The Things You Learn When You Spend A Lot Of Time In Airports

Until a few years ago I considered people who said that airports were “like home” to them to be attention-seeking, pretentious and unrealistic.

How could ever anyone feel at home in an airport? Until summer 2011, airports meant for me only holidays, and although I hardly ever spent the summer vacations without hopping on at least a couple of flights, I could still not consider airports a place where I was absolutely comfortable.

Two and a half years and more than thirty single flights later, I can understand what those people meant when they talked so fondly about airports.

Now airports do not only mean to me “summer vacations”, but they are the places where trepidation and nostalgia mix.

Many times I am really looking forward to go back to Italy and visit my family and friends, but there is no time I travel without being a little bit sad to leave behind my actual life, even if it’s just for the weekend.

In a moment similar to the one described above, I realized that in a state of insecurity and mental confusion, the only certainty I had was that I felt comfortable at the airport.

Just like when during Christmas dinners with the relatives one notices all small details of each family member, spending so much times in departure halls taught me some very important things about airports.

I learnt that George Clooney in “Up In The Air” was right to say that old people and families with kids are the slowest at security checks, but I also learnt that he was completely wrong when stereotyping Asians as the ones who travel light and are quick at security checks: as far as I’m concerned, I never saw an Asian traveling with less than three different electronic devices.

I learnt that duty free shops are not too convenient, but cosmetic testers will often help you look and feel better than when you arrived, especially those hand creams that cost 12€ each 50ml tube.

I learnt that I will never be able to finish my papers or work in an airport lounge, but I will certainly find enough inspiration to write some more once arrived at my destination.

I learnt that the best way to avoid the annoying sales representatives of American Express and fancy travel cards is to say that you are already a customer.

I learnt that food and drinks will inevitably be overpriced, but most of the times people do not really care.

And finally, I also learnt that being in an airport lounge at 9.30 am on a Saturday morning is among the best feelings I could experience. That is when I realized that airports are to me a bit like home.

Federica Romaniello

It’s childish but it is true

Last night, I had a dream that is probably uncommon to most people. Let allow a 20-something male. Now once I start this dream, it will start like any other. Placed in a point where you have no idea how you got there but there still. Thought this is the dream where you seem to actually be awake and living it, but you’re still dreaming and you don’t know it till you stir awake.

And for myself, I was at a photo-shoot. I wasn’t in the photo-shoot, I was working it. Leading me to believe that it is my internship. But I felt such tension working it. It filled the air and I could see it on everyone’s faces but the photographer. The awkwardness that no one questioned but everyone knew was there. Then the model appeared, Karlie Kloss.

[Sidenote: Yes this is a normal male thing to dream of, but give it a chance.]

I could see in her face that she felt the awkwardness as well. But she was a professional and brilliantly seemed to be able to shut off the distraction that swirled around her. Taking stunning photo after stunning photo. The photographer was still pleased to no avail. Starting to scream at the model, the tension only rose. Peoples’ faces shifted. Everyone felt as if this photographer was going too far in his tirade.

At first, the model seemed to be unphased and kept her cool. Then she just broke and ran from the set. The photographer flipped and ran after her, only fueling the embarrassment of the model and the tension of everyone else. As the photographer followed, as did I. Making me believe I was his assistant, or at the least trying to put out the fire that had begun to blaze. Then something happened very unexpectedly.

I grabbed Karlie by her hand and told her just to follow me. We ran through the studio house and found a room and slipped into it. She sat on the edge of the bed in the room and began to cry in front of me. I didn’t know what to do, but I felt the need to comfort her. I placed my hands on her shoulders and just asked if she was okay. Her replying with yes. Knowing that this wasn’t enough to please myself, I asked again. She looked at my and just flung her arms around me and just cried. We stood. And we just stood there. Her crying in my arms, holding her as tight as I could to prove that I was here and everything was going to be alright.

Once she stopped crying, I gave her a kiss on her forehead, letting her know how gorgeous she is and not to listen to the photographer. But instead of hearing my compliment, she asked if I just went on my tiptoes to do that. We chuckled and I replied with yes. And she just kind of laid down on the bed. Feeling as if the moment had not ended, I laid besides her. I continued by asking her if she was alright now, she replied with a yes and thanked me for staying by her even though I had no reason to.

Now this is where the dream gets a little weird. We laid in that bed for it seems like hours, forgetting of the photo-shoot all together. We just talked, we talked about everything. Our childhoods. Our life up to this moment. The feeling of comfort flooded my body as if nothing before ever had. Then a knock came to the door, asking her if she was ready to come back to shoot and if she was that outfit number three was what they were going to shoot. She said she’d be out soon.

She got up from the bed and began to undress in front of me. Now a rush of exhilaration hit me. I sat up on the bed and began to watch her undress. The way I watched her, was as if she had shed some of her outer armor that protects herself from the world. Letting me deeper into her as a person, not just visually but emotionally. Once she was dressed, she turned and laughed a little at me. Noticing how I was taking in the moments of her nakedness and the meaning of her words, she bent down and kissed me. Thanked me again and walked out.

I followed behind, just enthralled by the hours that preceded and the photo-shoot resumed. Throughout the entire time, I was entranced by her. The glow she was now emitting drew everyone in and cleared the air. As I watched, I noticed she would steal a glance at me and smile and I reciprocated. Childish, I know but that feeling. That’s what I am missing.

I’m missing the blind trust that no matter what someone is there for you. The dream only helped me better understand that. Showing me that I am ready for such a moment to occur in my own life. And when that moment comes, I believe that the moment will be unparalleled to my dream. Putting it to shame and only deepening the feeling I felt in the dream. Because I’m hopeless without that feeling. Its what’s missing and I feel like I’ll find it soon enough.

Always with Hope,

Flynn

The 5 best movies to watch on “one of those days”

Life can be harsh. There will always be those days when everything seems to go wrong.

There will always be those days when you wake up at 6 am to have a decent hot shower and style your hair before going to work, just to leave the house and find yourself to be in the middle of a storm.

There will always be those days when you have a very important thing to do, yet you will miss our tram, or break your bag, or simply trip into something and make your clothes look like a mess.

There will always be those days when you don’t feel great, but you don’t feel that bad either… until when someone shocks you with news you expected to hear, sooner or later, but that you were not ready to receive just yet.

Sunny days, rainy days, spring or winter days. It does not matter. Those are the days you just want to hide under a blanket and forget about the rest.

When it happens to me I like to go home, turn on my laptop, and find refuge in movies. A cup of tea usually helps too (who am I kidding, I’m a tea-addict, a cup of tea always helps me…).

Depending on what happened you may want to watch a comedy, a horror, or one of those long British costume films. However, regardless of what is the occasion, I am confident of the fact that a gloomy mood can be alleviated (if not even cured) with the following selection of cinematographic items:

1. Amelie – because the overtly-saturated filters used by the director will make you love the awkward main character even more. She is one of those people who sometimes is too afraid to act, too afraid to enjoy love, but not too afraid to play. We should all be like Amelie Poulain every now and then. Bonus: the movie is set in Paris. Who doesn’t love Paris?
2. (500) Days Of Summer – because if you are having a crappy day, be sure that poor Joseph Gordon Levitt is having a day that is at least 10 times worse while trying to be loved back by the most hateful version of Zooey Deschanel. Enjoy the soundtrack, it’s the right combination of indie, commercial sounds, and comforting noises.
3. Inglorious Bastards – because Quentin Tarantino surely knows how to take revenge over someone who did something bad… like the Nazis! If you are in one of those moods that make you freak out about the smallest thing your neighbor does (as closing the entrance door slightly louder than usual, or walking too often to the toilet), it’s time to invest some energy in watching a relatively long movie, where there is blood, shootings, explosions, an evil plot, and Brad Pitt. All seasoned with a juicy soundtrack that should have been available during WWII because is way too perfect for the settings.
4. The Lives Of Others – because if messed up politics, sucky economic situation, or just a bad argument with your friends made you lose faith in humanity, this film will not only teach you something about the situation people were facing in East Berlin during the Cold War, but will also make you feel grateful for what you have right now.
5. Toy Story 3 – because sometimes the best thing to do is let it all out. Hug your pillow and cry, Buzz and Woody will not judge you.

 

Federica Romaniello

A New Year, A New List Of Resolutions

 

A new year knocked on our doors just a few days ago, and we already welcomed it as the yearly chance to put a full stop to what we did not like in the year to which we just said goodbye.

Every time on the very last days of December I inevitably end up having conversations with friends, relatives, and even random people on the train/plane, about what we will change in the new year.

Many say they will start dieting, others that they will go to the gym at least twice a week, and some even say that this is the right year to lose those 10 extra kilos they truly hate. Needless to say, said conversations are usually followed by a generous portion of whichever meal they prefer.

I cannot blame those people who write down their new year’s resolutions, I have done it myself so many times, I am the last one who should be allowed to judge.

Every single time the clock strikes midnight on St. Sylvester’s, I sip my Prosecco, scream on the tops of my lungs, hug and kiss who’s around me, and swear that “this year will be different”.

Truth is, every year is clearly different from the previous ones, but in the end, we always feel like our resolutions were not completely fulfilled. Why?

I cannot speak for the entire population, but I can definitely say that I am often too much of a romantic to write down completely real list of resolutions. “I will fall in love” and “I will write a short story each week” used to be in my top-list of new years’ resolutions, and needless to say that every single December 31^st, I looked at them torn between disappointment and sarcasm: unless my life was Elizabeth Gilbert’s, it would have been impossible to achieve my goals.

So, this year I decided not to renounce to my resolutions, but to take into account that I have a rather busy life, that you cannot choose who you fall for, that sometimes things do not turn the way I wanted, and that regardless what happens, I want to be able to look at my list on December 31^st 2014, and smile in satisfaction.

1)      I will take my driver’s license.

2)      I will take more short trips and visit both old and new places.

3)      I will stop drinking cheap alcohol I do not like.

4)      I will do my laundry once a week, not only when I start seeing that I am running short on clean socks and underwear.

5)      I will eat more fruit.

Hopefully, I kept it real enough.

Happy 2014!

Federica Romaniello

Grey Area

My best friend says that I’m the toughest guy to please or that I there is no pleasing me. Which is true. Anyone that knows me and knows me well, knows that I am the most particular of people. It has to be a certain thing or nothing at all. To me there is only black and white. No settling for something that doesn’t sit completely and utterly 100% with me. The grey area that people try to find does not exist with me.

This only further drives my personality, the obsessive monster that it is. And that’s how I’d describe myself. Obsessive. If you know people that are obsessive, you think of the few things that they have compulsions about. You think it is almost OCD; which of course it isn’t but you make fun of them for it. Now me on the other hand, I don’t have OCD, I just know what I like and how I like. If I don’t like it, I will let you know more than likely. Be it what I drink or the socks I wear. I could probably tell you in detail exactly what I want and why I want it.

If I could, I would only wear only one brand of clothing because I am that obsessive about that brand. The way I listen to music, most people would bash their head in with the constant repetition of songs and the rewinding to know every lyric. When I tell you there is only black or white, I mean all or nothing. No grey area.

As my friend says, I’m the toughest guy to please. So when I am pleased, I hold onto that feeling. No matter what aspect of my life it is, including woman. And this is where it really hinders my life. I’m an all or nothing guy, so if it doesn’t feel right to start. It won’t even leave the ground. No fall, even with uncoupled attraction. It won’t work. Bringing me to the point, I am the toughest guy to please since I have no grey area.

If I fall for you, I will always and forever hold on to the feeling I have for you. It will never lessen or fade. I’m hopeless in the sense. Forever falling each and every time I see her further down the rabbit hole. Black or white. All or nothing. This only amplifies the obsessiveness. Making me feel the need to know absolutely everything. Devouring all the possible information you allow me to have. Remembering it and storing it. Making it my prerogative never to forget it, to forget the feeling, to forget you.

Lately, I’ve been in a stalled state. Treading water with the same things, the same places, the same people. I’ve been put into a waiting area. Not in the black or the white, not in the all or in the nothing. Without having the grey area, I’ve been grasping at all that I possibly can hold me together. Anything that I can possibly obsess about, I try.

I’ve found new music to obsess over. I’ve found new food to obsess over. I’ve found new clothes to obsess over. I’ve found new shows to obsess over. Taking everything I possibly can. All but one thing. I have yet to find a new woman. I’ve been holding onto her for the plain and simple fact to hold on. I haven’t found anyone that can hold my attention long enough for them to distract me from her.

But it is only added to the fact that we make contact on an almost weekly basis. Even for New Year’s she came into town to visit her friends, thankfully I was out of town, but she wanted to see me. Or so she says. Nonetheless, I only have two settings. Black or white. All or nothing. No grey area.

I just don’t know how to let go of her. Even though she is gone. I continue to press on into the all when she needs to be nothing. Bringing me to the conclusion, maybe I need a grey area. Where I put things to stay how they are. Making sure to check myself not to fall into it too far and not fall out of it too far. Right in between black and white. Right in between all and nothing.

 

Something. Grey. Just for you.

Always with Hope,

Flynn

The Importance of Sharing Your Art

I’ve been fairly creative my whole life. Growing up my mom was (still is) creative, my cousins were creative; seemingly everyone around me was creative. Somehow I always felt my creativity never measured up to theirs or anyone else’s. The comparisons, the desire for perfection; were the death of my creativity. But the creative mind is not so easily killed. Even in my most mundane of jobs, in an environment that squashed ideas and innovation I had the desire to create. I was not feeling myself unless I knew I could express myself.

Having a desire to create in many fields I had always felt a little overwhelmed. However, this past summer has been one of extreme growth for me. I discovered three branches I specifically could define as “me.” Music, Film, and Fashion. Once I narrowed it down to those three, I really felt better, and can even see in my past that those were always in the forefront of my works. This is a far more tangible goal than answering “I want to do everything.” I found living role models to prove to myself that this is actually possible; not that those are necessary, just a nice boost.

Now, to the sharing. I had never really shared any of my writings, songs, sketches, or ideas with anyone except family and a few friends. Everything was never complete. I couldn’t call anything complete until it was perfect. Eventually my creativity waned and it was a little over a year of absolutely no creation on my part. I was working, eating, sleeping, and that’s it as far as I’m concerned. I have nothing to show for those years except an insatiable drive and desire to create more now than ever before. This is in part due to my sharing my work online.

Being the vice president of a media production organization on my campus has also been an invaluable tool in my learning process. I always knew that if I wanted something I was going to have to do it for myself; however, this organization helped me experience that. I wanted a media and cinema studies committee within this organization; I created it and currently lead it. I wanted a television talk show; I created it, gathered and assembled a team, and produced it. Seemingly I was fine creating and sharing as long as my work wasn’t as personal as something I had been working on solo. I’ve never liked people who defer responsibility or make excuses; yet somehow I had become that person to myself.

This year I finally used my domain I had bought for myself years prior, and dove right in. I started blogging. I shared photos of sweatshirts I had customized, songs I had written and produced, and even started up my YouTube channel with weekly videos. I even did Vlogmas (a vlog every day from December 1 – December 25) after hearing about it on the 1^st of December. While viewership may not have been as high as my weekly videos, I was very happy doing these vlogs. It was a chance for me to learn, gain more experience in filming and editing, and see what my audience enjoys the most. It also helped me to further let go of the idea of perfection. I had daily deadlines. I needed to be accountable with myself and my audience. I may not be beamingly proud of all of the vlogs, but I am proud that I did it. I made a goal for production and stuck to it. I let go of perfectionism.

The interaction I’ve had online with others since sharing my work has become one of my favorite things about sharing. Discussing music, film, and/or fashion truly gives me a high. These discussions and my own acceptance of perfection being unattainable have caused my own creativity to skyrocket. I’m now creating more than ever before in my life and I feel like I’m finally on the right track. I’ve also shared more in this past semester than I have in my life leading up to that point. Honestly, even while typing this I’m getting a rush and this is merely scratching the surface.

While I can only speak for myself, I implore you to challenge yourself to create and share more. See what happens! Let me know what drives you by commenting below, tweeting at me, or Facebook! I am excited to hear about what motivates and inspires others!

“A ship in a harbor is safe, but that is not what a ship is built for.” – John A. Shedd.

Love,

Rey

 

City Love

I just want City Love.

I want someone to fall for me and love me the way people fall in love with cities. You know that type of love I’m talking about. Where your friend comes back from a trip or vacation and can’t stop talking about the city they were in. The nooks and crannies of the place they’d love to find for themselves. The secrets it has, the secrets they’d love to find out. To just roam the city without a plan and do new things. Experience what it is like at sunset or sunrise. The nightlife and all it holds. The business of the streets, full of faces and places yet to be uncovered. It’s fascinating to see this. The person wants nothing more than to move that place and live the rest of their life out in love with their surrounds and everything that is that city.

I want that. I want someone to run to their friends and just gush about how amazing I am. How with every turn they find out a new thing about me that is interesting. How I have secrets and how one day they hope I can trust them enough to tell them. To just spend the whole day doing nothing with me, just my presence makes their day. Experiencing the lows and highs of my life. Seeing how I come alive at night with my friends and how I can see her through the crowd no matter how many faces pass by or places we go. Finding out more and more reasons to be in love with me. Wanting to spend the rest of their live with me and never leave it.

But here’s the thing. The city that person love soon changes.

Once they move there, it changes. The person talks about how the small coffee shop down the street closed or their favorite hang out got bought out. All their secret places are just the normal places to go. They no longer roam the city, they see it as a hassle. The sunset or sunrise just marks the days passing. The nightlife is more of distraction from their annoyances with all the people shuffling past all these places. They only hope to get through the day and the next and the next after that. Losing all fascination with the city.

I feel that that’s how it is with me. She stops talking about me with her friends. They interesting things about me are just how I am. She knows my secrets and what makes me tick. Spending the whole day doing nothing with me seems like a waste. My lows and highs are just a hassle. She gets tired of my friends and my antics with them. She stopped noticing that I always find her. Finding more and more reasons to not be with me. Wondering when it will change.

And I think that’s my problem.

I rather be the city you dream about that you visited once. Than be the city you wish and hope to move away from one day.

I just want to have City Love.

Always with Hope,

Flynn

The Secret of 26.2

I was fourteen-years-old and volunteering at Mile 11 of the Chicago Marathon. Thousands of runners flashed by me, and hundreds of hands reached out to take the cups of water I held. They were super humans.

The most I ever ran before that day was ten miles. Those ten miles were a physical suicide for me. Watching people run one mile beyond that blew my mind.

I wanted their secret.

I wanted the marathon. I wanted to fly amongst the strongest people I ever saw.

How were they at Mile 11 and not falling to their hands and knees, gasping for air, cursing the gods and themselves for forcing themselves through hours of arduous pain?

I didn’t get it.

I didn’t understand why anyone would want to run until his toenails fell off, but I was amazed. I admired every mile they ran. I just wanted to know how they finished.

On the sideline, runners grabbed the water from my hands.

There was one runner. He was middle-aged and he ran towards me and took the cup from my frozen fingers.

“Thank you so much for doing this, it means so much to us, “ he said. “We couldn’t do this without you,” and on he ran, tackling the 15 miles that awaited him.

I wanted to yell back, “What do you mean? Of course you could do this without me!”

I was just one person holding a cup of water. I wanted to thank him. I wanted him to know how much he inspired me. I wanted to know how he kept going.

I didn’t get it.

Eight years later, I was twenty-two-years-old and standing seconds from the starting line of the Chicago Marathon.

I was in pain. I accepted the gruesome reality that, with my injured leg, I would not finish. That thought ripped my insides, but I dragged my left leg just to reach the starting line.

How in the hell was I going to run 26 miles like this?

My years of running, my months of training, and my lifelong dream were dissipating into a world of defeat.

I had no magical burst of strength. No wicked magic. I was not a superhuman.

I swallowed five ibuprofen and walked closer to the line. My running mates were beside me, and I could see the start banner frame the Chicago skyline. Upbeat music blared out the speakers, and the MC joked about the chances of us winning the race were severely reduced due to the fact that we were so far back in line.

Man, it was a beautiful day.

The starting line ruled the street a few feet away. I witnessed as it turned every ordinary person into a marathon runner. We shuffled closer.

I already saw the line divide my world. On one side, I was a naïve girl, succumbing to weakness.  On the other side, I envisioned my feet over the finish line. Pure euphoria.

Our feet landed on the line and we took our first steps into the other world. I was actually going to run the marathon.

But reality wouldn’t let me go. A few milliseconds after takeoff, my leg screeched agony to my brain. My brain told me I couldn’t do this. I was stupid for trying.

The logical part of me told me I could always run another marathon. Reason told me I would make it eight miles at best and that I should slap myself for my stupidity and the damage I could do to my leg.

I don’t really like the logical voice in my head sometimes. I’m very good at doing stupid things.

I ignored all feeds of coherent intelligence and followed the footsteps of a thousand others. My leg screamed, are you serious?

Any time you feeling like working, ibuprofen, any time now.

But I couldn’t stop.

There were the people.

They stood alongside the marathon and the roads came alive. They were everywhere and they were cheering and yelling out people’s names and holding up signs and telling us not to give up and clapping and whistling.

Every step produced another person. They didn’t give up, and neither could I.

My body felt weightless. Mile 3 came and went, and I cried with joy when I saw my friend on the sideline of Mile 4. And then there was Mile 7 and my friend holding up a sign with my name on it, and then there was Mile 11 where I limped over to my parents to give them a hug, and I think I saw a tear on my mom’s face. And there was Mile 13, and we were halfway done, and I thought to myself… this isn’t that bad (take that logical brain). Mile 15 stuck out of the road, and I realized that any step past that mile marker would be the farthest I’ve ever run.

So, of course, I had to keep going.

And the people kept coming. I lived and breathed for the volunteers holding water and Gatorade cups. I loved the people giving us pretzel sticks and chopped bananas and holding out their hands while saying, “Free high-fives!”

I laughed at the signs that said we could poop in our pants if we needed to, and felt inspired by the mottos that read: Pain is temporary; pride is forever.

And the runner that placed a hand on my shoulder and said, “Keep going, you’re doing an awesome job.”

Empowerment electrified my body, but it wasn’t because every step brought me closer to the line. It was the realization that someone other than me supported my every step.

The secret.

I was physically incapable of running 26.2 miles alone, and I knew that. But that didn’t matter.

I wasn’t running alone. I was running with friends. I was running with 50,000 other runners. And out there were 1.2 million people cheering us on.

The marathon is a test of human endurance and strength, they say.  Do I feel any stronger by completing it? Not really. In fact, I don’t feel much different at all.

But what I do feel is the power of hope, and the community of the human spirit.  The compassion of humanity and its ability to stand and cheer together for a single cause. To support each other and to yell out each other’s names and to have faith in a dream that is real.

Hugs and high fives bring us together. That is what got me over that line.

Running the marathon may not have made the world a better place. But it made the world a better place for me.

I couldn’t have done it without you.

–Michelle Hand

(Mid-hug squeeze to my madre. Action shot!)

Masculinity, Femininity, and Buying Treats for the Self

As a Communication and Media student, I am often confronted with the cultural dimensions introduced by the Dutch researcher Hofstede. Among Hofstede’s cultural dimension there is one that is called “masculinity”, which indicates the distribution of emotional roles between genders in a country. For the Italian case, the level of masculinity is high, indicating that gender differences in terms of roles are rather strong.
I grew up in a context where my grandparent were (and still are) convinced that women would always have less opportunities than men, that even though they do the same job, they’d always be paid at least a little bit less, and that sooner or later, women are expected to get pregnant and take care of the house.
A few weeks ago I was having a conversation with my grandfather. It was one of those conversations I generally hate, interrogation-style on my aspirations and a series of “Yeah, ok, but what if…?” asked by my grandpa. At a certain point, examining my “what if” my career as a journalist will never see the light abroad and I will have to return to Rome empty-handed in terms of jobs, he said one thing that almost drove me furiously mad: “Well, if you really want to come back to Rome and don’t live at your parents, then you’ll need to find a rich husband who’ll support you”.

WHAT THE HELL?!

In typical Federica-style, I promptly replied: “Do not worry, if I will be forced to come back I will not need a husband to sponsor me”. Laughter. Sceptical looks. Everything back to “normal.”

A couple of days ago I was in my Global Advertising class, and Hofstede’s dimensions were discussed once again when it comes to jewellery purchases in South America and other Western countries (among which there was Italy): women in those countries are expected to possess jewellery, but never to buy it for themselves, always to expect men (or other people) to do it for them.

Since it was a while I wanted to buy a piece of jewellery for myself (because of a special occasion), today I decided that I was more than justified to break the tradition and allow myself to a little treat. I loved the look on the face of the (Dutch) woman when I asked her not to wrap my little charm because it was for myself. At first surprised, then pleasantly intrigued, she said goodbye with a big smile of admiration and a sincere “enjoy it!”.

Screw the stereotypes, I couldn’t be happier with my tiny charm!

Federica Romaniello

Surprises, Surprises

More than once I have had the chance to meet people who do not like to be surprised.

“Surprises suck”, they happen to say. It is true that sometimes surprises completely change the course of events, revolutionize one’s routine, and sometimes they just suck simply because the person who surprised us, did not figure out that said surprise was not pleasant.

When I was a kid I always wished to be thrown a surprise birthday party… until the day my mother decided to do so. It was horrible, it was boring, and it was even the day before my actual birthday (which in Italy is sign of bad luck)!

That day I realized that surprises have to be done only when you really know what the other person wants, and only when you really know that the other person will be extremely happy to spend time on the activity you planned.

A little bit more than a month ago, I decided to take the risk and surprise a few people: I booked a Ryanair flight to Italy!

Having recently booked a flight to Ireland too, my family was expecting anything but me acting as a true gipsy and visiting three countries in a week.

But then the day came, my father acted as my co-planner and picked me up from the airport, and I could truly enjoy the looks of joy and surprise on my family and friends’ faces.

Reactions varied from complete shock, temporary paralysis, ramblings of pointless sentences like “How can you be here?”, and breath-taking hugs.

This surprise trip was probably the biggest I ever planned in my life, and it was a wonderful chance to understand something I underestimated a lot: the ones who organize the surprise end up being as surprised as the ones who receive it.

Never I would have imagined seeing so much disinterest on someone’s face, but at the same time, never I would have imagined that my “cool brother” would have hugged me so tight right in front of his friend.

Maybe I’m just a hopeless romantic, but even though this time something did not work exactly the way I wanted it to work, I still love surprises.

Federica Romaniello