2008 Woodie Awards
Ciao, from Italy
Jenna Rignanese
Issue date: 3/1/07 Section: Features
- Page 1 of 1
Italy is amazing, and beautiful; though sometimes it is not always full of wine and roses. On my adventures in the ancient city and beyond I have experienced this.
An early Wednesday morning rolls in like all of the others, taking my usual route to the café and up to school, I find myself wishing the day away.
As I walk briskly up the cracked sidewalk, my tired eyes have finally opened.
The sun has just pierced through the thick clouds above. The air not cold but it is not warm either.
As I open the heavy iron gate to the university, a large gust of wind blows right through me.
If I weren't carrying so many books, I would be gone with the wind. Maybe that would be nice, just for today.
My neatly fastened ponytail has become a knotted mess and before I know it my scarf, a staple to the Italian weather and fashion, is blowing it's way down the street.
I chase the flying cloth and retrieve it mid traffic.
Half the battle is making my way to my classroom.
The three flights of winding stairs seem to take much longer today.
The top floor is bustling with news of class cancellations and a broken cappuccino machine, I step into my classroom to find an empty room.
Sighing, the realization of turning back around so soon is upon me and I begin making my way home.
Stepping onto the train, I realize the gypsy's are in rare form today.
All over the buses and sidewalks they stare and they beg.
Unlike most days, it seems they can smell my aggravation, and the bad day I am having.
Speaking to me in words I do not understand they bump into me and point their fingers.
I try to ignore, as I always do. Once I free myself from the completely packed midday rush hour traffic, I step back into freedom.
Packing my large suitcase for a long weekend in Austria, I feel excited and glad my next class won't be until Monday.
Midnight rolls around and I am searching for my chap stick in my school bag.
Opening the large flap, my hands feel around in its deep pockets.
My pens, pencils, books, chap sticks, and water are all there, but I can't seem to feel my wallet.
It must be in there. I had my wallet today. It was in my bag. Suddenly, the day's events unfold in my mind.
An elderly woman of about four feet, bearing a large flowing skirt and hair scarf had bumped into me on the tram this afternoon.
She brushed up against me for no more than a second, as the train jolted and shook as it always does.
In that second, she stole my wallet, with everything in it.
An early Wednesday morning rolls in like all of the others, taking my usual route to the café and up to school, I find myself wishing the day away.
As I walk briskly up the cracked sidewalk, my tired eyes have finally opened.
The sun has just pierced through the thick clouds above. The air not cold but it is not warm either.
As I open the heavy iron gate to the university, a large gust of wind blows right through me.
If I weren't carrying so many books, I would be gone with the wind. Maybe that would be nice, just for today.
My neatly fastened ponytail has become a knotted mess and before I know it my scarf, a staple to the Italian weather and fashion, is blowing it's way down the street.
I chase the flying cloth and retrieve it mid traffic.
Half the battle is making my way to my classroom.
The three flights of winding stairs seem to take much longer today.
The top floor is bustling with news of class cancellations and a broken cappuccino machine, I step into my classroom to find an empty room.
Sighing, the realization of turning back around so soon is upon me and I begin making my way home.
Stepping onto the train, I realize the gypsy's are in rare form today.
All over the buses and sidewalks they stare and they beg.
Unlike most days, it seems they can smell my aggravation, and the bad day I am having.
Speaking to me in words I do not understand they bump into me and point their fingers.
I try to ignore, as I always do. Once I free myself from the completely packed midday rush hour traffic, I step back into freedom.
Packing my large suitcase for a long weekend in Austria, I feel excited and glad my next class won't be until Monday.
Midnight rolls around and I am searching for my chap stick in my school bag.
Opening the large flap, my hands feel around in its deep pockets.
My pens, pencils, books, chap sticks, and water are all there, but I can't seem to feel my wallet.
It must be in there. I had my wallet today. It was in my bag. Suddenly, the day's events unfold in my mind.
An elderly woman of about four feet, bearing a large flowing skirt and hair scarf had bumped into me on the tram this afternoon.
She brushed up against me for no more than a second, as the train jolted and shook as it always does.
In that second, she stole my wallet, with everything in it.
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