the universe to act, too. My story was not going to end like Romeo and Juliet. I would forge ahead and go to…the train station. Then figure it out.

Standing at the station, scanning the departure board, nothing caught my eye. I thought about Venice, but I’d already been there. What did I want to do?

Here is my moment of clarity: I’m standing outside the train station in Verona, staring at my phone, wondering who I can call. I’m feeling lost, untethered, questioning why I’m even here. I try to phone a friend, but no one is awake at this hour.

And then, the tears come.

I realize that I had been counting on seeing my brother in Bologna, looking forward to that connection. The truth is, I’m tired of traveling alone. I want to go home. Eight days remain before my flight, and the thought of enduring them feels heavy. I consider changing my plans, forfeiting the rest of my trip.

I ask myself why I’m feeling this way. What am I even feeling? The answer comes easily: I’m in an unfamiliar place, with no one to connect to, completely alone. Again.

This isn’t new territory for me. I’ve been here before—not always in a physical place, but in a metaphorical one. It’s that same feeling I had when my husband died: thrust into a space I’d never been, surrounded by people speaking in ways I couldn’t understand, left to figure it all out on my own.

This is the part of the story where I tell you about one of the best things my mom ever did for me. I was five years old, and we were living in a household filled with domestic violence. One night, she made the decision to leave. She went to the kitchen, and I followed. She handed me a brown paper lunch bag and said, “Put as many pairs of underwear in here as you can.”

That’s what I left with. For the next few weeks, we lived in a women’s shelter, and all I had was the underwear in that bag.

Now you understand why I travel light, why I am a “carry-on” only. Why I’m not afraid to leave without a plan, my inner compass is set to resiliency.

So there I was, standing at the train station in Verona, and the answer became clear. I would do what I’ve always done: pull my shit together.

No, I wasn’t leaving early.

No, I wasn’t changing my flight.

And no, I didn’t come all this way to give up like this.

I marched back into the train station, my carry-on in tow, and got on the next train out of Verona. It happened to be headed to Offenburg, Germany.

So that is where I’ll see you next.