Last spring I studied abroad in Winchester, England, and fortunately we had a whole month spring break.

Everything was set, I was going to visit my boyfriend in Scotland for a few days and then meet up with my mom in London to start our three-week European trip.

From London we went to Paris, from Paris to Venice and then Rome. All by plane, with no problems.

But everything started to fall apart when on my last few days in Rome, the Icelandic volcano decided to wake up and make a mess in the air space.

It was Thursday and there were no airports open. I thought there was no way a few ashes could make all the way over to the United Kingdom in only two days (my flight from Rome back to London was going to leave on Saturday).

My mother suggested I should buy a train ticket to Paris, then to Calais, France and then get a ferry to Dover, England. Of course I didn’t agree. Do we ever listen to our mothers? No.

I bought a ticket to Paris and a train ticket to Calais. I was confident that by at least Saturday, the French airports would be open. Well, I was wrong, once again.

I got in the Roman airport Saturday afternoon and the only thing I could see in the departure panel was a list of flights with a red saying next to them. Guess what it said? Canceled.

I tried everything. I tried buying a ticket to Madrid, but all airports were closed. Tried buying a ticket to Amsterdam, airports closed too. I even tried a ticket to Brazil, but the next one was going to be after four days!

My mom’s flight didn’t get affected, because she was going through Portugal back to Brazil. By the time she had to get into the security gate, I still had no idea how and when I was going to get out of Italy.

She cried and asked me to call her every 30 minutes. Could you ever imagine being a mom and having to leave your child in a foreign country by herself? I can’t. But my mom didn’t have another choice. She had to go back to Brazil; otherwise she would end up just like me, stuck in Rome.

Once she was gone through the security gate, a panicked feeling started to go over me. I was almost sure I was going to be kidnapped and sold in the sex market in Rome if I had to stay there.

But there wasn’t anything else I could do in the airport by the end of that day. I decided to get a hotel and ended up in one close to the Coliseum, which had a trashy room that wasn’t even close to being worth 100 Euros a night. At least they had good breakfast and didn’t charge my international calls to Brazil and England.

Next day I woke up very early, so I could go to the Roman train station and get a ticket to any where in Europe that could take me back to England.

Well, it seemed like everyone in the same situation as mine had the same idea. After two hours in line, I found out the next train to Paris would be in a week.

Great, now I’m really going to end up in the gutters of Rome, I thought.

After a few minutes wondering in the train station, I heard an old man screaming that a bus was going to leave Rome to London that night.

Rome, Switzerland, Germany, France, English Channel and finally London. All in 32 hours. What?! You got to be kidding me.

No, he wasn’t. Nor the other 44 people that packed that bus. With 300 Euros I bought the bus ticket and started another adventure through Europe.

I went through Tuscany, saw the Swiss Alps, crossed German towns and saw the coast of France.

Thirty-two hours later with no shower and barely any stops, I was watching the sunrise in a ferry while crossing the Channel. The sky was blue and all I could think was “Thank you, Iceland.”