Buongiorno Bologna

Crossing the tarmac I find myself muttering the same few phrases, attempting to fine tune my pronounciation.
Buongiorno
Non parlo italiano
Non capisco l'italiano
Parli inglese?
Grazie
Grazie mille

I use them all in my two hour journey from the airport to my next workaway. I'm nervous heading to this one. I think I've felt it for a while, but I didn't allow acknowledgement of the feeling until I was heading to the airport. And I can't seem to pinpoint a reason.
Perhaps it's the change in culture. England is very different than Italy, and I've become accoustomed quickly to the English.
Perhaps it's that I have agreed to stay a whole month with this family, and that makes me nervous. Two weeks seems like a perfect amount of time for a workaway, and committing to a month feels a bit like losing the freedom I'm here for. What if I don't like it and I'm just stuck?
Perhaps, on some level, it's a fear of rejection. I know from my first time in Italy, short as it was, that I don't really fit into their standard for woman. I'm too...rugged is a good descriptor, I think. Short hair, torn clothing, peircings. I think, somewhere in my mind, I simply don't want to spend an entire month being an outcast. 
I'm realizing how easy I had it, traveling first with my mom who could pass with the launguage, then staying with Bruno, a local Frenchman, then traveling immediately to England where communication was hardly a thought. I find myself dreading the embarassment, struggle, and humiliation of being unable to communicate.
These feelings bother me though, and come as somewhat of a surprise, as I've spent the last month building strength, knowledge, and increasing my abilities, which in turn has helped to build my confidence. I feel...annoyed that a hop over the sea can change that. Even more annoying, is that I've proven to myself that it's unnecessary, as I've sought and recieved help multiple times from Italians already, yet the nagging fear persists.

However, on day two my hosts are offering me a night off and a free ride to and from Bolonga...I'd be an idiot not to take it. So I take a deep breath, put my big girl panties on, and hop in the car. And guess what? You've heard me say it before...that's right. I'm falling in love with this city.

Now, I may be behind the times on this one (I'm sure I am), but when I discovered I could download offline maps of cities from Google and my location would still be an active blue dot, I thought this was the best thing that has happened for travelers in ages (at least ones like me who don't purchase data plans). And as far as not getting lost, it totally is. However, for getting found, I have a few techniques which rate higher in a city I've never been to.

1. Take all the turns you can until you have no idea where you came from. This is where the magic happens.
2. Walk toward anything that catches your eye. Shops, buildings, sculptures, parks, people. 
3. When you see someone that looks like an interesting character, casually follow them for a bit. (Casually is very important here!! Do not freak them out or look like a creepy stalker. Be curteous and smart!) I've stummbled into some really cool shops with this one.
4. Follow the music. I've yet to be disappointed.
5. Jump in the flow of the city. Follow the crowd. It's likely you'll end up in a plazza or a market place. Somewhere with good people-watching, at the least.

These are the methods that put me where I am now. Plopped down with my back against Fontana di Nettuno, muching candy coated pecans, belly full of cheap pizza...content. These methods also made it so I hardly look at my map through the rest of my time here, confidently learning the layout by getting lost.
While darkness is quickly descending on the plaza, life shows no sign of slowing down, as friends grin and greet each other. Kisses on both cheeks.

Does Bolonga ever sleep? The streets swarm with people regarless of the time...6 in the afternoon...midnight...4...10 in the morning...the level hardly seems to change. Buskers still serenading the crowds well past the witching hour. I try my best not to drift through the alleys  with the wide eyed wonder of a tourist, but I can't keep the grin from my face.

I've spent the last two hours wandering the streets aimlessly, finding myself in larger and larger crowds as I go...stummbling apon packed alleyways lined with stalls, people pushed against the fronts of booths, money in one hand, goodies in the other...bigger and bigger market squares...children screaming and laughing...live music...and eventually, Neptune. And all those feelings I was worried about? All for naught.
I speak and understand enough to get by (which, if I'm honest, surprised me), and each time I have begun to struggle or look uncertain, the shop keepers have switched seamlessly to English, no annoyance to be seen. What was I worried about again? I know this ease comes from Bolonga being filled with tourists, but it's still more than I expected, and I find my worries melting away.

I make some friends in the bar on Saturday and we meet up the next day before I leave. Four locals. They speak varying degrees of English, from conversational to nearly none, yet still they invite me to join them, unphased by this barrier. I feel guilty in the beginning when I notice that one of them is left largely out of the conversation for lack of the language. I am used to this feeling from traveling and don't want to inflict it upon someone else, but he gifts me big smiles, and with the help of everyone present, we are all able to laugh and joke together. Sometimes the four of them pause the conversation and begin debating amongst themselves how to say something properly. Arguing, laughing, and occassionally testing words on me to see if it's correct. I sometimes recognize the words in question and am able to help them translate. Every once in a while we all give up and turn to the almighty google, but through our hours together, and all the pauses which are necessary, I notice that no one gets frustrated by this barrier or gives up. The air of good humor never faltering. They insist on accompanying me to the station when it's time for my departure, and there are warm goodbyes all around. I watch them depart, pausing at the corner and waving to me dramatically, the quiet one blowing kisses, with a smile and a lifted heart. Maybe there is hope for the world still, if all of my generation can learn to be as patient, kind, and open hearted as the people I have met so far.

Slowly I am beginning to lift this bleak outlook I have built over the years. A pessimist by 10, I have only grown more so into adulthood, but maybe I can break it... It's looking like there might be a way. I am trying to remember to be my own ally instead of my enemy. To trust myself in the first place and not wait to be reassured by the situation. I'll get there eventually. For now I'll sit with my back against history and watch the endless stream of culture pass me by as people cross the square. Bolonga.