The only way to nail study abroad is getting out of your comfort zone

As a chemical engineering major, I’d resigned myself to the reality that my Stanford experience would not warrant me the freedom to pursue any interests outside of math and science.

Being the first member of my family to attend college, it was all the more important to me that I remain faithful to my major, being careful not to stray too far from a path that promised me security. I thought this the responsible move, maybe even the wise one, but I knew it wasn’t the one I wanted to make. It was my father, actually, who convinced me to do whatever it took to abandon my comfort zone during my time in school. Throwing caution to the wind, I applied to study abroad in Florence, Italy for the Winter Quarter of my sophomore year, and here I am, thousands of miles farther than I’ve ever gone before, wondering how it took me so long to get here.

In Florence with other Stanford students

I chose Florence because it seemed the place with the most temperate winter climate that would be the most forgiving to an American unable to speak the native language. Leaving the US for the first time, alone, I flew into a 15° Fahrenheit Florence where not a single airport employee, taxi driver, or hotel attendant could speak a word of English. There I was, surviving on the hour-long Italian instructional audio tape I’d picked up on a whim in Frankfurt airport. Ciao, grazie, and dov’é il bagno can only get a girl so far. I spent my first night in a foreign country locked in my hotel room, half because I was too scared to even venture out to find something for dinner, and half because I couldn’t figure out how to open what I would later come to appreciate as the “standard Italian door.” I was terrified and deeply regretting making what I thought was the biggest mistake of my life.

The next day I was finally able to meet my host family, with whom I’d be living for the next two and a half months. Not surprisingly, I was assigned to the only family in the program unable to speak English. Me. The student with only the Italian training available on a four euro CD.

Within the first week, I managed to get myself lost in the city in more ways than there were actual streets. The paper map my host mother gave me for temporary reference was nearly disintegrating with overuse, and I felt like a hopeless American. An eternal tourist.

Then, at no moment in particular, I stopped getting lost. I stopped turning bright red before trying to order something in a café. I stopped getting butterflies in my stomach when someone spoke to me in Italian. Eventually this city I’d only seen in movies or read of in books stopped being the magical fairy land I’d never belong to, and started being home. Many of the customs that a few months ago seemed alien to me make more sense than those I once assumed were the only way to live. Am I fluent in Italian? Certainly not. Do I always know how to get to my final destination? Hardly. Am I frequently perplexed by the simplest daily functions of those around me? More often than I care to admit. But I’ve grown content with discomfort and constantly ready for whatever frightening situation lurks around the corner, because I know I can handle it.

I’ve come to discover that the comfort zone can be a wonderful place, but it can also be a prison for those who are too afraid to put their outlook on life at risk.

It’s so easy to get caught in a certain way of doing things, forgetting there’s a world out there that wants us to get lost in it, get scared, and ultimately learn to be not tourists, but travelers.