11
ZARA
I had packed everything that I needed to. It was Saturday morning now. I made my way downstairs, where my Pops was waiting by the door, and the driver was helping him put his suitcases into the boot. Dad was tapping his foot against the floor impatiently, on a heated phone-call with somebody, but I couldn't quite make out what was being said.
"Come on, Zara, we're gonna be late," Dad called.
"Coming, Dad!" I called back.
I dragged my suitcases to the car, putting them in the boot, and then sat down in the passenger seat. Before I knew it, the car began to drive. I wound the window down, and allowed the wind to lap in my face, as I watched other cars whiz past, hills overlap and fade into each other, the car continuing to pick up speed with every passing second.
Thirty miles per hour...
Forty miles per hour...
Fifty miles per hour...
I could feel a sense of warmth and excitement overflood my body, with the anticipation of leaving the gloomy, depressing environment of the United Kingdom. As soon as we would arrive in Italy, we would be hit with hot weather, which was a rare occurrence in England, where it was always miserable and rainy.
"Thanks for taking me, Dad," I smiled widely. "I really appreciate it. I won't forget this."
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