A student’s journey from rigid plans to spontaneous gratitude reveals the unexpected beauty of slowing down, connecting deeply, and truly living abroad.
written by Connor McHugh for SPEL Journalism
I left O’Hare Airport in Chicago on a flight to Florence, where I made lists of everything I wanted to see and do while abroad. It included trips, events, restaurants, and everything in between. The longer I was in the air, the higher the anticipation of arriving in Italy grew. For my whole life, I have dreamed of traveling the world and seeing every corner the earth has to offer. Studying abroad was my chance to start those dreams.
I had a very specific idea of the type of experience I thought I would have while abroad. I saw myself being out of Florence 5–6 days a week, traveling to a different country each time with brand-new experiences to show for it. After the first three weeks of the semester and not a single new country visited, I realized I may have been overzealous. However, those first three weeks allowed me to fully immerse myself in the city and community of Florence and begin making connections that would end up lasting.
After that came my first time traveling outside Italy for spring break. From Portugal to France and Switzerland, it was an experience I will never forget. As I traveled from country to country, in awe of the breathtaking landscapes and monuments at each place, I couldn’t help but think about the eight-year-old boy who once dreamed of what I was now doing. At the end of the break, I stood on top of the Swiss Alps with ski poles in hand and thought to myself: How did I ever get so lucky? The air felt like invisible gold on my skin as I relished a moment I had long waited for. It began my mission to make sure I lived every day abroad to the absolute best of my ability. I felt I owed it to everyone in my life who had helped me get to this point. I also owed it to the people who would give anything to be in my position.
Recognizing how fortunate I am to live this way gave me a newfound sense of purpose and direction.
Coming off the best week of my life during spring break came the final 11 weeks of the semester. This is when I began to feel more like an expat living in Florence rather than just a tourist. I became familiar with certain spots in town, getting to know workers and owners of all different kinds. It quickly became apparent that the level of hospitality in Florence is unmatched. Anyone would be glad to strike up a conversation with you and give advice on what it means to live in the city and country.
It was about halfway through the semester when I found myself in an actual routine. I had class and work, different places I would eat on certain days, and I would pick up my bags and travel somewhere for the weekend. That routine became a cornerstone of my time in Florence and made me realize that it’s very easy to make anywhere you live feel like home if you try hard enough. People often talk about being homesick and missing that sense of comfort and belonging. To me, home is a place where I know what I’m doing every day of the week. I find comfort in thinking about the next day and knowing what I’m going to be doing—with new experiences sprinkled in here and there.
Paradoxically, it only feels like home once you start trying new things. That way, you can fully understand what it is you want to continue doing. It’s important to try as many things as you can at least once. Of course, the weekends are when routines should be thrown out the window and used as opportunities to travel and go on new adventures.
As I wrap up my semester abroad, I look back on the things I will remember most about my time and what I’ve learned from it. I learned that the things that will have a lasting impact on me are the moments that made me feel an immense sense of gratitude for the life I’m living. In France, I won’t remember the Eiffel Tower as much as I’ll remember playing soccer with local kids on the street. In Switzerland, I won’t remember any specific tricks I did on my skis, but I’ll remember the feeling of spraying my friend with fresh snow. Across every country and city, the moments that leave a lasting impression are the ones you least expect.
That is the beautiful thing about studying abroad—and life in general. People think that in order to make amazing memories, they have to visit the most luxurious destinations and live lavishly. In reality, the more you connect with the local environment and live in the moment, the more you realize how amazing this experience is.
If I had the chance to meet my former self on that plane five months ago, I would have grabbed that sheet of paper and torn it up in front of him. I would have told him not to be so constrained by expectations and plans—and to live every single moment like it matters.
What do you get when you mix a dead phone, a missed train, and a first-time solo traveler stuck in Bologna? A recipe for disaster — and resilience.
written by Savvy Sleevar for SPEL: Journalism
Flying Solo
Before I embarked on my semester-long journey to study abroad in Florence, I had never stepped foot outside the United States. Earlier this year, I had no passport, no overnight flights to speak of, and almost no solo travel experience. Before Italy, my most notable independent excursion was a quick trip to Chicago, which definitely involved a frantic sprint to my platform to catch the Amtrak train home. So, when I finally had a free day to travel during fall break, I figured I should start small.
Bologna, Italy was my natural first choice. It’s just over 100 kilometers from Florence, and a round-trip Regionale train ticket only put me back about 20 euros. Not only was Bologna a safe bet for Baby’s First Italian Day Trip, the city itself is stunning. After I spent the afternoon perusing the local markets, wandering through the miles of colonnades in the city center, and standing awestruck inside Basilica di San Petronio, I wanted to get a glimpse of Bologna from above. But with the famous Asinelli Tower closed for maintenance, Torre dell’Orologio was the only way to get the bird’s-eye view of the city that I was after.
To get to the top of Torre dell’Orologio, the historic clock tower in Bologna’s main square, you need to sign a waiver. The staircase that takes you to the rooftop looks ancient, and it’s steeper than a heavy-duty step ladder. Put simply, you can’t afford to fall. So very, very carefully, I climbed up the steps, putting all my faith in the wooden railing and any remaining traction on my threadbare, 4-year-old HOKAs.
Once I reached the top, though, my precarious journey up the stairs was quickly forgotten. Immediately, I was enraptured by the view.
New Heights
Hey, I say to a low-resolution image of Mom on my phone screen.
Hi, Savvy, she replies. How’s Bologna?
I flip my camera around, replacing the image of my face with the view in front of me.
Oh, WOW! she says.
I spin my phone around to show her the city from every angle, and nearly 8,000 kilometers apart, Mom and I take in the scenery together. We look out at the tiled rooftops on Bologna’s countless amber buildings, the distant green hills speckled with homes and churches, and the statuesque towers and domes beyond the main square. I could have stayed up there all evening, taking endless pictures of the panoramic view, but I knew I had more to see at ground level. After hanging up with Mom and taking one last look at the breathtaking Bolognese skyline, I made my descent.
For the rest of the day, I soaked up as much of the city as I could. I people-watched in the square, craned my neck to see the frescoed ceilings in the extensive municipal art gallery, sipped a spritz at Serre dei Giardini Margherita, and savored incredible food. Earlier in the day, I ate lunch at Ahimè, sampling duck and porcini mushroom filled ravioli — and a single oyster just for fun. For dinner, I treated myself to Trattoria Da Me; I tried a regional specialty, tortellini in brodo, and I absolutely devoured a plate of lamb chops, beetroot, and chicory.
My adventures in the world of Bolognese cuisine were exceptionally rewarding. However, they were also doing quite a number on my bank account, so I begrudgingly declined dessert after dinner. Besides, I didn’t have much time left now that night had fallen, knowing I had a train to catch, and soon.
So, with a full belly and the haze of sleepiness starting to creep in, I hopped on a bike and set off for the station, determined to get there on time. My train was the last one bound for Florence’s Santa Maria Novella station that night, so when I reached Platform 1 with some time to spare, I felt a wave of relief.
The feeling wouldn’t last.
A Daring Escape
During one of my three-week intensive courses at Florence University of the Arts – The American University of Florence, we briefly went over the Italian words for cardinal directions. Nord is north, sud is south, est is east, and ovest is west. Pretty straightforward. Unfortunately for me, though, I didn’t recall this key Italian vocab until after my train disappeared from the Departures screen.
What was going on? I’m at Platform 1, but a train still hasn’t come and gone. Am I where I’m supposed to be right now?
Spoiler alert: I wasn’t. Like, not even close.
Turns out, my train had arrived at Platform 1 Est, leaving without me as I waited with false confidence on the opposite end of the station. Once I realized I definitely wasn’t in the right place, I finally saw the sign behind me on a pillar near my platform. Ovest, it read. Ovest? Oh NO.
Thus began my scramble to find any other conceivable way back home. As much as I enjoyed my day there, I was not sleeping in Bologna — but my phone sure wanted to. During my feverish stress walk around the station, my phone decided that this was the perfect time to die. I had already maxed out the juice on my portable charger, and I didn’t think it would be necessary to bring a charging brick. Surely I’d be on my train home by the time my phone is in danger of dying anyway, I thought. No need to bring it.
Yeah, right.
I probably looked like a lost puppy, wandering around outside the station, seeing if any of the employees at nearby hotels would lend me a charger, even if I couldn’t produce a room key. I quickly realized this was a waste of time and decided to shift gears after choking up in front of a concierge. Even though I knew full well that there weren’t any more trains bound for Florence until the next morning, I tried the station’s customer service desk. They didn’t have a charger to spare, but the men behind the desk did give me a little bit of hope. There was a bus station nearby, and from what they recalled, there should be some late-night trips to Florence. Thank goodness.
The trouble was, the directions to the station that they gave me were either too vague or simply didn’t process through my frantic brain correctly. Regardless, my search for a bus home wasn’t going well at all. And this time, I couldn’t quite choke back the tears as I paced down the street. I flagged down a police officer, hoping he could give me a sense of where on Earth I should be going before the waterworks really started. Luckily, his directions were much clearer, and I headed in the direction of the station as fast as my feet could carry me.
A quick note: The folks who work security at the Bologna Central Bus Station are not in charge of the bus schedule or ticket management; anything outside of protecting the area isn’t really part of their job description. However, they’ll evidently help you if you’re scared, alone, and in desperate need of a charger. Thanks to them, I was able to breathe just enough life back into my phone to book a FlixBus ticket to Florence. And because everything about me screamed American, I wound up in a very impassioned conversation about U.S. politics with Fabio, a security guy who made me feel way less alone in the midst of my chaotic night.
After what felt like forever, my bus arrived. I was on my way back to my host city at last, slated to arrive at Piazzale Montelungo. I felt the tension in my body slowly beginning to fade, and I fell asleep almost as soon as we reached the highway.
Crash Landing
When I woke up to the shuffling feet of disembarking passengers around 1 a.m., we were most certainly not at Piazzale Montelungo. Instead, the bus took us to Villa Costanza and made a quick getaway.
Villa Costanza, which felt just as desolate as a middle-of-nowhere rest stop in the Midwest, was a two-hour walk from my apartment. It was too late to catch a tram, there wasn’t a rentable bike in sight, and the nighttime chill was just intense enough to make me shiver in my short sleeves as I tried to troubleshoot. Oh, and did I mention my phone blew through its meager charge and died again? Fantastic.
With no other transportation options at my disposal, my next task was to procure an obscenely expensive late-night cab. Running on fumes, I awkwardly approached the other stragglers at the station one by one, squeaking out “inglese?” in the hope that I could explain my plight and ask to borrow someone’s phone. After a couple awkward attempts, I finally found someone who patiently watched me fumble around with their cell as I secured my ride.
The cab was there within minutes, and I could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. As we sped down the nearly empty streets, I looked out the tinted windows, wondering how I would’ve ever managed to make this trip on foot, especially in the dead of night. Before I knew it, we arrived at the piazza by my apartment, but I couldn’t tell if I was more exhausted or elated. I used my final ounce of energy to walk to my building and trudge up the four flights of stairs, reaching my door at a cool 2 a.m. Needless to say, I was wiped, sleeping well into the afternoon the next day.
The way I see it, though, I can look at my trip to Bologna in one of two ways. On the one hand, I had to shell out a bunch of extra money to get back to Florence, I had my first real cry of the semester in Piazza delle Medaglie D’Oro, and I made more than enough travel mistakes to make myself question whether I’m even cut out for solo travel to begin with.
But on the other hand, the trip itself was fabulous, and it doesn’t deserve to be spoiled by a rocky trip home. And even though I was the one who got myself into this whole mess in the first place, I also proved that I was capable of getting myself out of it. I was overwhelmed and felt a little clueless, sure, but I promised myself that when I fell asleep that night, it would be back in Florence — and I kept that promise. I navigated the curveballs, I wasn’t too proud to ask for help, and someway, somehow, I managed to make it home.
It’s a little counterintuitive, but there’s something good about doing things wrong. It teaches you how to do things right, even if you have to learn the hard way. In that spirit, I’m confident my next trip to Bologna will be super smooth, especially after working through what felt like every possible worst case scenario the first time around. But even if things do go south in Bologna (or anywhere I visit, really) I know now that I have what it takes to persevere and get home in one piece, even if it means taking a route I didn’t expect. After all, where’s the fun in traveling if you don’t bring back a good story?
After a busy first full week of classes and internship work, I thought a weekend trip to the nearby town of Lucca would suit me well. I had heard from both my professor and a previous study abroad student how unique the famous walled city is, and I was eager to get a look at it for myself. A €25 round trip by train, plus the cost of a few meals, should make for an easy, cost-effective day.
“Should” was the critical word of that sentence. As my train pulled into the station in Pescia, just a few stops before Lucca, an announcement came over the speakers, and everyone started to pour off the train. Since my Italian is così così at best, I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I figured I should follow the pack. It became clear to me, based on people’s perturbed expressions and some highly agitated phone calls, that the train was not going to Lucca as originally planned. Instead, buses would be coming to take us the rest of the way. The issue: there were easily over a hundred of us waiting outside the station, much more than could fit on one or two buses. I settled in next to a friendly-looking group conversing in Italian and prepared for a long day.
Goodbye, Home
This latest public transportation folly sparked flashbacks to my initial journey from the U.S. to Florence just a few weeks prior. My flight out of O’Hare International Airport in Chicago was scheduled for 7 p.m. local time on August 27. Nature had other plans, however, as a massive storm with sideways rain and petulant lightning cut through the darkness outside. The plane took off two hours later than expected, which, considering my layover in Iceland was only meant to be one hour, presented an issue.
Five hours later (ten with the time zone change), we landed outside Reykjavik and I received the bad news: there were no more flights into Rome for the day, so I would have to stay the night in Iceland and depart the following morning. Thankfully, the good folks at Icelandair were kind enough to give me and the rest of the wayward travelers on Flight 852 free lodging and meals at a nearby hotel. After getting bused to our home for the night and receiving my room key, I promptly crawled into bed and crashed. I have never been able to sleep on planes, so I had been awake for around thirty hours straight at that point.
Icelandic Wake-Up Call
I awoke in the evening and decided to explore this new, exotic land. When one pictures themself visiting a foreign country for the first time, I don’t think many envision it being Keflavik, Iceland, but the universe works in mysterious ways. With all due respect to the people of Iceland, there wasn’t an extraordinary amount of things going on during a random Wednesday in late summer, though there were some beautiful sights. I ordered dinner at a small local joint called Kentucky Fried Chicken and returned to the hotel, only to learn that the bus to the airport would leave at 4 in the morning. Thankfully, my circadian rhythm was so out of sorts that getting up at 3 a.m. was no problem for me. For those keeping score, it is now the 29th. Upon returning to the airport, however, my problems only deepened.
Apparently, the airline had not booked me for a flight directly into Rome like I assumed, but instead a flight to Germany with a five hour layover before a connector into Rome. Panic started to settle in around now, as this meant I would miss the check-in time at FUA. Thankfully, one of my friends would grab my apartment keys for me, so that at least was taken care of. With no alternatives, I resigned myself to my imminent stay in Germany’s Frankfurt Airport. Fun fact: Iceland’s airport has no jet bridges, so you have to take a bus to and from the plane.
My brief excursion to Germany was largely uneventful; I ate an overpriced cheeseburger (Germans, why do you put cucumbers on burgers?), failed to locate a water fountain, and watched some anime. I did have a brief scare before boarding the flight that my luggage had been lost, but luckily this was sorted out eventually. If you thought this particular leg of the journey would go smoothly, I would question how closely you were paying attention to the rest of this blog. No, the flight was delayed an extra 90 minutes, because of course it was, and my eventual arrival in Florence was looking more and more dubious.
All Roads Lead to Rome, But Only Some to Florence
We touched down at Fiumicino Airport around 10:30 p.m. Finally, Italia! After a quick train ride to Roma Termini, all I needed to do was hop on a late train to Florence and… there were no more for the night. There were outgoing trains to seemingly every town in the entire country, but no Florence. It was around this point when my grip on reality started slipping. The prospect of roughing it in the station until the first train left at 6 a.m. began to break me. The idea of calling it quits and returning to the States a defeated man seemed almost more appealing. A phone call with my mother refocused me, however, and I settled for an overnight bus to Florence departing at 1:45 a.m. My Uber ride to the bus station with my trusted driver, Adam mimicked the great Roman emperors as they would parade through the city’s streets in their grand chariots pulled by mighty steeds.
After an hour waiting at the bus stop, the journey continued. Again, I have been cursed with an inability to doze off on moving vehicles, so I settled in for four hours of staring at the seat in front of me. It was on this bus that I realized that the date was August 30, which meant I was now 22 years old. I have never been one to enjoy the pageantry of a birthday celebration, but this particular milestone felt especially irreverent. As the sun rose on the Tuscan countryside and another year of my life, we pulled into Villa Costanza, a final destination further from the city center than I had anticipated. I grit my teeth and ordered a whopping €50 Uber to take me to Corso Tintori, where I would, at long last, acquire the key to my apartment, where sleep awaited me.
A Traveling Companion to Lucca
As I sat at the train station in Pescia, listening to the exasperated chatterings of the people around me in languages I mostly couldn’t understand, I realized the key mistake I made during my previous Sisyphysian travel extravaganza. Though I was going from country to country, city to city, airport to airport, I saw many familiar faces during those days on the move. A number of the people I sat alongside on that first plane out of Chicago were still with me on the final flight to Rome. Even still, I never made connections with them, after due to exhaustion, agitation, or plain indifference.
This time, I did not want to make the same error twice. So, I introduced myself to a man close to my age traveling with his mom. He spoke English and Italian and took the bus with me to Lucca. We talked the whole way about Italy, America, and what we each like (and dislike) about our home countries. Upon arriving in Lucca, we exchanged contact info, and he told me to reach out when I go to his home city of Venice. I had gone from a solo traveler to someone making valuable connections.
Lucca was beautiful, and a more than worthwhile place to spend a day. The walls were exactly as advertised; I walked the entire perimeter and then some. I climbed the Guinigi Tower and got a view of the whole town, then had the most delicious gelato I’ve ever tasted. Thankfully, my return trip to Florence went smoothly; the train actually went as far as it was supposed to this time. These lengthy transportation mishaps, while frustrating in the moment, demonstrated to me the real joy that can come from being a world traveler. Plus, they make for good stories, which is always nice.
written by Lily Carroll for Special Project: Experiential Learning in Journalism
When I chose to study abroad in Florence for the entire summer, I took a giant leap out of my comfort zone. Back home in Minnesota, my family is my whole life. As the sixth of seven children, my siblings and parents are my absolute best friends. My few experiences traveling have always been with at least one family member, with the exception of going to and from my campus in Missouri. Being someone who experiences lots of anxiety surrounding separation and travel, I knew that this opportunity would challenge me in the areas that have always restricted me.
Going to school outside of my home state was my initial step toward overcoming my struggles, fostering strength through vulnerability. I grew my independence a tremendous amount and became accustomed to the environment at school. I had gotten so comfortable with my friends, my boyfriend, and my apartment, that the mundane became almost irritating. However, the idea of adventure seemed exhausting. The decision to spend the summer in Italy came with the hopes that some of my loved ones could share in this experience, and I was elated to hear of my family’s plans to visit.
The distance and time change caused me to miss my family very much upon arrival, but in the back of my mind I was already working towards seeing them again, showing them all I’ve learned since being here. Knowing that in a few short weeks I would be able to give my mom a hug and show her my new home would be what I looked forward to most. What I didn’t know was how quickly it would come — in all of the excitement of meeting new people, discovering a whole new culture, and falling in love with my internships and courses, the time flew by.
Comfort washed over me when I saw my mom’s sweet smile, and I was so relieved to see a familiar face in a place I’m still getting to know. My mom and brother arrived, and I was home again. Together, we ventured to Venice, where we prioritized quality time, relaxation, and taking in the beauty of the water surrounding us. We came back to Florence, and I got to play tour guide for a few days, exploring the things I’ve seen and the things I still had yet to discover.
We toured the Duomo and Galleria dell’Accademia, bringing life to the landmarks I’ve been passing by for over a month. My family got so excited over things I have gotten so used to. This gave me a newfound appreciation for the city around me and served as a good reminder of how lucky I am to have the opportunity to call this place home for a short period of time. While I am sad to see them go, I feel so lucky to have been able to show them around and combine my two homes for a week of love and appreciation. I will forever cherish our time together, and I can associate this place I love with the people I’ve missed so much.
From Florence, it only takes an hour and a half to fly to Paris, France. From Paris to Lisbon, Portugal, it only takes two hours to fly. From there, it takes another two hours to fly to Barcelona, Spain. In my personal experience, I have never been at such ease while traveling by plane. Italy’s central location made it an easy jumping-off point for my ten-day trip to these places over the fall break. While I was at ease traveling, what I didn’t expect were the side effects of all that country-hopping.
My room was filled to the brim with laundry, and my brain was filled with anxiety about homework as classes geared up for the homestretch of the fall semester. I had been so used to switching languages that I resorted back to English instead of Italian when ordering a pizza. I had gotten so little sleep on my travels that I was constantly tired and needed three cappuccinos a morning to stay awake for class. The blisters on my feet were excessive, and my bank account was drained from eating out for every meal while away.
I was overwhelmed, and I still am. While traveling, you learn so much about yourself. You learn how to navigate a city without a data plan. You learn how to let go of the little things that go wrong, like losing jewelry or getting stopped at the airport for having too many liquids in your carry-on. You learn how to stand in a line without getting too impatient with the wait. You learn how to pack for ten days in a bag built for two.
What you don’t learn is how to cope with all that change, both physically and mentally. Now that I am back in my temporary home of Florence, I cannot help but think how much more I want to see and how much more I want to travel. However, my body cannot take the lack of sleep and bad eating habits, and my mind cannot handle the stress of prolonged travel. I missed my routine in Florence; getting my coffee in the morning, walking to class, having dinner with my roommates, and even taking a shower without using miniature travel bottles. Traveling overall was an extremely positive experience. But, traveling is also a double-edged sword: I loved exploring the world, but I craved the stability of cooking in my own kitchen and sitting down to watch Netflix before bed.
I wouldn’t regret traveling, and wouldn’t discourage anyone from doing so. However, some words of wisdom: if I had stayed in one place longer I think I would have had a much more relaxing journey. I wish I had foreseen the complications, and taken it easier. I didn’t need to see four museums in Barcelona, but I did so anyway despite my body telling me to slow down. My advice for a long trip? Take it one day at a time, the world will still be there tomorrow.
There is a pressure all study abroad students feel to travel, and travel often. In the months leading up to your departure, you get seemingly hundreds of Facebook invites and messages from travel companies urging you to book trips. Your friends tell you they are jealous of all the countries you will visit, and your older sister will say that traveling during study abroad was the best experience of her entire life.
How do you compete with that? How can you balance classes, getting to know your home city and still travel every weekend? Can you afford the big price tag of traveling from country-to-country seeing the sights?
Studying abroad isn’t about getting the perfect Snapchat story, Instagram post, or foreign fashion. It’s not about impressing your friends back home with how sophisticated and worldly you have become in such a short period of time. It’s about giving yourself the opportunity to explore the world, find yourself, and have a little fun while doing it. The pressure, anxiety, and apprehensiveness that goes along with that are normal. That’s what everyone experiences every day back home. What you have to remember is that this is your experience and your four months to get outside your comfort zone and really enjoy your time here.
So stay home one weekend and try that restaurant you always pass by and smell the goodies in the air. Try that cooking class instead of Skyping home and relaying every moment of your day, instead of actually living in that moment. Give yourself a weekend to be a tourist in your own city, and try to find a favorite spot to write in your journal. And if you do want to travel, do so not because everyone else is doing it. Do it for you.
Personally, I plan on taking advantage of FUA’s optional excursions because of their convenience and quality guides. I will be going on, but not limited to, at least two different trips within Italy: Venice & its Islands, Napoli, Capri and Pompeii, and more. However, I’ve had a lot of fun staying here in Florence for some weekends as well. I love visiting the museums on the first Sunday of every month because all admission is free! I also enjoy bringing a picnic to the Piazzale Michaelangelo to enjoy with the view. Figure out your favorite spot in Florence, and tag #MyFUA to let us know how much you love just being here in the city!
