It was a bright day with the promise to be in the mid seventies. The perfect temperature, the perfect day. And I was making the final preparations to depart for a year abroad in Italy. My bags were packed, each weighing in just below the max limit, my room was as clean as it had been in months, and I was feeling somewhat apathetic.

One reason perhaps is that it has been in the works for as long as I remember. In grade school I recall being asked where I would go for my year abroad. At that time, I chose Italy because my scholarships (that I did indeed earn), would transfer, and because it's Italy. Years passed, and when I learned that I could still keep the credit if I went to Newbold, that became the plan for my senior year in high school. But when I looked at what classes they offered, I recoiled from everything but the history and literature classes, and those were few. So it was back to Italy. I hadn’t ever really considered another school as a serious option because: A) I needed at least two years of language for the Spanish and French schools, B) there were already so many other students from WWU planning to go to Spain and France, I wanted to go my own rout and take the path less traveled, and C) I had little interest in the other schools that were a part of the ACA program. (It didn’t occur to me that I could have gone to a school outside of the system either.)

Over the course of my freshman year of college, I set about registering and applying, never really thinking that it was anything but a matter of course. The ACA directors visited and after watching the promotion videos and hearing previous students talk about their experiences, I was all the more sold on going to Italy. I went through all the steps, experiencing only a few hitches when setting up my visa appointment. Soon the school year was over, the summer flying by, and before I knew it I was returning from San Francisco from my visa appointment. It was a month and a half until I left. And just as the preceding months disappeared so did July disappear, August fading into September with barely a sigh in the wind.

The weeks before leaving I began halfheartedly throwing clothes around, making lists - mental and otherwise - of what I wanted and what I needed to bring. I resigned from my job the week before leaving, and essentially lived alone, my brother at school, my mum, dad, and sister all at work.

So I read, drew, wrote, and continued to halfheartedly contemplate the mountain of clothes that had filled the entirety of my bedroom floor and the bed itself.

Finally buckling down, I packed most of my stuff the night before, and that was that.

The morning of the twelfth, I still didn’t feel anything but mild interest for what was about to happen. I finished packing, cleaned my room, and prepared to depart.

We got to the dinky gateway to the world that is Walla Walla Regional Airport, I checked my bags, and then it was time for goodbye. I don’t like goodbyes. They seem too final. But say goodbye we did, with many hugs and promises to FaceTime and Skype when I could. And then I went through security, separated from my family by a thin wall of glass. They gathered on the other side and waved one last time. I waved back and went about doing a crossword puzzle, knowing they had left.

I was on my own for the first time in my nineteen years of life, about to start one of the greatest journeys anyone can take.

The next day and a half passed in a sort of hazed blur. I slept a collective two hours in all my travel time, and I went through the motions of traveling internationally with barely a second thought, having done it before. When I made it to the Florence airport, I was wired from not having enough sleep, hungry and nervous about being in a new country. And still I wasn’t aware of the immensity of what I had just done.

It wasn't until I made it to Villa Aurora that the full force of what I was doing hit me: I was on the other side of the world with no easy way to get home, and would be for the next nine months. I lost it. I felt sick, a sort of dread settling in my stomach. I tried distracting myself by unpacking, but that was a task finished in a under an hour.

Let's just say that the first two to three weeks were some of the hardest of my life. I cried everyday for the first week and a half, and then some. I knew no one, and everyone seemed like they knew at least three other people.

But as time passed it became easier to be alone, and not lonely. My classes were interesting and fun, and I started connecting with people. And here I am, nearly three months later since that bright, promising day in September. It may not seem like that long, but it is. I'm almost a third of the way through this year. Finals are next week, followed by a three week Christmas holiday.

To say that I am very glad that I chose to come here is an understatement. I am so happy that I had this opportunity to learn Italian and about Italy itself, and about who I am as a person. These past three months have been full of adventure, and I have soaked every moment up.

So here is to the rest of the year, and to many more adventures to come.