In a different time, I used to watch Ted Talks. I would sit for hours on the edge of my top bunk in my sketch-covered room, and scarf down information like a starving wolf descending on the kill. I would watch a video, then research the topic until I completely understood its nuances and corners: its nooks and crannies.

High school ended, a flawless past summer, and I moved to Boston. I would still watch the talks, but I never Seemed to have the time to fully research and explore the videos. One of the videos I watched in the first months at Northeastern was an eight minute TedCity talk by Robin Nagle. It was entitled What I Discovered in New York City Trash . It fascinated me. I never considered the fate of what I threw away, until I began this dialogue.

Today we visited three waste management plants to the west of Cagliari, near Pula. The first was a paper recycling plant. There we learned how different types of waste paper were sorted, shredded, cleaned, mixed, and then formed into new paper for use. Only about 5% is lost in each recycle process. Not too bad, right? That especially given a single fiber of paper can be recycled up to eight times before the proteins in the fibers denature with age and it begins to decompose.

As walked into the open warehouse, and stared up at the skyscrapers of stacked and packed cardboard and paper, I halted with a jolt. The plant had office and notebook paper strewn about over the concrete; It seemed it to climb the walls in the wind. I looked down past my converse covered toes and my eyes landed on a small piece of notebook paper. In neat, feminine navy ink, her notes stood out in a personal way That I had not expected from such an industrialized location. Robin Nadle's voice echoed in my head, and the intimacy stuck me by surprise. I knew the ink navy woman's birth date. I knew her address. I could read her thoughts and wishes. Here they recycled possessions: thoughts, birthday cards, songs written and accidentally discarded. Here these physical representations of ourselves came to be made ​​new, made ​​clean, like some sanitation baptism in the industrial zone outside Cagliari.

Between the personal existed amounts of vast impersonal. Shredded cereal boxes, fruit containers, newspapers, flyers and glossy colored littered the ground. The waste surprised me. The extent of the waste in our packaging surprised me. Why must we place in cereal boxes, When the physical food resides in a food-grade, sealed plastic bag? Advertising? Shipping? Where did the practice start?

I've become hypersensitive to the composition of what surrounds me. Who designed the composting plant, the waste to energy incineration plant? What will become of them when their purpose is served? The compost was shocking, and I see now the industrialized composting faces challenges in the United States. In Sardinia, it cost 120 euro to process one ton of compost, but it is only sold for 2 Euros per ton. The government provides the necessary and capital resources, the tax breaks and financial whatnot. When I think of the United States, I wonder how we could possibly pitch this to a nation where the environment is still on the back burner. Do we educate? Where do we start? 

Thoughts From Hours Past

It's been a while. It's been a few days, actually. I keep waiting to round a corner, to be rocked back by the force of the blow. So much for the bear who went over the mountain; I feel more like the guppies who swam across the pond. And I mean by pond ocean.

I remember the last time. On a dreary, gray morning in October of 2013, an idealistic girl freezing in California skin in the wind at the very edge of Long Warf. She Looked out over the harbor, shivering in her heaviest coat California. She turned on her heels, and the weight slammed into her: a freight train to the chest. A city, suddenly hers, bathed in soft light and dawn rising up to the autumn skies. Pale yellows and pinks peaked past the sullen blue shadows in the cracks between the skyline. Suddenly, instantly, the world was hers. In a single moment, she found home: stuffed between the heroic history and throbbing pulse of the T, pressed against the walls of the I-93 tunnel, in the spaces between the notes sung in the T stations.

It took a month for Boston, and I have 25 days for Cagliari.

Maybe I'm looking too hard. Maybe I Have not been looking. I'm afraid, truly afraid That I will not find a home here. I'm afraid I'll miss something. In the precious first days, it's critical to meet and befriend your companions, to find people to eat dinner with, to explore in the safety of packs. When is it okay to venture out alone? To leave the well-lit square, with its cafes and named American men selling phone cases, and take a left turn down a back alley and find somewhere new? I feel so American, so different, like an elephant in a circus Midwest: ogled at by the crowds. I should try harder to pick up English, but I hide behind the safety of my classmates - now friends.

You see, I'm starting to loathe trips to La Piazza Yenne. They know us, they Recognize our flip-flops and too short skirts and loud, guttural voices. It's getting claustrophobic in here. Get me out. North to the safety of the dorm, south to the Mediterranean port and the cruise ships: that leaves the east and west. Time to hang the left or to the right peak. Time to find the Moment When Cagliari's heartbeat and breath shallow syncs with my pants, and I find home.

Be brave. 

A Smallish Recount of My First Two Days in Italy

“This could be the very moment I feel that I’m alive: all these places feel like home.”

Chocolate – Snow Patrol

We’re landing! We just turned now, and I can see the countryside. Oh my goodness it looks like home. Somehow, I’m not afraid anymore. I feel free, alive even: chalk-full of curiosity and read to explore.

-Four Hours Later-

There are six planes in front of us to take off (we’re moving so less now). I haven’t quite been culture shocked, but I guess airports aren’t exactly the best places to dive into a culture. Did you see the Victoria’s Secret in terminal 1? Who wants to try on bras after you’ve had an eight hour red eye and feel gross and grubby? Ew!

The Italy stamp in my passport is a square. A square. It says “Fiumicino” and that’s it. Lame.

-Pause for Takeoff-

Well, we’re airborne and already over the water! All of Italy looks like home to me, and I was a fool to forget that.

 -May 15, 2015 3:30 pm-

The café down the street is perfect. With miss-matching china and almost hipster-esque wall hangings, it stands as a complete mockery of a British café and tea shop. I have great plans for my 5 euro stipend! Their cappuccino is excellent, and there is a fine selection of cupcakes, croissants, and fruit. Maybe I could spend some of my money on a focaccia for lunch during class days. We walked up the hill, almost San Franciscan in pitch, and were stunned by the amazing views. Next we went to University of Cagliari, and if you ever want to put 16 jet-lagged college kids to sleep, place them in a room at 3:00 pm, turn off the air conditioning, and lecture at them. That said, I enjoyed the competition between the other students, and had fun learning Italian phrases from the University of 

Cagliari and University of Padua students.

After class we had a few hours to relax before dinner at a restaurant at the bottom of the hill. Dinner was served in four courses: antipasta, pasta, main, and the coffee. Octopus potato salad, breaded and fried squid, chunks of swordfish, and zesty shrimp were served with clam pasta and fresh vegetables. It was delightful. I tried everything, and enjoyed hearing about the experiences of my fellow classmates. Tomorrow, we will have the morning off and then visit the home of Aldo Muntoni, a professor form UniPA. We will enjoy the beach and share a meal with the students from the University of Padua, I can't wait!