As I flew into Italy on May 24, at 7 a.m. not knowing what to expect as I looked out of the window of the plane I saw a little piece of home. What looked to be one of my grandma’s patchwork quilts draping over the landscape was actually various farms and fields on the outskirts of Rome. I grew on a farm with corn, cotton, rice and milo fields all around me. The fields at home just like the ones here in Italy, decorate the landscape with sharp precise hews of green through the different shades of brown and tan. This made me feel at home even though I was thousands of miles from it. Farming is my horticulture; one thing I am beginning to notice is the farming language does not change from country to country. Everyone has to grow a good crop to survive and work harder and live happier than most to do so. In this realization that horticulture is all around us no matter where you travel and what you expect to see it will be there. This simple yet complex view I saw outside of the plane made me think of horticulture as a universal unspoken language that has been passed down through the ages.