[ Hair knotted in a messy bun at the top of her head, Buffy makes her way down the airport ramp, oversized duffel bag hefted in one hand. Ever the light-packer (all that running away that she doesn't remember, probably). She cuts through the crowd, successfully catching sight of the sign (spot 27) and hurrying over through a mass of comically taller bodies. ]

Ah, that's —! [ She makes her way over and smiles. ] That's me. [ It's a wide-eyed, slightly dopey smile, and it flags after a moment. ] … Do you speak English? Summers, Buffy. Is me. — Uh. Wait, hang on. I've got this. [ She wrangles one hand into her purse like she's going for gold in gymnastics. After a moment, she produces an English-Italian phrase book. ]