Personal Narrative: My Trip To Romania

In the summer of 2013, I departed from my home in Sioux Falls, South Dakota to go and spend an entire month in Bârlad, Romania. Up until this point I had never left the United States, except for a day trip up to Canada. The distinct zing of annoyance at my mother’s insistent demands for photos tugged at my patience, and internally shuddered as my shoulder brushed against Vladimir’s. He was to fly with me to Romania, attend the archeology camp with me, and then I would return home alone. Turning my gaze up to his face to scowl at him and then glance at my mother, pushing a distinctly fake smile unto my face as she snaps one last photo. The next fifteen hours turned into a sloppy blur of airports, long and cramped flights, and irritation: Vladimir, the perpetual pain in my butt. My animosity towards him is built out of how he treats women, his own assumed self-importance, and teenage anger that just needed a target. My arrival at our camp was greeted with little
Throughout the experience of waking early and working side by side with these wonderful people, I had become wonderfully attached and felt a low tug of dread in my stomach as I wish my friends farewell. Left behind, with two more weeks of Romania at my disposal, I hug each and every one of those leaving, several times in a row. My lips feel faintly chapped from kissing cheeks, speaking, and smiling. I find myself wishing that time would reverse and I could linger with them longer, work with them in the dirt, digging under the hot July sun. Every sunburn I would receive would be worth it. Opening up to strangers from all over the world until they were no longer strangers, but rather friends changed my life. These people drew me out of my shell and helped me become the less afraid Annika that is here today. My happiness has significantly increased by their presence in my life, and their continued