I would need to blog twice a
day, every day, to capture the essence of my time here in Florence. The way I
feel about this city has changed in a myriad of ways, as expected, since the
moment I first saw the Duomo from the airplane until now. It’s easy now, so close
to the end, to romanticize my time here, since it does indeed involve a lot of
romance—the culture focuses on it, the men profess it, the language is even
named after Romance. But, I feel like I must shed a little reality on the
experience, and talk for a brief moment about the struggles and discomforts of
life here.
I think I speak for everyone
when I state the following: the mosquitoes are enough to drive a sane woman to
violence; there is no safe way to walk around with a to-go cup of coffee without
knowing how blatantly American you look; street vendors seemingly pop out of
the ground whenever it rains, prompting you with “Ombrella? Ombrella? Sorella, signoria, ombrella?”; tourists crowd
each square and seem to have no sense of periphery vision, no matter how
obvious it is that you are late to class; every time you speak some form of
broken, Americanized Italian, you will immediately receive an exasperated sigh and
response in perfect English.
And yet…
The mosquitoes still persist
because of the beautifully warm weather. To-go cups are not typical, because
Italians would rather experience
everything they do in a slow and enjoyable manner. Why gulp down your cappuccino
as you walk to class, when instead, you can take five extra minutes and sip it
while standing at the bar? The vendors, however annoying they might be, at
least will never be as terrible as those in other cities—those that will
actually go so far as to grab you by the arm when you won’t pay five Euro for a
cheap plastic poncho. The tourists are only there for the same reasons I am,
when I think about it, so how can I be angry? They have the right to see what I
see every day, they have the right to experience the wonder I have felt for
months, and I can’t really blame them
for staring, slack-jawed, at the Loggia in Piazza della Signoria as I rush past
on my way to Photography. Lastly, Italians are used to Americans simply
assuming that everyone speaks English, so it’s no wonder that most of the time
we students receive that exasperated English response. But, doesn’t this make
each conversation held in only Italian, however difficult it might have been,
more valuable?
No matter what small
struggles I may experience here, the fact remains that Florence is, to date, my
favorite place I’ve ever been. As my fellow students have already said over and
over, being surrounded by history and art and beauty is not something one can
get used to. The fact that I consistently use the Duomo as a meeting point for
friends or Santa Croce as a landmark to get to someone’s apartment is just
absurd. I am as sure as I can be that I will return to Florence, and I am even
more sure that I will never, ever forget my time here.
Grazie, Firenze.
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