She was an American Girl...

"American Girl" could likely be the theme song to Amanda Knox life. The woman, arrested and charged for the murder of her roommate in Perugia, several years ago, was acquitted today at just about 10:00pm Italy time.

The road for her has been long and exhausting. And it's the story that any American girl could have found herself a part of--if they were in Amanda Knox situation.

In 2008, I studied abroad in Rome, Italy. Prior to going, I had not known the aggressiveness of European culture or the many cultural differences that there are--In fact, that's why I went--to find out. But what I learned, rather, was that many men can be very confusing with young women---young women who can be persuaded by good looks and a romance language--young women who can easily be swooned by a twinkle in an eye, and a shiny vespa to ride on the back of--young women who have never ventured outside of their American state...young women who are too trusting.

Even when I returned to live in Italy, I found myself on a date with a young Italian man in a small city outside of Florence--Brisighella--a man who I had met through penpals.org. And while I admit it was not my best choice--or my brightest moment, I felt okay at the time. This does show--just how naive we can be--even after having lived there, previously. Nothing happened to me--and it turned into a lovely day, at a wonderful Truffle Festival, in a beautiful city, but who knows what could have happened to me. We just NEVER know. And that's why we take chances and go with our gut. Knox never looked back when she pranced into a police office to discuss what happened to her roommate, because by all evidence, she had nothing to be worried about--she clearly was not there.

I have MANY Italian friends...and so did Amanda Knox...but it's easy to misunderstand--with a language barrier, and it's easier to be taken advantage of by strangers--just as it would be for someone in America who isn't fluent in English--or for a Russian in France, who doesn't know French. Anywhere that there is a language barrier and that there is someone who is relatively new to a place--there is likely to be some sort of misunderstanding. It can happen in foreign countries--and it can happen in our own cities.

So when Knox was taken in for questioning, following her roommate being found dead, it's no wonder she was coerced into a "confession," and it's no wonder that she was soon made out to appear as a "Foxy, Knoxy"--a name she had actually picked up by being good at soccer, not by being a sexy young woman in America.

Looking back at the entire trial--the entire four years that this has gone on, it is CLEAR as day that this could have just as easily been any other American girl--any person I studied abroad with--any American I met when I lived there recently--or even me. Many people will say that Knox was dumb--silly--stupid--naive. But I firmly believe that in ANY case in a foreign country, anyone would come off as dumb, silly, stupid, and naive--especially when language is a barrier--when a translator is feeding words into your mouth--when police officers are forcing you to believe something happened the way they want it to appear it happened, and when the MEDIA is hounding you and creating a persona for you that you never once filled at home.

Reading Twitter feeds today and Facebook statuses, it is still unbelievable to me that many of the people commenting are unaware of the man who has actually confessed to the murder--the man who convinced police that Knox was there--in order to lessen his own years in jail--the man who's footprint was left in the blood--and who's feces were left in the toilet. But it is NOT unbelievable to me that an American girl got caught in the trial of such height...it could have been any of us.

Welcome back to the states, Knox. Salute.

I don’t know where I am—But I don’t think I care. I don’t know where I am going…but I know I will get there when I get there.

I don’t know where I am going for once—and that feels okay.

It’s January 18^th—the 10th day of my adventure—my journey. To my left are snow caps and to my right are endless mountains. I am sitting on a chair lift mapped to be in Italy but that appears to be Austria. I am in a realm where no one knows English, but nothing appears to be in Italian. There are not pizza shops on every corner and gelato isn’t screaming me from every window. I don’t know where I am—and for once—that feels okay…for once that feels more than okay.

The lift could stop in another city—another country—heck, another planet—and I would be delighted. For the first time in a long time I have not a care in the world. For the first time in a long time I don’t feel so lost. I am between a rock and a hard place (Aron Ralston) as the lift climbs, but I don’t have to cut off my arm at the top, I just have to breathe—I just have to take it in.

I will never climb Mount Everest, step on the moon, or slosh my way through Antarctica—none of the are on my bucket list, but I know after this moment, after this simple breath-taking moment—I will have truly graced the top of the world.

I am watching as the snow glows between dusk and night, reflecting a pink cosmic cloudless sky. I am watching as the world changes. I am watching everything move as I stand still. I am SEEING the world.

I don’t know where I am—city—country—state of mind—but for once, I am okay with that. I am more than okay with it.

Ten Americans and six foreigners sit in a circle...I swear it's not a support group

“It feels like we are in a movie,” said Alessandro across the living room as he stabbed his fork into a giant piece of turkey. “We see this in the movies, but we never experience it. This is my first Thanksgiving.”

Alessandro is an Italian man that one of our classmates, in Italy, took time to make friends with over the last three weeks. He is sitting across the room from me. To my left, a woman from Israel is laughing. Next to her is an Englishman, and another Italian. Just past a light shade, that obstructs my view, is a German. If you take another look around our room, you might not only notice the foreign differences but also the age differences as well. A retired woman, born in America, who grew up in Canada, is sitting three spaces to my left while others in the room have just nearly hit 23. You might think we are sitting in a support group for diversity, but this is far from what is happening. This is our Thanksgiving—ten Americans, and five, eventually six people who have never celebrated the giant turkey in the middle of the table, the green bean casserole, or cranberry sauce (which go for 3.90 Euro each at the International Ingredient store) before.

Here we were, ten Americans, and six foreigners, doing exactly what our ancestors did when they first celebrated Thanksgiving: sharing a meal, sharing our thanks, and sharing our happiness. To continue a game of tag here: The wonderful Hannah wrote a piece about what Thanksgiving is truly about and what home is all about on her blog just a few days ago at just about the same time as a home piece I wrote (hence the game of tag we are playing via cyberworld). And this piece she wrote helped me to solidify the fact that everything she wrote is exactly true.

Thanksgiving is about the giving. As we all went around the room, sharing what we were thankful for, a common theme began to develop. “I am thankful for the fact that I am not homesick right now,” said a new good friend of mine. Another said, “I am thankful for the fact that we can all come together to do this…” and “I am thankful for L and J welcoming us into their home for this.” The women from Israel added “I am thankful for all the beautiful Italian men here,” and we all had a great laugh.

Thanksgiving is not always about being with family, but sometimes rather, about being with people who you never imagined your life with, but who have made it better in some way, shape, or form. As a few of us fell into a conversation, a good friend started to say, “I couldn’t imagine my life without you guys in it…Like it’s weirder to think of not knowing you than to think about not getting married.”

And he is right—it would be weird. It would be weird not to be sitting with all these people, taking in the moment, tearing up at the thought of how happy you are, and getting a clear picture of what thankfulness and happiness are all about. This year Thanksgiving wasn’t about how many servings you ate at dinner. It was about how many diverse people you could bring together in one room and turn into a family…a wonderful new and accepting family who may lose the ability to see one another each and every day next week: but who will always have this one memory—this one “Grazieful” memory.

In the word of the Italians: Salute!

"OH! The people you will meet!

"Ohhhhh The places you'll go!

You'll be on your way up!

You'll be seeing great sights!

You'll join the high fliers who soar to high heights"

One of my best friends handed me the famous "Oh! The Places You'll Go" as we said goodbye on my final night in Bethlehem, prior to my leaving the states, prior to my new journey. I always wanted to rewrite this book and title it "Oh! The people you will meet!"

I think of this over and over again each time I meet a new person, each time I hear a new story, each time I hear a new name. I think of writing it today as I have made my trek across the Atlantic and have introduced myself to numbers and numbers of people: from the airport security men, to the young man who sat next to me in the terminal patiently awaiting the flight to see his girlfriend to my new roommates. Most of these people are people that I will only have met for a few minutes, a brief instance of mutual exchange, a valuable moment. I'll normally take the moments after to create more of a story for that person. I'll pretend that the airport security man has had to tackle a terrorist or that the boy waiting to see his girlfriend has not told her that he is coming, that he is surprising her, and that their world is going to be perfect. I love people. I love stories. So when I come across someone and I get to hear their story...I can't help but smile over that moment--that perfect moment where one of us felt comfortable enough with the other to share a brief valuable time in our lives.

I got to hear a few of these stories yesterday.

Let's face it, my Italian is molto brutto (very ugly---for now), so when I entered a cab in Florence and tried to speak Italian to my driver, it was a relief to hear him know English. This first ride would not be a quiet one. We spoke back and forth to one another, me desperately trying to speak Italian and him fixing my every error. And then with ten minutes left in our drive, he reminded me why I loved Italy so much, why I love Italians so much. It is not because of the food (though my first slice of pizza yesterday was phenomenal), and it isn't because of their leather (though I did feel like I fit in, in my black fake leather jacket), no, it is because of their love for talking, their love for stories.

And as I exchanged life stories with Stefano, I wondered if I would ever find the same happiness as him, if I would ever be perfectly content never marrying someone the way he has (my mother would never approve), if I would ever be content dedicating my life to one thing like he has (he rowed in the 1996 Olympics and considers himself marries to his boat), and if I would ever just be simply happy. He clearly knew happiness, as he dropped me off at my apartment refusing tip money and wishing me the best of luck in my time in Florence.

But he was just the first of many that I exchanged stories with on my first day--in my first hours. As I sat down for my first cappuccino, a young man sat to my left with his own. I turned with a smile on my face and exclaimed, MI PIACE CAPPUCCINO!. And he turned, and smiled, a big wide grin, and said, "ANCHE IO!" I soon discovered that he was from Africa, but knew no English. Fortunately, he bared with me and my wonderful (ahem) Italian. We ended up going on to speak in fragments for nearly forty minutes exchanging names and numbers and an arrangement for a future coffee date. And as he walked away, to return to work, I just kept thinking about all the people I will meet...and all the stories that I will hear.

As I continued to sit alone at my table, I looked around me and just felt happiness--like Stefano, and I just smiled--a lot. It may become a very lasting habit...In the words of Elf--Smiling may just become "my favorite."