“L’acqua ch’io prendo già mai non si corse.”

“L’acqua ch’io prendo già mai non si corse.”
~ Dante Alighieri.  

What do you mean it’s been two weeks since I last wrote a blog? It feels like it was only a few days ago that I was in Madrid, let alone writing about it. Time is moving really quickly for me right now. I’m starting to receive the prompts for my final assignments and on top of that I’ve been feeling the pressure to do a whole bunch of uniquely European things while I’m still here. I’ve also spent the past few weeks staring at my own writing for my Creative Writing workshop, which has made me sick of it. At this point, you’re probably sick of my writing, too. But I have at least one person who keeps bugging me about my next blog post – hi, Catie; thanks for taking my signature hot chocolate photo for this post – so I suppose I must carry on. There will be three more instalments after this one – one for each Friday I have left. By the time I leave, I will have written seventeen posts, which, as some of you know, is my lucky number, so I think that’s a sign of a generally well-kept blog. But let’s slow down a little bit, shall we? I seem to have promised a blog post about my time in Italy…

Although I had barely slept the night before, the trip to the Adolfo Suárez Madrid-Barajas Airport on the Wednesday morning of my spring break was surprisingly uneventful. The security and boarding processes were similarly unexciting, and it wasn’t until I was all buckled in that I found out that there was an air strike in France. They made the announcement in English first, so I immediately closed my eyes and dozed off, but was woken by the collective groan of a plane full of animated Italians as they heard the news in their own language. I didn’t mind so much, since I could squeeze a little extra sleep in, so I just let myself dream. I woke up to the announcement that we could finally take off, but what I didn’t realise was that it had been more than the half an hour they guaranteed. By the time I made it to my destination airport in Pisa – let’s skip over the terrifying ordeal that is traveling by plane, shall we? – I was running several hours late. Then I had to wait for a bus to take me to Florence, about an hour’s journey, and I thought for a minute that I wasn’t even going to make it there. I had a final destination moment, as some of my high school friends would say.

But things always seem to work out, don’t they? It’s like a recurring theme in my life. How privileged am I? Anyway, you’d think I’d learn to be less anxious. I enjoyed my tour of the Italian countryside, although I realised halfway through that I may not have made my hostel reservation correctly. However, my fears seemed to fade away as I stepped off the bus and into the relaxed community that is Florence. (Seriously, it’s so relaxed that I probably would have gone crazy there if I had stayed much longer. I’m far too uptight for that. But it was the absolute perfect atmosphere in which to spend three days of my vacation.) As mentioned in a previous blog, I hate maps. So I boldly walked in the direction that seemed promising and within twenty minutes I had found my hostel. Okay, to be fair, I did have a sense of the general direction. I knew that the hostel was on the other side of the Arno and I knew where the Arno was from the bus side. It’s still a nice look-how-grown-up-I-am story though, no?

I knew that at least some Italian stereotypes were true from previous experience with Italian-born voice teachers and with my cousin who returned home from Prato just last summer. However, I was really taken aback by the warm Italian welcome I received when I arrived to my tiny hostel, which I did sign up for correctly, by the way. “Do you need this? Do you need that? Let us know if you need absolutely anything,” was the general refrain, with a bunch of alloras sprinkled in. Now I know a little bit of Italian – it’s fairly close to Spanish and voice lessons are honestly language lessons in disguise – but allora was the only Italian word I regularly heard throughout the duration of my stay. It’s just a filler, I’ve learned, but there’s just something really charming in the way they say it. It’s just interesting to me that people saying “um” too frequently annoys the hell out of me, but a string of alloras somehow makes me smile.

There I go, being far too detailed again. It’s the little things that matter though, right? Let me just sum up my experience of Florence for you in three phrases: I walked; I stared; I ate. The day I arrived in Florence, I spent the afternoon wandering from one palazzo to another, watching people pass or pondering a publicly displayed piece of artwork. I did find that my mind wandered quite a bit during the time I had to myself, but there were some delicious moments of peace, even sitting in a palazzo filled with chattering people. That night, I met up with Catie of Paris fame, who is currently studying in Florence. While we talked about the Italian lifestyle and the challenges of studying abroad, we feasted on the most delicious pizza I’d ever had and an amazing thing I’d never had before called gelato. Do you guys know about gelato? It’s like ice cream but a thousand times better and it can only truly be tasted in Italy. I know because I tried gelato in London as soon as I returned from my trip and there was no comparison.

During the next two days, I did lots of super touristy things. I had a date with David at the Accademia – it’s true what they say, he’s a hottie – and saw some of Thomas Becket’s actual, real-life robes at the Santa Maria Novella. I visited the Boboli Gardens at the Palazzo Pitti and climbed to the bell tower of the Duomo. Catie wisely advised me not to go to the top of the actual dome as I’m claustrophobic; I even had a hard time climbing the steps of the bell tower. But, as expected, the view took what little breath I had left away. I obviously also had a lot more more food with Catie. I had gnocchi with truffle oil, Tuscan bread that probably could have chipped my teeth, pure red Tuscan wine, a delicious bread and vegetable soup, and a rich hot chocolate – second only to Madrid hot chocolate – all in the course of twelve hours. Also, I am never eating a cannoli again. That was the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted in my life and I’m going to keep my memories of cannolis pure.

Studying abroad is weird. While I was in Italy I felt really homesick, but it came in layers. I was ready to go back to London, the place where I feel like I truly belong, but I also found myself daydreaming about my summer in Connecticut. And when my favourite bookstore in New York popped up in my mind and I was ready to go back there. Now that I’m back in London, I miss Paris, Madrid, Florence and Edinburgh, as well. It’s like you can never get enough time in any one place. That’s why I love reading and writing so much, I think, even though I’m still sort of rubbish at both. You can stay anywhere for as long as you want through words, through your imagination. But when you come out of the world of words, as you inevitably have to, it’s hard to get rid of that paralysing sense of loss and loneliness.

Being in a new country is loads of fun, but sometimes all the downsides of studying away from home become glaringly obvious. It’s dangerous to hold on to a moment – see “My Epiphany” for more of my thoughts on this – but I do feel like I have to remember the good times I’ve had and the ways I’ve changed during my experiences in Europe. Looking back on my time in Italy – the bus ride and the plane ride and the coach ride and everything that came after aside – that’s what I want to take away. Sure, there were times where I felt I’d go mad with my own thoughts during my time there, but I also had some really great conversations with my friend Catie. I tried some of the best food I’ll probably ever have in my life. And I learned things about myself. I think that’s really all I can ask for.