Run Away

Run Away
My life began on a Friday. Not my life in the physical sense (although that, too, began on a Friday), but my life outside of that of my small town naïveté. It started like any other weekday morning in May: with a bowl of Cheerios and a glass of orange juice. At 7:25 I grabbed my school bag and headed out the door; I was going to be late again. As I ran down the street towards school yet again, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of dejection. Everyday of my life, I had walked the same roads, passed the same places, and greeted the same banal people on the way to my insignificant life as a high school senior. I froze mid-gait. Wasn’t it enough that I had sacrificed my first eighteen years to the pursuit of all things “normal”? Was I destined to remain in a so-called “suburban bliss” for the rest of my time on Earth? I looked down at my feet to see them moving in a direction I had rarely travelled. This sudden sense of longing seemed an epiphany to my innocent mind, but later it would be looked back upon as a momentary mental break on my part.
Twelve hours and three cups of coffee later, I stood in the Piazza San Marco, with nothing but the clothes on my back and the money in my purse. I had considered returning home to pack, but knew I would loose my nerve should I stop to think about my plan on the way to the airport. I figured that I could live off my Visa for the time being and see the world on a budget. Unfortunately, no one had informed me that Visa wasn’t really accepted everywhere I wanted to be. After trolling the streets unsuccessfully for hours in search of a hotel within my budget, I happened upon a hostel in a less-than friendly looking neighborhood that took my form of payment (and judging by some of the other guests, less reputable forms of payment were also accepted). I was far too scared by the clientele to stay in the hostel alone, so I continued on my way with everything in tow. I found a quite alleyway and waited out the night.
After one night on the street, I had had enough. I had been cold, hungry, and yelled at by angry proprietors more times than I cared to count, all in less than twenty-four hours. I turned in my open-ended ticket for the next flight home, and still to this day my parents believe I spent the night at my friend Taylor’s home. In the end, I had spent $2,572 and my dignity to find that the place I most wanted to be was home.

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