By oncptime
I just got off the plane in Newark, NJ a few hours ago. The moment my flight touched the tarmac, everything about my life in the US came rushing back to me in a single instant. My phone began to vibrate madly in my pocket a good five minutes before the light telling us it was ok to turn our connective tech “bing-bong-ed” on with a pleasant chime. E-mails. Texts. Tweets and Facebook messages streamed into my hand and I was struck with the gravity of the situation: I was home.
Beelining for the terminal, I unhinged my metaphorical jaw, let my eyes roll back into my head and began to devour digital information much in the same way great whites seem to inhale schools of terrified fish. Of all the things I’d come to miss in Italy, my constant connectivity was perhaps the most important. More than my life revolving around tech, my hopes and dreams lived within the cloud. I wanted (want) to write about tech journalism more than anything else in the world. I’d scoured the net for internship opportunities at tech blogs but most of the work in D.C. was politically oriented. C’est la vie.
Two foursquare checkins, a tweet, and an Instagram picture later—I was two bags heavier, and one jacket warmer. Newark (the cheapest international airport in the nation, FYI) was colder than Fiumicino in Rome, and I liked it. Jersey wasn’t my hometown, but it was a part of the States. The air smelled smoggy, and greasy, and cheesy and the light was—
My thoughts were cut short by another insistent buzzing from my phone. God, I’d missed that vibrating. A notification labeled “IMPORTANT, WORK” glowed from my screen. I’d set up the specialized alert before hopping on my plane, knowing that the message would most likely be fast tracked upon my arrival. I’d been waiting to hear back about an internship at the Washington Post. It was the difference between me working retail and realizing my dreams of becoming a multimedia reporter the next summer. It was a big deal.
Feverishly, I opened the e-mail and fought my damnest not to jump to the bottom of the message, trying to will myself to read the whole thing. I could resist. I jumped ahead...
I didn’t get the job.
I cried standing in a tightly packed train bumping its way to New York City. I cried because the cold that I’d loved to fondly an hour before had begun to burn my eyes. I cried because my carry-on bag had seemingly grown 20 pounds heavier and dug into my aching back. I cried because the job that I knew I was cut out for, that I’d pulled out every stop for, that I’d fantasized and obsessed and shook with excitement for wasn’t my job. Also I cried because it felt like a very appropriate thing to do on the way to NYC, where everyone who’s anyone who rides public transportation has the right to a public emotional moment ala Sex & The City.
On some level though, in between living up my silent tears for the my little audience and panicking about my future, I realized that I was also crying because Florence was over for me. For all of the trials and tribulations I had in Italy with my roommates and the questionable work ethic of my professors, I’d come to love the city.
“I need a box of wine and a focaccia from the Conad.” I thought to myself, planning on burying my emotions with food. But there was no Conad in NYC, or in Jersey, or D.C. Sure there was boxed wine and bread, but it wouldn’t be the same. I would be right next door baked fresh and snagged from the fingertips of that annoying old man who always seemed to go for the bread the same moment I would.
I wouldn’t have to walk by the towering Santa Marie Del Fiore anymore on my way to school. I would have that same conversation about media convergence ever again in my media studies class—or if I did, it would never me as thoroughly repetitive as the ones I’d had in Florence. I was going to miss that place, and while it didn’t bring tears to my eyes, it helped the ones that were already there flow that much stronger.
I had a semester to go back at GWU and I was sorely homesick for my friends back in the District, but Florence had become my home. I’d searched for those jobs with the help of my Italian professors and even had one of them write a recommendation for me. Between the blow to my ego and my newfound home-away-from-homesickness, I didn’t know if I’d be able to make it to my destination.
By the time I’d reached Penn Station to make my connection, I’d gone out of cell service. I trudged my way out onto the street in search of a Duane Reade where I could find balm for my chapped lips. Stepping into the frosty air, my phone buzzed again. Another important job tagged e-mail. The Slate internship I’d applied for had differed me. I prepared to drop my luggage and break out into a number from Les Mis—I could fuel my depression into a new career as a busker on the streets because obviously I had no hopes of getting any kind of job.
I read the whole message this time. My application had been differed, and then passed on. “We’d like to know if you are interested in potentially working for our technology section.”
I could have cried.