Before leaving for a semester abroad in Rome, my parents
recommended that I leave any and all evidence of being an American
at home in Cincinnati. My beloved Air Force Academy hooded
sweatshirt was retired to the top shelf of my closet, and my USA
Olympic Volleyball T-shirt was donated to my older sister. I was
told that black pants were less conspicuous than blue jeans and
tennis shoes were a dead give-away. It was time to become European.
Immediately.

Professors, coworkers and friends warned me about the dangers of
being an American student in Europe. Their hesitations were
understandable. Although more patriotic bumper stickers adorned the
rear windows of pickup trucks around the United States than ever
before, anti-American hostility outside the country was just as
abundant.

While squeezing every last un-American piece of clothing into my
suitcase, I listened to the hit-song “Proud To Be An American.”
Corny, I know, but I realized it would be a while before I heard it
again. It was time to hide my pride.

Not once did I feel threatened since arriving in Rome, roughly
four months ago. Italians were more than willing to help with
directions and listen patiently to my desperate attempts to speak
their language. They smiled, they waved and some even kissed my
cheek twice. It was as if I were born here.

A couple of weekends ago, two friends and I traveled to Cinque
Terre to spend the weekend partaking in a five-city hike. My main
motivation for participating was so that I could see the
picturesque scenery that had been described to me. As for the
actual physical activity I was expected to partake in, I shrugged
my shoulders and reminded myself that this was a once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity. Plus, I thought, my mom would never believe I actually
took off my stilettos and threw on a pair of sneakers and
shorts. It was worth the shock value.

Saturday afternoon’s hike was a test of my endurance and
deodorant. At the end of the five-hour journey, my legs were
shaking, and I swore that I would never walk again. I broke that
promise when I meandered to dinner later that evening but only
because a champagne toast to the day’s events was guaranteed.

On Sunday morning, my alarm rudely awoke me from my slumber, and
it took several minutes before I could actually remember how my
mind was supposed to communicate with my legs. It was as if they
were still upset with me from the previous day’s activities and
torturing me with a mean version of the silent treatment. After
explaining that we had a fivehour train ride ahead of us, they
stubbornly agreed to function–as long as I swore to remain seated
the entire trip home.

As the train began heading back home to Rome and the hum of the
half-detached broken window filled the air, I started to doze off.
Two hours later, I was awakened by the sudden halt of the train and
the screams of other passengers. The announcer came on the speakers
and explained the situation in Italian. Considering my knowledge of
the language extends to “Can I have a beer?” and “Enough, Dirty
man!” I was up a creek without a paddle.

However, my friends immediately nominated me to go investigate
what seemed to be the commotion, and after much negotiation with my
nonfunctioning legs, I agreed. I ran through the train shouting,
“Parle Ingles?” and many people stared but no one offered any help.
Several people turned their backs saying, “Bastardi Americani!”

Finally, by the grace of God, I met an Italian student studying
English. Panicked, I flooded her with questions about our sudden
delay.

“They think a bomb has been found at the station we are
approaching,” she explained to me. My heart stopped, and my eyes
grew larger. Was this a horrible joke?

As soon as the petite teenager finished her horrid explanation,
the sounds of a conductor’s whistle filled the air. A plump, blond
train porter stood up on an empty milk crate and quieted the crowds
while explaining the revised transportation route. Buses were on
their way, she shouted. She asked all individuals to be respectful
of the elderly and those traveling with children. They would be the
first to board, she explained. As her passionate monologue was
coming to a close, the crowd erupted in applause, and she smiled
stubbornly.

Twenty minutes later, one decrepit bus arrived. A handful of
those she mentioned boarded quickly and were whisked away. They
waved from the windows as the buses left the lot, and those who
still remained clapped their hands and screamed their goodbyes. I
stood there stunned. Excuse me? What about the bomb?

We all waited patiently for the arrival of more buses to take us
home to Rome, but unfortunately, the buses never came. Instead, we
boarded the train once more and continued on our way.

Personally, I wasn’t such a fan of the idea. Did these people
understand that we were traveling into the same station where a
bomb had been found earlier that day? I hesitantly ascended the
steps to the train and said a prayer before the doors closed.

An older Italian man, sensing my heightened anxiety level,
approached me.

“Va bene,” he said laughing.

Finding no reassurance in the older man’s advice, I turned to
the woman next to me, and asked. “Are we going to be all right? Is
this safe?”

“Why worry?” she said. “Just relax and have some wine.”

Perhaps those who warned me about the dangers of studying abroad
at time like this were correct in their precautions. Four years
ago, a bomb threat on a train traveling through the Italian
countryside would have been unheard of. But the times have changed,
and, unfortunately, this has become our reality.

But rather than worry about what’s to come, why not enjoy the
moment?

Va Bene. It’s all good.

Relax and have some wine.

Elle Hogan is a sophomore studying communication. She has
spent the spring semester in Rome, Italy.