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Published: December 3rd 2008
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Narrow Streets of Florence
The dome seems to loom in the background no matter where you are in the city. Well world, I'm still here, biding my time until my next European adventure. These days I distract myself from my Italian daydreams by working to finish up another semester of college in Iowa, but I can never ignore those memories for long. As I approach the one year anniversary of my departure, it's only natural to reminisce... January. An airport taxi hurtles me through the streets of Florence, Italy. I tumble nervously around in the backseat, gripping my seatbelt for dear life as the tiny car whips around corners and rockets down narrow alleyways. I squeeze my eyes shut as we pass a bus by mere inches and desperately wish I knew how to yell “Are you INSANE?!!” in Italian. The driver steers with one hand and turns to ask me yet another incomprehensible question. I kick myself for leaving my new phrase book untouched during my long flight. What was I thinking? I’m 2,000 miles from home, careening dangerously through the country I’ve been dreaming about for years, and I couldn’t be more terrified—or exhilarated.
We finally screech to a halt in front of the tall, wooden doors of my new school. I’ll be studying art here for
Tiny Sidewalks
There's barely room for one person to walk, let alone with a suitcase and a map. the next four months. The driver sings to himself as he chucks my three huge suitcases to the curb, then folds his arms and looks at me amusedly—or is it with annoyance? I wobble out of the car and make a show of fumbling with the unfamiliar bills in my wallet. I hand him the cash and wonder if I’ve given him too much. He thanks me, I think. I just nod stupidly. As he floors the gas and roars away, I begin to realize that adapting to a new culture is going to take a little longer than I’d imagined.
After collecting the keys to my new apartment from the school, I step out into the streets of Florence for the first time. I’m afraid everyone can tell I don’t belong here. Map in hand, I peer anxiously at street signs I can barely pronounce. My luggage makes a deafening clattering noise as I drag it over the stone streets. I accidentally run some angry Italians off the narrow sidewalks as I stare everywhere but the direction I’m walking. I eventually find my apartment, but I’m embarrassed by the amount of attention I’ve drawn to myself. I don’t
Fresh Fruits
You'd grocery shop every day, too, if you had a selection like this! want to be the dumb American or the obnoxious tourist. Isn’t the whole point of studying abroad in a completely foreign country to try on a new culture for a while? I want to blend in, not stand out. I’m here until May; I hope desperately to become Italian before then.
February. I’m walking through the outdoor markets on my way home from the nearest grocery store, my arms full of heavy bags. I’m learning the hard way why Italians shop for food daily instead of weekly. As I struggle down the street, I hear an accented voice over my shoulder. “Miss? Miss? Escoose me, miss? You drop some-ting…” I turn around, groceries swinging, fully expecting to see a box of pasta or a jar of chocolate Nutella lying on the ground. But there’s only an Italian guy, wearing a big black scarf and aviators, standing casually in the middle of the street. He’s smoking and grinning at me. “My heart!” he finishes and dramatically clutches his chest. He laughs loudly at his own cleverness as I sigh heavily and lumber away—still American.
March. I’ve traded my tennis shoes for Italian leather boots. I’ve learned to ignore people
Italian Shoes
I walked by this wall of shoes every day in the markets. I wish I'd bought some Italian flats! on the streets and always stare straight ahead when strolling the sidewalks. I wear over-sized sunglasses even when it’s cloudy. My huge camera is never around my neck, and I don’t need a map to navigate anymore. But despite my efforts to blend in, I’m still pegged as an American. It never fails: I’ll walk into a store or a restaurant, and English will be spoken to me before I can even open my mouth. I can’t figure out what it is. I’ve decided it must be my height—at 5’11’’, most Italian women only come up to my shoulders. Maybe my lighter hair color gives me away. Whatever it is, I’m still giving off an American vibe. Will I ever be Italian?
April. I’m waiting in line at the grocery store with my favorite fresh mozzarella and cherry tomatoes. Suddenly, the front of the store grows louder and louder. I realize I’m hearing English voices, and two American tourists appear next to me. They’re pointing excitedly at various objects, snapping pictures and speaking at the top of their lungs. Talk about drawing attention to yourself, I think with annoyance as I continue to wait in line. I was never
Street Markets
A typical afternoon strolling in the San Lorenzo markets.... can I go back yet? THAT bad. “Excuse me,” says a woman’s voice somewhere behind me. I don’t realize she’s talking to me until she taps my arm. With exaggerated hand motions, she says very slowly, “Are... you... in... THIS... line?” Her charades almost make me laugh, until I realize she thinks I’m an Italian! Yes, finally!! I celebrate wildly on the inside, but I manage to play along with a straight face. I simply answer, “Si.”
May. Tourists are everywhere. They’re wandering around in the middle of the street, maps in hand, cameras flashing, mouths open, luggage clattering, blocking the sidewalks. Honestly, it’s annoying. I have to factor in ten minutes of tourist dodging just to get to class these days. But in comparison to them, it’s easy to mistake me for an Italian now. Shopkeepers and waiters address me in Italian; guys in the markets leave me alone; and the taxi driver that hurtles me back to the airport at the end of the month receives a predetermined tip and a polite Italian thank you. It’s taken me four months, but I’ve finally figured it out: walk with an assertive stride, hold my head high and remain collected at all times. If I act like I know exactly what I’m doing, people assume I do. Combine that newfound confidence with a killer pair of leather boots, and no one has any reason to believe I don’t belong here. In the end, becoming Italian was that easy.
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