Italian Exchange Program

I'd always been really focused on getting into a good college. Back in high school, you name it, I did it. AP classes, National Honor Society, varsity lacrosse, mock trial, all-state chorus, and the Italian Cultural Club. Mom had told me it was important to have at least one extracurricular that was personal, and she was Italian, and we'd grown up watching 'The Sopranos,' and we lived in New York, so it just made sense.

Which meant, at 18 (and a half), I knew enough Italian and had enough credits stacked up to attend my school's study abroad program in Italy for a summer semester. Standing at the airport, I felt a mixture of pride and anxiety, glancing at my beaming parents. The moment of departure was bittersweet. Hugging my mom and dad tightly, I could feel their love and support enveloping me. The airport bustled with the sounds of chatter, clinking luggage, and the intercom announcing flight departures, adding to the palpable energy of anticipation.

Once on the plane, I settled into my seat, feeling the soft cushion beneath me as the aircraft roared to life. The gentle hum of the engines resonated through my body as the plane ascended into the skies. Looking out the window, I watched the city below -- which I'd only ever left for family vacations up in Maine once a summer -- shrink into tiny specks, leaving me with a sense of both nostalgia and eagerness for what lay ahead.

The cabin lights dimmed, inviting passengers to rest and recharge for the long flight. I leaned back in my seat, pulled a blanket over me, and closed my eyes. The soothing hum of the engines and the gentle sway of the plane created a lullaby that eased me into a dream-like state. As I drifted in and out of slumber, the hours passed in a timeless reverie. When I finally awoke, the plane had begun its descent. The captain's voice filled the cabin, announcing our imminent arrival. A renewed surge of adrenaline coursed through my veins, and I peered out the window, eager to catch the first glimpses of where I'd be spending my summer.

As we descended, a breathtaking panorama unfolded beneath us. The azure Mediterranean Sea glistened like a sapphire jewel, its waves crashing gently against the rugged coastline. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow that bathed the landscape in a surreal radiance. My eyes drank in the beauty of the terrain below, from the lush green hills dotted with quaint villages to the ancient ruins that stood as silent witnesses to centuries of history.

As the plane touched down, a thrill of anticipation surged through me. Stepping out into the terminal, the air greeted me like a warm embrace, carrying the scents of flowers, sea breeze, and a hint of cypress trees. My heart pounded as I followed the signs to collect my luggage. I lived at home for school and had never been on a vacation away from my parents. This trip was going to be a bunch of other 18-21-year-olds with minimal supervision, and the thought alone was enough to keep me at a steady hum of energy despite the jet lag I knew would be hitting me in the face soon enough.

I spotted a group of students gathered near a large sign with the program's logo, and as I approached, I saw a diverse collection of faces, mostly other girls. Introductions and smiles were exchanged as we bonded over our shared anticipation of the adventure ahead. Some were already striking up conversations in Italian, their enthusiasm evident in the animated gestures that accompanied their words. The camaraderie among strangers felt like a promising start to the journey we were about to embark on together.

With our luggage in tow, we made our way outside the airport, where a row of comfortable vans awaited us, bulky men ready to load up our luggage. As the vans departed from the airport, we merged into the vibrant tapestry of the city. The narrow streets were alive with the sound of honking scooters, animated conversations, and the sweet melody of church bells ringing in the distance. We drove past historic landmarks, each steeped in centuries of art and history, reminding us that we were now in the heart of a land rich with cultural significance.

Over the next six weeks, we'd be diving into all the historical sites and cultural markers, but, for this afternoon and tomorrow, we were just supposed to get acquainted with the area, each other, and our host families. I exchanged numbers with a few of the other girls so that we could get in touch before any of the "scheduled fun" in the coming days.

The driver expertly navigated the labyrinthine streets, allowing us to soak in the sights of colorful buildings adorned with flower-filled balconies and charming cafes spilling out onto the sidewalks. Vibrant murals and intricate mosaics adorned some walls, adding an artistic flair to the urban landscape. Gradually, one by one, we reached our respective destinations. As we bid farewell to our companions, warm hugs and well wishes were exchanged, accompanied by promises to meet up and explore the city together soon.

Finally, it was my turn. The van came to a gentle stop in front of my host family's house. Nestled on a quaint street, the two-story residence exuded an old-world charm that made my heart flutter. Red and pink flowers crawled up the sides of one corner of the house. The cobblestone path leading to the front door beckoned me forward, and I stepped out of the van, feeling a mixture of gratitude and nervousness.

With my suitcase and duffel bag in tow, I walked up to the house, trying to keep the wheels of my suitcase from stuttering over the deteriorated stone pathway. Before I could knock, though, the door swung open. A small old woman in a pink dress stood in the doorway. I was gangly at 5'10", yes, but she had to be an entire foot smaller than me.

She began to speak in rapid-fire Italian, which I only caught bits of. Student, darling, dinner, excited. There's always a huge difference between speaking a language casually in classrooms and speaking to locals; getting to that point was part of the purpose of this trip.

A man, also shorter than me, with a full gray beard, appeared behind her with a smile. Much slower, he told her, "Tori, Tori, she's an American. We're here to help her learn, not overwhelm her." Then he turned to me and said, "I'm Martino Marcini, senior. Marty. This is my wife Vittoria. Vita. Two of our grandkids are here with us for the summer -- and our youngest, too. But don't worry; we've got a spare suite for you, so you'll have all your privacy. You're Adelina, yes?"

"Addie."

I offered them a handshake, but they both wrapped me up in a hug first. I stiffened a little bit but then relaxed, remembering that I'd have to get used to a lot of cultural differences now that I was in Europe. Marty and Vita showed me around the house; Marty insisted on carrying my suitcase even though I was pretty sure that I was stronger. Wanting to be polite, I didn't put up much of a fight.

My suite was up in the attic but it had been finished nicely with a half bathroom. Against one wall was a bed -- bigger than the twin I had at home -- with soft red sheets and what I assumed was a handmade quilt. There was a little desk with a lamp and some office supplies, an empty scratched-up wooden dresser, and a comfortable wingback armchair. A small bookshelf held a crooked collection of books, mostly on Italian history, art, and architecture, definitely a collection curated for international students.

Marty picked up a thick purple journal from the top shelf and said, "We have a, ah, what's the word? The- the book, Vita?"

"Scrapbook," she explained. "We keep a scrapbook where our past students have left some notes and photos and things. You're welcome to add whatever you'd like."

After showing me around the suite and putting my things down, Marty led me through the rest of the house while Tori went back downstairs, waving her hands about getting a special welcome dinner together. Their grandkids -- both boys -- shared a room with bunk beds on the second level; when they weren't there, Marty used it as a weight room. There was the master suite, which we didn't go into, of course.

Then there was the last bedroom.

Marty knocked on the door and there was a passive grunt from inside. He pushed it open to reveal a small but cozy bedroom, mostly taken up by a queen-sized bed, with a mix of childhood and adult decorations.

On the bed, feet up in the air while she lay on her stomach, flipping through the book, was the most beautiful girl I'd seen so far in Italy. She had a strong, heavy brow with meticulously manicured eyebrows. Her nose was that of an empress, not dainty and sloping but proud and commandeering. Her almond eyes were hazel green with long, dark natural lashes. She was curvy where I was lanky, all hips and breasts.

Marty beamed with pride and introduced us, "This is our baby, Carlotta. She studies at Padua up north during the year, but she's here for the summer, too."

"Lottie." She didn't look up from her book for another few seconds, then spared me a quick glance. Her eyes lingered for a brief moment on my bare legs but quickly returned to the small text on the page. "You're the new American?"

"Yeah, I'm from New York. Addie." I would've stretched out my hand to shake hers if I felt any sense that she'd reciprocate. "Nice to meet you."

She mumbled something and we went back downstairs.

Tori made for us -- for me, really -- an entire feast, even though she kept insisting it was just dinner and she'd do much better later in the summer when the produce was better. No matter her caveats, I was thrilled to dig into homemade gnocchi, marinated mushrooms, and perfectly ripened tomatoes, all followed by an olive oil cake that practically melted in my mouth.

The two ten-year-old boys -- Martino Jr., Tino, and Giovanni, Gio -- thundered inside right before dinner and snarfed down food. They didn't treat me with the disdain Lottie had; they asked all sorts of questions about New York at a rapid pace that had me laughing and talking through mouthfuls of delicious food.

After dinner, I settled in upstairs to social media stalk the other people from the program, adding them on different sites. Most of them accepted right away, likely doing the exact same thing in their host houses. It was a weird situation already; if we didn't have each other, we'd have to brave the city alone, trying to make connections with locals using hand gestures and half-formed Italian the first few weeks.

Once I'd sent out a few DMs introducing myself and making plans for the upcoming few days, my fingers -- almost without my control -- typed in 'Lottie Marcini.' Her profile popped up right away. With a smile on her face, she was beyond stunning. There was a slight, charming gap between her two front teeth. Her hazel eyes caught the sunlight and glimmered. She clearly had lots of friends and was whip-smart. She shared a mix of her with her friends and her thoughts on articles that went way over my head.

And -- I realized after only a few posts -- she was gay.

Like me.

I'd never had a girlfriend or even kissed a girl, though, unlike Lottie. She'd clearly gone through a series of beautiful girlfriends over the years. A pang of jealousy hit my stomach and I tried to ignore it. Mom always tried to tell me that my time would come and whatever, but it was still kind of embarrassing to be entering my second year of college without ever being kissed. Made me feel like the protagonist of a romcom with a makeover scene and a sassy best friend.

I sighed and shut my laptop, setting it on the bedside table before getting ready for bed. Maybe this could be the trip. After all, Italy was supposed to be all about affection and romance, and we were staying in a major city with lots of queer tourists and natives alike. A beautiful Sicilian girl could take me under her wing to help polish up my Italian and show me the places tourists didn't know about, kissing me under a starlit night sky.

As if.

--

The next morning, Tori had set out a platter of warm croissants that exuded a tantalizing aroma, accompanied by an array of kinds of butter and spreads, each presented meticulously on delicate porcelain dishes. The room was filled with the inviting scent of freshly brewed coffee and I sipped on a rich black blend, its robust flavor awakening my senses. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains, casting intricate patterns on the blue tablecloth.

Lottie, her steps soft on the wooden floor, descended the staircase just a few minutes after I had settled in. Her tired eyes met mine as she offered a brief, curt "hello." She silently retrieved a croissant from the platter, smeared on some butter, and retreated upstairs, her movements graceful yet guarded. I couldn't help but empathize with her, though, even if she was rude. From their hosting profile, the Marcinis had welcomed a rotating cast of students into their home for nearly her whole life. I'd get over it pretty fast too.

While the thought of the house dynamics lingered in my mind, the day itself unfurled with a multitude of engaging activities, bleeding into the rest of that first week. My schedule was brimming with orientation sessions that introduced me to various aspects of the program and the local culture. Some sessions were formal tours of the sister school where our classes would be held, filled with insightful explanations of the curriculum and glimpses of the vibrant campus life. Other moments found us venturing into the heart of the city, exploring charming shopping districts and vibrant bars.

As the program members embarked on these explorations, the excitement was palpable. Many of my fellow students reveled in the newfound freedom of Italy's legal drinking age, embracing the opportunity with enthusiastic abandon. Laughter and camaraderie filled the air as friendships formed over shared experiences and youthful exuberance. Groups of girls staggered back to hostels for sleepovers both with each other and with local boys who ate up their 'exotic' charm.

In the midst of it all, I found my stride among the quieter, nerdier types who, like me, were there mostly to sharpen their Italian and immerse themselves in the history. Georgie, an amiable English guy, became a fast friend, his infectious enthusiasm mirrored by his preference for savoring local wines and signature cocktails in serene settings instead of pounding back beers at nightclubs. Together, we found solace in meaningful conversations and the joys of discovering hidden gems within the bustling cityscape.

As the sun dipped below the horizon that Friday evening, we found ourselves leaning on the edge of the Trevi Fountain. We stood in the misty air, our gazes fixed on the glistening water as young souls around us tossed gleaming coins into the fountain's depths, each coin a wish whispered into the universe. The timeless tradition evoked a sense of unity and hope, binding us in a shared moment of reflection and anticipation. The gentle breeze carried the soft murmur of laughter and dreams.

Georgie handed me a euro coin, his palm warm against mine, and held another coin for himself, glinting in the sunlight. "What are we wishing for, Addie?" he asked playfully, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Chiseled boys to whisk us away for long nights of ecstasy?"

I chuckled, rolling my eyes at his suggestive tone. "Maybe for you," I retorted with a grin, "I haven't even had my first kiss yet. I think 'nights of ecstasy' might be a bit beyond the power of a wish."

Georgie feigned a dramatic gasp, placing a hand over his heart. "Well, we can't have that, now can we?" he teased, nudging me with his elbow. "I'll kiss you, Addie, just to get one under your belt and boost your confidence."

I burst into laughter at his proposition, genuinely touched by his offer. "Thanks," I replied through my giggles, "but you're not on the right team. Plus, you're gay."

Georgie's expression shifted to one of genuine surprise. "Oh, no shit?" His eyes widened, and a delighted grin spread across his face. "Why didn't you tell me?"

I shrugged, feeling a warmth in my chest at his reaction. "It didn't really come up," I admitted.

"Well," Georgie said, his voice filled with empathy, "I'm sure you could still have some fun with the situation. You know, get one of the other girls to kiss you. They're all drunk enough to experiment."

I shook my head, a determined glint in my eyes. "I don't want to 'get' someone to kiss me," I explained, my voice earnest. "I want them to want to, you know?"

Georgie's smile softened, his understanding evident. "Yeah, I know," he replied softly, a camaraderie forming between us that transcended words. We stood side by side, our gazes fixed on the shimmering water of the Trevi Fountain. After a moment, he tossed his coin into the water and said, "I wish for Addie to get laid this summer."

I laughed out loud and tossed my coin in after him. "Me too."

--

Saturday night, Georgie sent me a text saying that absolutely everyone was going clubbing tonight and, even if we only went for an hour, we should go. I agreed. We didn't want to be those awkward, lame ex-pats who couldn't hang out when it was time. Showing up mattered, even if all it meant was going back to our schools with new faces to smile at. I'd brought two dresses that were appropriate for nights out and only one that Georgie approved of as being slutty enough to attract anyone else to me.

When I left the house at nine at night -- later than I'd ever go out back at home -- I was wearing a slinky black slip dress that barely covered my ass or my tits, its spaghetti straps doing nothing for support. I'd opted not to wear a bra. My 32B breasts didn't do much wandering, but I felt sexy with my nipples poking through the silk. I wore my dark hair up in a sleek high ponytail that swished behind me when I walked. I couldn't bring myself to wear heels, though, much as I knew they'd help my not-so-ample ass look better. Thank god that chunky white sneakers as clubbing clothes were in at the moment.

Outside, Georgie was waiting for me in a mesh shirt and silky, high-waisted pants. The pair of us were, as my father would say, queer as a three dollar bill. He'd already called a car for us, our sanctuary of nerves and excitement as we embarked on this escapade. The sleek vehicle glided through the city streets, the gentle hum of its engine forming an intimate backdrop to our conversation. Our voices held a subtle tremor, a mixture of anticipation and nerves that hung in the air. We made our plan in case we decided to split up.

When we reached our destination, the club's energy spilled out onto the sidewalk. A line of eager partygoers awaited their turn for entrance. Georgie's confidence shone as he slipped the security guard a discreet offering. The velvet ropes opened for us and I couldn't help giggling; I would never, ever try to pull something like that. Tonight, I was stepping into a new version of myself, one who danced and got drunk and, I don't know, shook their ass.

Stepping into the heart of the club was entering a realm of sensory enchantment and overwhelm. The air was thick with a heady blend of scents--intoxicating perfumes, a hint of cologne, and the subtle aroma of drinks all mingling. Neon lights painted the surroundings in vibrant hues, casting our faces in a cartoonish glow. The bass-heavy music reverberated through the space, each beat resonating in our chests like an invitation to surrender to the night.

The dance floor was a pulsating sea of bodies, a kinetic tapestry of desire. Georgie's presence at my side was both grounding and electrifying, a reminder that we were united in our pursuit of whatever we might be able to start tonight.

As we navigated through the crowd, Georgie's charisma drew the attention of those seeking connection. His playful glances and confident stance made it clear that he was here to captivate, his intentions laid bare for those who dared to meet his gaze. On my end, I did my best to mirror his energy with a coy smile and certain footsteps. There was no helping that I was naturally gangly and awkward, though, nothing compared to the easygoing, curvaceous girls who commanded attention through their dancing.