* The First Week *

I’ve been in Florence for almost a week now and already it has been quite the adventure. To start with: the flight. I sat next to an old Italian woman – let’s call her Gran – with whom I spoke broken Italian throughout the flight. Our communication was messy and uncertain, and I’m pretty sure she understood only half of what I said, while I only got about ten percent of what she said. Gran was kind and helpful though, as I was nervous about flying and thinking a mile a minute about what Italy would be like when I finally made it. When I put my sweatshirt on, she held the sleeves for me to put my arms in, and when I tried to sleep, she adjusted her seat so I could lean in the best way possible. Behind giant, thick glasses, Gran watched my every move throughout the flight, looking somehow awed by whatever I was doing. It might sound strange, but to me it only felt like she was watching out for me. Mid-flight, we got up to use the restroom at the same time. At the back of the plane as we waited in line, two other Italian women around her age joined us. The plane had suffered from turbulence almost every half hour or so, and now, the women held onto each other as the plane shook from another patch of resistance. I let each of them use the tiny bathroom first, and when it was finally my turn, the plane of course shook even more violently. I held to the grimy plane-bathroom walls and struggled to re-emerge from the compartment, but when I did, there was still a small crowd in the waiting space. It was Gran and the others – they had waited for me. As I moved into their midst, they steadied me and one another against the turbulence, and saw that I made it safely and comfortably back into my seat. Gran and I returned to our seats, and I realized that this kindness is likely what I would find in all of Italy. I drifted to sleep as she began to doze, folded beneath her airplane blanket with only that innocent, aging face visible under uncontained brown curls. We said goodbyes as the plane landed in Rome and only then did I find out her name. It was Anna.

From Medfield to New York, New York to Rome, and Rome to Florence I traveled. And all I can say is – don’t fly with AlItalia airlines! I hate to bring up such negativity so early on, but well, they lost my luggage. This was one of those things I thought could never happen to me, like getting struck by lightening or being kidnapped or winning the lottery. But it did, and I’m going to go ahead and blame it all on AlItalia, because, as it turns out they went bankrupt not too long before my flight and are currently being bought out by some company that will hopefully manage the airline a bit better. Luckily, or unluckily, almost every student on my flight (which held thirty kids on my study-abroad program) lost either one or both bags. We were told the bags never made it from Rome to Florence and were instructed to wait in the hour-long line where we could make a lost-luggage claim. Fun! I think the only thing keeping me from a nervous breakdown was the fact that me and almost my whole flight was in this together. I got to know my roommate under these conditions, as we stood exhausted, jetlagged, hungry and furious in the claim line. What a way to start our time in Italia!

Four days later, I have my luggage safely delivered from Rome to Florence, and I can finally get out of these leggings I’ve been wearing for half a week. Because, of course, I didn’t think to put extra pants in my carry-on. At least I had a toothbrush.

So now to the good stuff. I’ve been using my limited Italian here, and it’s much easier than I thought to communicate with people. Across the street from my apartment is a small grocery owned by an elderly couple that sells fruits, veggies, bread and pasta etc. You’re not supposed to touch fruit with bare hands in Italy, even in the larger commercial grocery stores, so my first time in the shop I wasn’t sure how to go about picking out items. It basically involves a lot of pointing. The cute old man was of course understanding, and extremely excited to help me pick out oranges and bananas. “Due” I would say, asking for two, and he’d nod and wave his hands and say something in fast Italian as he picked fruit from the cramped shelves. He asked, I think, if I live across the street in the “appartamento” and I was able to talk for a minute in Italian about how, yes, I live right across from his store and am studying right around the corner at Accademia Italiana. He never stopped smiling, and now whenever I leave the apartment, my little old Italian man waves to me from his shop door.

The most interesting part of orientation, which went on for the first few days here, was a bus ride up into the hills of Tuscany. We looked over the city as evening came and the lights of Florence made it look even more beautiful than during the day. The ride took us by famous director Franco Zefferelli’s Tuscan villa and weaved up tiny roads by grand hotels, expansive villas, and the Fiorentina soccer stadium. A whole world lives just beyond the city and watches over it from above. Our destination was a renowned restaurant owned by one of the best chef’s in Italy, who makes the best gnocchi in all of Italy. At least, that’s what the Italians say, and I’m trusting them on this one. Our entire program was treated to a private dinner starting with gnocchi (delicious!) in a cheese sauce and made entirely with potatoes rather than flour. Following this was juicy steak covered in chopped basil with a side salad. And in Italy, salad isn’t just a side, it’s an important part of the meal. Something I haven’t figured out yet is why most of their lettuce is purple instead of green…I’m sure I’ll find out soon. Regardless, salad here is absolutely delicious and seems to usually include just lettuce and something like celery – another thing I’m not so sure what it is. No need for a million cucumbers and nuts and carrots and tomatoes like American salad. Just the good, fresh lettuce and simple dressing. We were, of course, given a few bottles of red wine right from Tuscany to have with our meal. And, like all restaurants, they gave of giant glass bottles of water, since they say you can’t really drink Florentine water unless you want to risk the fifty/fifty chance that it could make you sick. I’m not going to. I should probably just stick to wine. And at this restaurant, the owner is famed among Florence for his interesting wine invention. It’s an attachment that inserts into the wine bottle neck, and it looks sort of like a tennis-ball sized glass orb. The ball projects from the end of the bottle and when you pour the wine, it goes though a tube into the glass ball, measuring what Italians believe is the perfect amount of liquid for a glass of wine. The contraption also does something to the wine as it pours that I think make it breathe better? Something like that. Anyway, it’s very cool-looking and easy to use, despite my confusing description. The servers were all smiles and happy to show us how it works; who wouldn’t be proud of working for one of Tuscany’s best places to enjoy gnocchi and a perfectly poured glass of wine?


In other news, we managed to lose electricity on one of our first nights in town. But our landlords, Grazia and Piero Milani, are absolutely adorable and so nice – Piero came over in the middle of the night to turn our electricity back on, because we’d plugged an American plug into the wall and it fried the whole apartment haha. Piero and Grazia are extremely accommodating, and provided us with abundant towels, kitchenware and utensils, extra blankets, pillows, clothes hangers, and cleaning supplies for the apartment. They speak a little English, but seem to be confused by the word “ladder” and instead say “lather” to point out the ladder on our balcony which they’ve borrowed for fixing the hallway lights. It seems like they love having American students live in their building (a tall, skinny concrete slab that houses only four apartments, one per floor). We, of course, are on the very top floor and hike 62 steep steps each time we enter the building – I’m going to have quads of steel by the end of this semester! But I am used to it already and have started reaching the top hardly out of breath anymore. Getting into our room is an adventure in itself, as it takes five turns in different directions in two different locks with two different keys to get the door open. On our first day, my roommate and I couldn’t figure it out, walked up and down the 62 stairs three times knocking on all the other apartments to find someone to help us, and ended up returning to the door and finally figuring it out for ourselves – There’s going to be a lot of this figuring we’ll have to be doing on our own, and it feels great to survive here by our own independence.

After exploring the city with the whole program during orientation, my roommates and I were finally on our own this weekend to see it for ourselves and discover the parts that we will grow to love best. First stop, of course – the nightlife! We have so far visited a club called “Twice” and a one called “Yab” (don’t ask…), which both turned out to be pretty comparable to places I’ve gone back in D.C. and we’ve all really liked. The main difference is the cost of drinks, which are super expensive in Italy. A mixed drink at the bar is almost always 10 euro, which is almost a 14-dollar glass of fun. Wow. Since I won’t be spending that kind of money here, I am – again – sticking to wine, which is normally a bit cheaper. Luckily, there is usually no cover charge for clubs or bars – a good quality if you’re going to spend the night wandering to different places. Yab was an interesting adventure, as the promoter for the club invited my roommates, me and about ten of our friends to a pre-club dinner (including wine!) for only 1 (one!) euro. Hm. We thought it was a scam and attended hesitantly and to be honest I watched my glass like a hawk the entire time if you know what I mean…but it ended up being a real event and we received a four-course delicious dinner before the party started, for only a euro. I guess it’s those 10-euro drinks that make money at these places. Plus, the promoters get to invite pretty American girls and attractive Italian guys and both parties seem to end up pretty happy. That is, if you’re a girl who’s into creepy men stroking your face and trying to steal your money…how rude.

On that note, my description of Italian guys sounds terrible, and I suppose most aren’t bad…it’s just that I have this vague idea that all of them – the ones in the bars, those in the restaurants, those on speeding mopeds, and those walking the streets – only want two things. (1) Your cash, and (2) Something else. Although mostly I think they’re just trying to freak out innocent, unaware American girls. Already I have been followed, at night and in broad daylight, by two or three at a time. Most often, they tag along behind me and my roommates, calling to us in Italian and whatever words they know in English – usually “You are beautiful” and “Where are you going?” They seem harmless, actually, and it doesn’t worry me if I’m with other people – it’s almost entertaining. Walking at night alone isn’t highly recommended though, and I don’t intend on it, even though people say there almost no violent crime in all of Italy. Instead, it’s petty crimes, like pick-pocketing, bag-snatching, graffiti-ing and other theft. (Graffiti-ing?). Anyway, I know this because on our first night out my roommate Allie got a 20-euro stolen right out from under our noses. We were standing at the bar inside “Twice,” where one of the managers was welcoming us to his club and offering us and our friends a free “welcome shot,” meaning a dash of vodka mixed with mostly soda. As he talked to us, distracting, Allie pulled her money out of her bra and then put it in her coat’s pocket. Draped over her arm and far from our under-experienced eyes, the bill was prime target for a picker. I made that word up. So, as the manager returned with our warm welcome, Allie felt someone bump into her, and when she reached into the pocket moments later – no money. We searched the ground for twenty minutes and only came up with stepped-on receipts. A bummer, for sure, but I think we definitely learned something that night. Keep our money in our bras and don’t remove it until the exact moment of payment. Check.

One last entry for now! And a short one, because we’re about to spend a lovely Sunday night watching “Knocked Up” in our lovely apartment with the smell of lovely Italian dinner wafting from our kitchen, recently stocked from the day’s grocery shopping. Anyway…you know the Duomo? The most famous cathedral in Italy? I guess it would be called a cathedral. Can you tell I don’t know any history? Not like someone else I know ;) I couldn’t tell you when it was built or who built it or why…but I can tell you it’s gorgeous, huge, and has mass in English on Saturdays at five o’clock. And yesterday we attended. Mass was in a side chapel of the Duomo, where an American priest gave a service much like any one you would attend at any Catholic church. It was inspiring to take communion in the most grandiose, renowned cathedral EVER. Don’t know if that’s true but either way it was pretty amazing to just be there, look up at the ceiling and wonder in awe who was able to create these magnificent paintings inside the giant dome. That’s all for now…phew! If you got this far, come back for more when I get the chance to tell ALL about my week in class. And class is fun here, so it should be good stuff! Ciao!