Ambipathy

There is something very strange about seeing Brunelleschi’s dome out of the airplane window.

Brunelleschi's Il Duomo from an airplane window

Please, I just want to get off.

The thought repeated monotonously through my head as our plane flew slowly over Britain. I was curled up, scrunched, and twisted in my seat. My classmate in front of me had her seat leaned down back into my knees. Cheap pasta sat cold on my tray along with a full cup of orange…something—thinking of food too much made me queasy.

Harry Potter was talking with Dumbledore about love. The light from the opened windows was horribly blinding. The air was starting to reek from who knows how many people sitting in one place in tiny spaces for ten hours. I hope the French airport isn’t too hard to navigate.

Once freed from the bowels of the plane, it only took all eight of us to figure out which terminal we needed to get to. Then three of our group led us there, getting distracted with macarons, perfume banners, and overly expensive sunglasses.

I knew I should get food. I knew I should get water. I knew I should use the bathroom. But standing and wandering this new space was strangely wonderful—like being in a place familiar and alien. The language of the cool female announcer was French, blasting my ears with words that sounded like chocolate swishing in a tub.

As we rushed to find our boarding gate, a tall man in black robes swept by. I stumbled over my luggage as my head followed him as I continued walking forward—why he caught my eye so, I did not know, but he gave the air of someone with power and a mission.

Minutes later, after gathering ourselves at the wrong boarding gate’s seats, since ours had its seats full, we busied ourselves with using up our two hour layover with exploring.

“You wanna get macarons?” I asked one of my fellow students.

“Where?” She looked around.

“There, my aunts told me it was a good place,” I motioned to the quaint, pastel green banner, right before the boarding gates.

Six of us gathered at the front of it, trying to decipher the flavors. What I did not expect to see was the priest again—golden brown hair neatly combed back, and an expensive-looking bag on top of his suitcase. His black robe hung sharply off his shoulders; it was odd seeing soft textured velvet so straight and rigid.

I could not understand why he intrigued me. I knew priests existed. However, it was strange seeing one in person, alive and going about his business in a rather non-priestly manner. He shuffled away from the macarons, anxiously looking at his phone. Two of my classmates went up and got macarons.

But I caught his eye before it was my turn—and was promptly startled.

Sharp, dark blue eyes that glittered oddly in the mix of afternoon sunlight and fluorescent lamps from the massive ceiling.

“Sorry,” he motioned vaguely in the rather large space I left between myself and the macarons. “but may I cut in? My flight is boarding soon.”

Good English for a French priest.

“Oh! Yeah, of course, go ahead,” motioning for him to go before me. I blinked but could not get rid of the image of his eyes as he ordered pistachio macarons. They were piercing, like sharp blades or shining stars.

Awkwardly, I got a vanilla and a raspberry macarons. The euros felt bizarre in my hands, much more in being used for payment—they felt like they should be play money for a board game. I promptly wolfed down the macarons as I chatted with my classmates about the priest. Apparently I was not the only one who noticed how much he stuck out, one of the girls wishing that he was not a priest.

Still an hour left before we had to board. I curled up in one of the stiff red chairs. I tried to sleep, but it only resulted in worsening my neck ache.

Another flight. At least it was only two hours.

Finally, after managing boarding passes, passports, gates, plugging my nose from the stench of exhaust as we walked down the tunnel into the plane, we were settled.

Fruitlessly, I tried sleeping, leaning on my hand, focusing on the sounds of the Mediterranean Sea under us. It was surprisingly noisy for being in an airplane, but it made me think of home.

Home…I would not be there for four weeks. On my own, with fifteen new faces and my favorite professors. In a famous country that, despite all the common knowledge, I still felt I knew nothing about. My classmates and I had made jokes about finding out that Europe actually existed, only having been in maps, books, pictures, articles, and news before, but there was a certain truth to that. For most of us, this was our first time visiting another country.

Meaning that the world was a lot bigger than tiny SoCal.

Though I knew I was better than most Americans, having memorized geography in middle school and dates, people, and events through high school, all recapped in my history courses in university, I was still shocked. I suppose the difference between knowing and experiencing was bigger than I imagined.

Then it all happened eerily quickly. We saw the lights of Florence beneath us, each of us twisting in our seats to stare at them.

I am in Italy.

The plane began to lower. My eyes watered painfully, as I realized a dream, just barely coming true, was also just beginning. The plane came closer to the mass of yellow lights and huge masses of velvet green. How could this be real? That we actually made it? That all of us were actually here?

My heart burst when I saw it: Brunelleschi’s dome, towering over the skyline of Florence, red brick lit with golden lamps.

I am in Italy.