Prologue

Two bulging suitcases sit curbside at Pisa’s Aeroporto Internazionale Galileo Galilei. I stand immobile, lingering in my own bubble of denial, as travelers rush by me. ”I can’t be leaving Italy, now,"  I lament, inhaling humid Tuscan air for the last time.  Repositioning my black nylon Prada backpack on strong, yet weary shoulders, I grab two luggage handles, one in each palm, and trudge through the airport's entranceway.  It’s at that moment, when I actually pause and think freely without worrying about my students' well-being, that I notice my reflection in the mirrored windows: taut arms, tight legs, and firm derriere - a hard-won payoff from climbing ancient marble stairs, navigating steep Italian hills, racing for trains and buses with an entourage more than half my age, and hoisting groceries to my attic apartment - all while savoring incredible food and sweets. I vow to maintain my toned muscles, when I get home.  Silently, my heart implores, "Home? Where is home, now?"

     I shake it off and head for  aromas wafting from a Tuscan  ristorante, where here, even airport food is delectable.  After my last swallow of an espresso, reality hits me - I’m leaving Italy.

   My throat tightens as a montage of memories: places, sights, sounds, experiences, and emotions, replay through my mind’s eye: A hostel in Napoli shared with three teacher candidates, royal-blue smocks worn by primary school kids, drumming and interactive life in the Oca (Goose) and Civetta (Owl) contrade (neighborhoods), cramming for Italian language tests with frantic undergrads, worrying over 19-21 year-olds who routinely pushed safety protocols, cooking and eating family-style with students in my attic apartment, joining the "Siena Girls" excursion to Carnevale in Via Reggio, waking to gonging church bells, researching at Genoa's Immigration Museum, visiting solemn WWII historical sites and Holocaust memorials (Siena Synagogue,Venice Ghetto), collaborating with local teachers and embarking on a solo trip to San Giovanni a Piro in Campania, where I kept a promise to my grandfather. I miss Chiara, Fati, Luisa, Guilio, Ginevra and Matteo already, and wonder if I'll ever see them again.                                           

   "Quando torni,” (when you return), Giulio states matter-of-factly, "Arriva ad ottobre, per i nuovi vini" (Arrive in October for the new wines). "When you come back for Palio, (August 16th), arrive early and stay through November,” offers Matteo, who desires for his snail (Chiocciola)  contrada (neighborhood) to win The Palio - a centuries-old cultural event that's so much more  than a horse race around The Piazza del Campo. "Why are they so sure I'll return?’ I wonder. 

       In the winter when we arrived, Tuscan hills were dotted with rows of virtual skeletons - barren twigs that blossomed (as we did), in late Spring, pregnant now, with grapes due in the Fall. After what seemed like a never ending series of dark, rainy months, - a full academic semester, I’m leaving a place where I finally felt welcomed as a colleague, friend, and neighbor, after struggling with language, location, and living as an outsider - for months. And….my students became family.

       As a petite, youthful, 50+, divorced, female, fashionista professor (who survived a health crisis at aged 30), I was unexpectedly selected from 300 faculty within The College of Education at an Arizona university for a pilot international assignment. It was highly unusual that this assignment was never publicized so that other faculty could apply.
     My simultaneous roles included serving as Director for a new academic strand of a global university initiative and Professor, teacher/mentor, ethnographer/participant observer, researcher, privy to the culture(s) of 19-21 year-old undergrads, who I relied upon... for survival.  My assignment required building trust, gaining access to schools, building rapport with teachers, parents, and administrators to develop a partnership for future programs. However, there was one issue:  I did not speak Italian and both teachers and administrators I met with were non-English speakers.  
   Maybe the dean, who accompanied me to preview the site location six months earlier, simply considered who could just up and leave, or perhaps, since I was the only tenured professor with Italian-American roots who authored a published journal article on my experiences with savvy Neapolitan preschoolers, figured I'd be perfect for this international pilot project.

      On my dad’s side, I'm 3rd generation Italian-American. As a dutiful daughter (eldest of six and firstborn of twenty- three grandchildren), alignment to family expectations, gender roles, and cultural beliefs, limited opportunities for me. "Girls didn’t need college – it's a waste of money," my dad routinely declared during dinners throughout my junior year of high school. My mom, (1st generation Ukrainian-American), advocated for my post-secondary opportunity. The compromise required that I commute to a local Catholic college, work two jobs, live at home, pick up my youngest brother from kindergarten, and pitch in with daily chores.  So I accepted the terms, and attended college, as a commuter, while my sisters and female cousins, intent on expanding their own career aspirations observed. They’d push the boundaries of our family’s limited, cultural beliefs, and meet their own levels of resistance, but were aware that I served as the designated trailblazer that opened the gate for them to manifest their goals. Decades later, a job at Arizona State University offered me the opportunity to "go away to college." And while I savored holidays and summer reunions with my grown kids who worked in NYC and CT, teaching, writing, service, and research kept me busy, with conference travel dulling the ache of loneliness.
I was used to having balance with my own time with priorities, focused on student students and university activities with them.
    Yet, during this study abroad cultural immersion, my "cultural rubber band," that ached to spring back to the familiar, was stretched so many times, that I thought it, (and I), would snap. But often, when I was overwhelmed by not only the responsibility, but the nine hour time zone that limited my opportunity to check in with family and friends when I needed to vent, my students would show up to share laughs, tears, personal drama,  frustrations with language mishaps and directional miscues, as we Arizona people collectively dealt with torrential rains on route to our school-based duties, collaborating to deliver amazing original lessons in partnership with local educators. They trusted me with their stories, and I shared mine, which slowly dissolved my own self-limiting beliefs. 

        I still hear Monica, chide, "Dr. V, live a little! You're in Italy - with us!"  when I hesitated to participate in some of their excursions. My response then - a head shake and eye roll - evokes a different response now. Choking back tears, I reflect upon the experiences offered by her cadre of undergrads, Italian school kids, and random strangers, that ushered me over the cliff of self- imposed boundaries, where service to others was prioritized and women rarely experienced, rest, relaxation, or fun.  They nudged a portal to joy, awe, and spontaneous, life-changing adventures.   
   

I check in at the gate for a Delta non-stop to New York's JFK, speaking in Italian because I can, and will miss it so.  After hoisting my carry-on filled with precious mementos into the overhead bin, I settle into seat 22F, close my eyes, and relax fully for the first time in months.   As I exhale, I consider two questions:

(1)  What role did my Gen Z students, strangers who became friends, and a semester’s cultural immersion play in my life re-purposing?

(2) Was it synchronous serendipity that transported me to a foreign land for my 'academic duty post'  or was "The Divine Design" a term Plato (429-347 BCE) discussed as a path that is only ours to take, with a task that is only ours to do... at work in our lives?

It seemed that a  unique, pre-destined set of lessons, circumstances, and experiences awaited me on this journey.  And I chronicled it all.

ALLORA!

The Allora Chronicles/ Veltri

Preparation:

Fifteen yellow post-it notes, that once formed a mosaic on my refrigerator,are now scattered across the faux-tiled floor. Completed and off my to-do list, these crumpled papers - celebratory confetti of a mostly random non-planner, initiate mixed emotions: I delight in my newfound organizational skills, perseverance and task completion. But a wave of anxiety registers when I pause to consider the monumental tasks that loom ahead. If I think too long I'll scare myself, so I stay focused. Furniture gets moved into storage; bills and correspondence are set for electronic delivery; a post office box is secured; a trusted friend manages my snail mail; U.S. suspended for six months and I make the rounds to medical professionals and pick up rush-ordered bifocal glasses. With a renewed passport in hand (decent photo, too) I am ready in the event that an unforeseen situation extends my trip beyond June. Hours before departure, I de-insure my car with the State of Arizona through a simple on-line process, contact the insurance company to cancel my monthly premiums, and a friend tucks my car into his extra garage, where he  charges the battery, and offers his vacant home as a place to land  upon my return.  I exhale deeply and am grateful for all that  brought me to this place.  While  comfortably seated on the American Airlines' night flight to London, the question that I've blocked out for weeks surfaces: 

What am I getting myself into?

I can’t speak the language, the terrain and living arrangements are unknown, it will be winter when we arrive, and, I’ll be responsible for an entourage of undergraduates who I met once. Painfully aware that four "only children" and five "only daughters" are under my watch, I exhale deeply as the flight attendant hands me a heated blanket: '"Am I prepared to be the faculty lead for this semester abroad in Italy?"

A few envious colleagues considered my unannounced university 'duty post' a sabbatical or paid vacation. But as an educator and  mom, I  recognize the incredible responsibility that this

assignment requires. I intend to prioritize safety, even if it means  my staying near my phone at night.

 Pragmatic colleagues might have opted out of this pilot international initiative, but, that never crossed my mind - even for a second. I've always welcomed assignments that others might shy away from. Truth be told, I'm open to inaugural, trailblazer projects, especially ones that blend the freedom and responsibility of creating something new from nothing, to get things done, stepping our with radical trust, sensing that Divine Guidance directs me. However, the convergence of heightened responsibility without language competency, sufficient prior interaction with local academic personnel or the undergrads accompanying me on this international project, keeps  me second-guessing myself. As heightened vulnerabilities challenge my confidence, I wonder, was it wise to prioritize sending me, a teacher educator/researcher, over an Italian/English speaking faculty member familiar with the culture of the community? Friends and family, recognize my natural proclivities: curiosity, spontaneity, affinity for travel and talking to strangers, and  were never surprised by what they termed my, "fly by the seat of my pants” lifestyle that mixed adventures with 'close calls'. They'd shake their heads, yet sense that things generally worked out for me. Teaching, writing, service, and research kept me busy, while conference travel dulled the ache of loneliness. My grown children with careers in the NY/CT metro area meant that  family visits during summer and holidays were savored and prioritized, but I was focused on always prioritizing my work with my university students.

 Twenty years ago, when I completed my doctoral degree, my sister, a gynecologist,gifted me with a framed plaque featuring Ralph Waldo Emerson's quote:

"Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail." Over the years, it has been my inspiration for experiential sojourns. This time, in a new country.