The dim glow of my phone illuminated the worn, leather seat beside me as I fumbled with the safety belt on the crumbling Italian bus. I'd never been good with words, but something about my Italian phrasebook seemed to be triggering involuntary Italian monologues. We trundled along mountain roads, an endless landscape unfurling like a tapestry behind each precarious bend. Our stops were dictated by some unseen conductor, where locals stepped aboard with an air of practiced nonchalance. I clutched my belongings, silently willing my nervous stomach to settle. At every turn, the Italian phrases danced in my head, begging to spill out.
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