Photos! and Notte Bianca

Finding myself in the streets of Florence

Backlogged on photos. Here's the BC Reunion, Roma.

Giardino di Boboli in Florence.

When I shave each morning, I turn on the radio. The stations usually alternate between English and Italian songs. It was a cloudy day when a bouncy, upbeat Italian pop song came on. I slipped and nicked myself, right on my adam's apple.

Italy has been eliminated from the World Cup. It happened on the jovial feast day of San Giovanni, Florence's 4th of July. "Each one of us knows, deep down, that Italy will lose," said Luca in his well thought-out English. "But during the game, everyone will be absolutely convinced that they will win." Well.

Some character sketches. There's one other coed roommate couple in this program, Beth and Ashley. Ashley's a Canadian guy, over-aware that 95% of all people with his name are girls. He watches football, not soccer, and enjoys the little things. Like killing mosquitoes. Beth is a professor, also 28. She has a quiet first impression but has been to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls.

She told me that story while we stood in a crowd, tangled in a mess of parked bicycles along the Arno. With thousands of Florentines and expats we watched the red, blue and green fireworks sail skyward from Piazza Michelangelo.

The next day Beth and Ashley hosted a dinner party. We drank a wine called "Red Viper" (I think Ashley picked it out because it looked cool - it was actually fruitier than we all expected). We played a game. I'd played before, in college, but the first time I'd seen it was in the movie Inglourious Basterds. You ask yes-or-no questions to guess the name on a card stuck to your forehead. I was Meryl Streep.

As I walk down the streets in this city, I pay attention to the license plates on the cars. They usually have two letters, a space and then a jumble of more letters and numbers. I always look for the initials of friends and family.

I was a little amused, a little disgusted to find a cigarette machine right outside a pharmacy. This country, never lacking in beauty, style or art, doesn't seem to lack much irony, either. I guess it's a human thing.

Saturday night was "Notte Bianca," white night, on the other side of the Arno River. That meant live music, cheap bar prices and hundreds upon hundreds of Florentine kids leaning on lampposts and fountains under yellow spotlights. All the trashcans were filled with cups and bottles by midnight.

I'm gonna mention some of my co-teachers. Corinne and Beth jumped Alice into a grocery cart and bumped her over the cobblestones. The locals turned from their trance music to watch, and grinned. I got separated and called a roommate from the Ponte Santo Spirito. That was my night.

Bravissimi.
-a

"Poetry is an Art!"

In this country, the aperitivo is as a custom probably as old as wine itself. After work, they go to corner bars - students with backpacks and high-tops, businessmen in suits, retirees jabbering about a car accident fifteen years ago. And there's food, all you can eat, stuff like bruschetta, olives, meatballs, vegetables, that kind of thing.

At a long table at this place called Strizzi Garden, we ate, drank wine and wasted time under a dusty-colored full moon. In company were the teachers in my program, the trainees I've gotten to know so well, and the students. I spoke with this guy Luca. "Let's make a deal," he said in well-practiced English. "You call me Luke, and I call you Andrea. It's a cultural exchange."

The next day was the feast of San Giovanni, known for closed shops and fireworks at the end of the day. I clicked open my front door to the sound of birds and vespa motors.

A loaf of bread - "crushed," they call it - goes for 90 cents at the family owned store across the street. According to Florentine tradition, it has no salt. It's soft as a pillow and reminds me every time why bread is my favorite food.

I recently took the most expensive bus ride of my life. I was caught on board without a ticket and had to pay a 45 euro fine. "You must think you're such a badass," said the expression on the ticket controller's face while I fished around for enough money. Once again, I had no identification on me. It's like I want to shed my name, my age, my country.

My teaching goes on, not without hilarity. Eliciting vocabulary from students is like a really slow, really stupid-looking game of charades.

I walked past a row of restaurants at noon. Mostly empty tables and chairs under white linen pergolas, a few couples here and there sipping a modest glass of wine. I don't hear, I listen to the sounds inside as I pass - the casual clink of plates, of forks and knives, not the usual vocal buzz, but the hum of a dishwasher.

There was a man strolling through the streets a block from the Duomo, wearing a faded shirt and rubber boots pulled up to his knees. In his hands, a notebook clenched tightly, and he cried out - to no one, to everyone - "Poetry is an art!" Poor guy, born in the wrong century.

-a

RVs and Russian Ringtones

My lessons are going well. I find it ironic that my sole purpose in this program is helping people overcome the one language I want to be speaking. Walking back through the graffitied tunnel that runs under the train tracks, I see the sun set on Florence's orange horizon.

"Obey your thirst," says the ubiquitous Sprite ad we know so well. In Italy, you are merely asked to "listen to your thirst."

Friday at the bar in Piazza San Jacopino, there were only a couple customers other than me and 3 other kids in my program. One lady, chainsmoking the whole time, leaned over a carriage only to gently lift out a pet skunk. You never know what you're gonna see here.

According to the folklore of my childhood, I'm turning into a carb. Whatever that is. Probably some kind of geometric-looking, polygonal shape I haven't seen since 10th grade chemistry class. Ah nutrition facts. They're a new addition to Italian food products, apparently. "Calories" are scripted instead as "energetic value." Why would you want to count energetic value?

The head of my teaching program has confirmed it. Baroncini Gelateria is the best in Florence. The worst? I don't know for sure, but probably the ones with the brightest colors and the cheesiest flavor names.

I wake up each morning to my neighbors' shouts and the slams of doors. My arms are mosquito bitten, and I scratch them as my alarm goes off. My ringtone? This tacky and annoying Russian-sounding tune. Cultural, I know.

I'd heard of this kind of chocolate before, but I bought a bar of Ritter Sport. It's German. I hate the name though, because after eating chocolate, there's nothing I'd rather do less than a sport. I'd prefer, I think, a nap.

I was thinking back to Viareggio the other day, some of the things I heard Serena's family say. One of her father's lifelong dreams is an RV roadtrip across the United States. The stuff of novels worshipped by hipsters and B-movies starring Robin Williams. It must seem weird to Europeans, then, that we Americans want to vagabond around their continent on shoestring budgets, wearing coffin-sized backpacks.

Salute.
-a

Ro-ma, Ro-ma-ma

"There's always something going on in Rome." I've said it before, and I'll say it again.

I elevated my language status this weekend to fluent. It's a long story. Digging through my bag on the train, I realized I left my passport in my top dresser drawer in Florence. The hostel manager said I could stay the night if I had my passport number and date of issue. Only a couple hours later, my housemate texted me those superimportant numbers.

But the receptionist that evening didn't believe me, said I was making up the numbers. I had to argue with him. "Call Giancarlo," I said, "Call him now. I'm telling the truth." One phone call and five minutes later, the receptionist asked me to write down my passport number and issue date on a piece of paper that would serve as my temporary passport that night. The guy upped the price 5 euro. I obviously had to pay.

That night found me along the Tiber River with four college friends and three bottles of local wine. We talked about phases of the moon, horoscopes, the Roman Empire and the American Empire.

I posed with Conor in front of some graffiti. It read "We are mods." Keep an eye out for it on Facebook.

Conor and Rob had been experimenting with the concept of the man-purse since the beginning of their European excursion. The verdict? Useful, even if it transgresses traditional gender boundaries. What could I say? I was proud of them. I had to be. Each night in Florence, I sleep under a leopard-print blanket. Not by choice, though, not by choice.

"This is the first time we've been in a country when we had someone with us who could speak the language," my friends said. I did what I could. I translated the name of Bernini's fountain to "the sucky boat." I was antsy to speak Italian, but more importantly, I wanted to make sure no one fleeced any of us.

My friends liked people-watching as much as I do. "What's his/her nationality" was a favorite at the Trevi Fountain. In Piazza Navona, the girl eating a gelato by herself could've been waiting to meet someone. Or she could've been sad. She had square, black glasses. "Italians know how to wear glasses," I told Conor as I adjusted my own crooked pair.

Seeing my close college friends in Rome was disorienting. It didn't seem like a reunion, the gravity of that word just didn't seem to apply. We were just meeting up; it was time shared, one of those summertime get-togethers, not at all a reprise, or an epilogue. This is what it's like, being a grad.

Later, on the four-hour train ride back to Florence, I passed through towns whose names I never heard before, only saw on the labels of wine bottles in the States.

-a

World Cup, Acqua Alta

I watched Italy's first World Cup match not at my apartment, not downtown with thousands of people in front of a huge projector screen. I was with two friends in my teacher program at a local bar (Piazza San Jacopino) with 60 year-old men and their grandsons.

In the streets are butts of cigarettes, broken bottle-glass and ticket stubs of busses, trains and concerts. All glazed with a city dust that creeps under doors at night with the mosquitoes.

During the day, my apartment is so quiet. Six hours before I give my lesson, I eat lunch to the hum of the fridge. I'm looking for a radio to fill in the cobwebbed corners with some kind of dialect that was already musical before it sang a song, one that was popular 30 years ago.

My teaching program's school, "The Learning Center of Tuscany," has a break room. Inside it is a coffee machine that has probably earned more of my money than the local bus system. There is a microwave, but no fridge. On top of it, there's a bottle of balsamic vinegar.

Sending letters is worth the effort. It is a struggle in today's over-ramped techno-world. But sending a letter in Italy is a herculean effort (bet you like that classical reference). The post office is like a waiting room that also happens to mail stuff. Oh, and sometimes, a package arrives on time. I recently mailed a letter to NC State at the local post office. They made me buy 10 envelopes, so give me an address, I'll write you a letter from Italy.

Today I finally got my radio. It cost 25 euro, but it's well worth it for the fun we have in lesson plan preparation. Can't wait to bring it home.

Vespas are not really vehicles, I've decided. They're more like shoes. Let me explain. The paths people take while riding a vespa are no different from the paths people take while walking. You'd cut across that sidewalk to the other road on foot, and so you'll cut across that sidewalk to the other road on a vespa. Which means if someone's gonna bump into you, you gonna get nailed. By a vespa windshield.

Something weird happened today. I went out to lunch with some kids in my program, and it started raining really hard. Hail, in fact. That's not as weird as what happened later, when we got up to go back to the school and found about six inches of water on the ground outside. We stood with a group of orange-vested construction workers and waited a couple of seconds. My friends tied plastic bags around their feet, and braved the high water. I waited for the water to go down before going back. Didn't wanna mess up my nice shoes.

-a

Regionalizing in Flavor

My apartment room in Florence. Neighborhood, Poggetto.

Piazza del Duomo, Pietrasanta, not far from Viareggio.

I blew out my electric razor a couple days ago with an ill-fitted power adapter. So I shaved with a razorblade for the first time. Although I'm not sure that if in Italy, Gillette is the best a man can get.

Italians may lose their faith, but they'll never lose their religion. Every hill down in Tuscany is crowned with a campanile. The soil here is rich, you can tell just by looking at it. From the train window it looks yellow-brown, and out of it sprout vineyard after vineyard. The strongest roots cling to the rockiest earth, all for the best sunshine.

On Saturday I got off the train at Viareggio with a crowd of African immigrants that I'd later see on the beach, selling their counterfeit sunglasses, their bracelets, their beach towels.

The clouds swept away as we walked past the rows of orange and teal umbrellas and volleyball nets. The beach was long and wide. I lost beach rackets to my friend Serena twice. Her longtime boyfriend Stefano doesn't speak English, but he loves the sound it makes. I told him I wished I could hear what sound English makes without understanding anything.

I fell asleep on the beach. "Little shrimp," they call you when you turn pink in the sun. Thanks, Stefano, thanks.

Serena introduced me to cecina, basically, Italian fried dough. It's oily, it's crusty, it's soft on the inside, it's kind of like pizza with the consistency of an omelet. Delicious. Dinner for eight at the Marradi household is an act of provincial theatre. Signora sheds compliments and accepts no help in the kitchen. The homemade limoncello she makes is like Italian girls. It's sweet, and packs a punch. Her husband grumbles after a day's work as an engineer, but the regional wine calms him into a tender father proud of his English skills. The man has a raggy 1994 road atlas of the US.

Night in Viareggio. I sat in the backseat of the Fiat with Silvia, Serena's sister, as the four of us passed discoteca after discoteca, girls tottering along in high heels, and bright red Ferraris in our rear-view mirrors.

Sunday, I woke up at 12:30 to the sound of clinking plates and silverware. Soon enough, I was eating a thick and bloody Bistecca alla Fiorentina, the tenderest. I continued to get drilled on "American Questions."

As I returned, it rained. The train was full of disappointed faces in beachwear.

Salute. E forza.
-a

Habituation

Each time I'm on a train, or a bus, I find myself in a seat facing backwards, not forwards. I see where I've been, not where I'm going. Appropriate.

In my apartment, we don't have cups. We only have a series of very fancy glasses, like you'd find at a nice restaurant for water. It's a good life, feeling classy as you drink water, or the fake Coca-Cola I bought at the supermarket that promises a "real American taste."

My bed is leopard-themed. Leopard print spots on my blanket and all my pillows. I don't often sacrifice my masculinity, but if it's what I have to sacrifice to live in this country, I may be tempted.

Someone told me that in Italy, wine is cheaper than water. On a grand scale, that may be true. But at the store I paid 15 cents for a 1,5 liter of water, and 2,70 for a bottle of Chianti. So... maybe not.

Today, lunch cost me 2 euro. I split bread and and pack of mortadella with Filomena, the only Italian in this program and the only Mormon Italian I know. Almost as strange as a Catholic Charlottean.

I got a job as a travel blog writer. My first assignment is for the 15th, a restaurant guide to Venice. Let's see what happens.

This city fosters a different kind of writing. It's loose, but it's continental, it's full of a kind of possibility, the transfusion of western blood into this city center. Each night I scroll down the wooden shutters and close the window on the mosquitoes that somehow dig their way anyway. And I sleep with no shirt because of the heat, exposing myself to their bites and constant buzzing. Other than that, it's quiet here. I want to get a radio to rattle off some Italian while I get dressed or cook - but maybe I should just accept the silence.

Still getting my stuff together. Coins are nearly invaluable here in Europe. I don't have a change purse (nor do I really want one). But I do have a plastic baggie that I keep in my pocket. "Nice wallet," I was told.

I'm trapped in a classroom a lot of the time learning about teaching. I taught my first lesson yesterday. It was good. It wasn't as interesting as it sounds.
-a

Expatria alla Fiorentina

My apartment in Florence. It's a little distant from the city center, and I like it that way. Our neighborhood is tree-lined and close enough to a grocery store.

I share this suite with Elizabeth, a 27-year old Texan. Her boyfriend is in the army, and she wanted to get outta dodge, so she's going to be here in Italy for a couple years. I'm envious. Anyway, we get along well, and our place is nice. It actually came outfitted with about 10 bottles of Tuscan wine. We wondered whose it was for about five minutes, then we opened a bottle.

Elizabeth and I somehow overran the power in our apartment, and everything shut down. Fridge, lights, everything. Ironically the electrical bill arrived on the same day.

I had just come back from the grocery store with a fridgeload of fresh meat and veggies. The lock had been changed without my knowledge, and this nice lady let me in. She and this other lady (they have to be over 80) introduced themselves to me as Maria and Francesca. We had a nice little chat about my landlady in the foyer, where i met Signore Magnini and Gnuli. They thought Elizabeth was my wife... awkward. Glad I know the neighbors though.

Random thought of the day. I haven't seen a whole lot of dogs around here. But I saw one today. It was kept tight on a leash and had one of those cone-things around its head so it wouldn't bite its tail.

We live really close to a delicious gelateria. Really, it's the best I think I've been to, ever. You don't order by the scoop, you order by the cone. The woman behind the counter acted a little cold, but whatever. Giver her job, it seemed kind of appropriate, maybe. I'm hoping she'll be a little nicer in the future.

As for this Teaching English as a Foreign Language Course. It's going well after the third day It's 9:30 to 5:30 or later each day, and we have 7 teaching assignments and 2 major projects. I though the average age would be close to 35. But it's actually closer to 25, so that's good. I'm one of three guys in a class of 14, I think. It's a really good group. There are a lot of statistics in this paragraph.

Florence at night is expatrilisticexpialidocious. Did a round or two of prosecco not far from the Duomo with some Canadians, some Americans and some Brits. It shocks me how much English I'm speaking in this town. Really does.

Ciauu,
-a

Last Day in Venice

I’ve been meaning to comment on how Anna and Juliana’s apartment has a wooden door with a round brass knob in the center. In an odd way I feel like I’m in Lord of the Rings every time I walk in.

When you enter the apartment, someone’s usually there. Often it’s Alice, because she’s working on her architecture thesis. There’s this unspoken rule that you have to say “Ciauu!” when you enter the apartment, and whoever’s home responds, “Ciauu!”

I went for a walk. Venice is like a funnel, and everything spirals down into Piazza San Marco. The Basilica looks white in the afternoon sun. The roof tiles lie in their onion-shaped, neglected beauty. Demystified and out of context, they remind me of a moldy shower.

The campanile soars above Venice’s skyline from far away. Up close, it doesn’t seem so big. Back at BC, I had a class in Campion Hall, with a window that looked out on the maintenance building and that brick tower or smokestack or whatever it was. On a crisp, clear day, and sitting in the right place in the room, I could trick myself into thinking it was a campanile.

I saw a dog take a shit in Piazza San Marco. The owner cleaned it up, but I’m still not sure how I feel about that.

Walking down by the Salute. Seaweed floats up through Coke cans and bits of Styrofoam to the stairs that descend into the water. There, it basks in the sun and resembles a pile of little dead snakes.

I traded pens with Anna for kicks. She got a Hampton Inn desk pen from Allentown, PA. I got an Italian pharmaceutical promotional pen. Sweet.

The idea of partying in foreign countries is a really weird idea, if you think about it. And yet, on an empty stomach, I hit the campo with Juliana, her friend Valentina (who I’d finally know in person, as opposed to only in photos) and Alice. We ended up in Rialto where this random old man took a little too much interest in our conversation.

Before heading off to Florence, I got a panino for the train. I was hungry, and didn’t know if it would be better to: a.) eat it slowly, digesting it at an even pace, or b.) wolf it down as fast as I could and have a ball of panino sit in my stomach while I gaze out the window of the countryside.

I chose option b.)

More on Florence later.

-a

Photos!

Maybe the best photo I've taken. Gondole on the Grand Canal near the Rialto Bridge.



Reflections off the water at Zattere.



Heading toward Campo Santa Marherita with Anna and Juliana.



Me and Anna near the center of Pordenone.


Ca' Foscari University. Seen from the bridge where everyone sits.


Undefeated 2-0 at rackets on the Lido.

Grilling Out at Pordenone

All over Venice, there are signs that say, "Venice 2020." Remnants of the city's now-defunct bid for an Olympic games. Think about it: rowing would be awesome. And that's about it. The rest would be "Treviso 2020."

In this town, people leave their trash outside their houses in tiny bags. The dumpsters here are gray and yellow, with ventilation holes. They sit next to the canals like three-dimensional cheese graters, waiting to get picked up by trash-boats.

I went to a lecture at the Ca' Foscari University. There were two Turkish writers who read passages from their novels on the 1915 persecution and exile. After their readings followed the Italian translations. Turkish sounds to me like German played backwards on a record player.

Riding in a train is a worthwhile experience. The Veneto countryside out the window more than counterbalances the fact that you can't breathe inside the rail car.

Yesterday I went up with Anna and Giovanni to Pordenone for a barbecue. Weather was perfect, and there was enough bacon, chicken, wings, polenta, bread, beer and wine to last well over three hours. These were Giovanni's friends from his scout troop (he's a leader).

My presence at the barbecue was a chance to practice English for some.

One of Giovanni's scouts excelled at the tennis racket-flyswatter. A useful tool obviously invented by the exterminator son of a tennis pro.

The marketplace in Pordenone happens every Saturday. You can find just about anything. Shirts, pants, underwear, shoes, rugs, hats, umbrellas, belts, knives, pots, pans, bags, jewelry, scarves. The prices were unbelievably low. I didn't buy anything.

I finished The Sun Also Rises. It comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb.

Just to keep you all updated... I'm a little behind in my blog. Just got into Florence safe and sound, and tomorrow begins my program. COMING SOON: Last day in Venice and PHOTOS!

Salute.
-a

Granita? or Slushy?

Let's see, what we got today?

Hmm, I've learned since getting here that there's a wrong way to spread Nutella on a piece of bread. Apparently I've been screwing up for several years. But I may be getting the hang of it now. So look out, breakfast world.

The real trick is using a little spoon. With the knife, you'll break bread in a very unholy way. I dropped a piece on the terrazzo floor in the kitchen, and it blended in perfectly. I've never seen bread pull a camouflage trick like that. Poof.

Through the sweepy see-through curtains in the kitchen, I can see and hear the passersby shouting ahead at each other. It's not as good as taking a shower, but it's better than the TV. Which I've watched.

Alice and Silvia and I ate lunch together today while watching "The Bold and the Beautiful." The climax of the episode involved a photo-shoot and two cougars (one, a large cat, the other, a woman on the older side agewise). Italians prefer dubbed television and movies. As a once-active Godzilla fan, I highly approve.

I ran into a Brasilian girl on the way back to lunch. She asked me the way to the nearest vaporetto station, and I told her. She seemed new around town, because she asked, "A vaporetto. Now is that a bus or a boat?" She had pretty cool sunglasses though.

The price of silk ties has risen one euro in the past year.

Alice showed me Campo San Simeon Profeta, which is, according to her, "the quietest campo that looks out on the Grand Canal." I think it's true. I had a gelato, she had a granita. Basically, a granita is a slushy. But let's be real, what sounds better? Granita? or slushy? We talked NFL and NBA.

My friends from Treviso, Laura and Laura, came to visit. We spent the time in Campo Santa Margherita, where I pointed out British accents and Minnesota Vikings jerseys.

New phone number: (+39) 347 090 8321. Gimme a buzz should you randomly happen upon Italy.

With aficion, let's hope.
-a

Italian Crossword Puzzles

Here's a brief profile of my friends I'm staying with. Anna, a bubbly and irreverent brunette hooked on Grey's Anatomy, and Juliana, an sweet blonde who'll kill you with her affection. Both are spoiling me at their apartment in Venice. I do what I can to repay them.

My favorite part of this place: I close myself behind the shower's wobbly doors and uncoil the shower head from the wall to the music of campanile bells and a mother reprimanding her child in the backyard, sounds that filter through a colorful layer or two of hanging laundry.

Traveling in vaporetto: I didn't forget the sound of one of these bus-boats pulling up to a stop, or the image of the sailor lasooing the dock and twisting a knot probably passed down from generation to generation. I don't think I ever will, either.

Today, at Lido. Perfect sun, chilly water. I love digging through my pockets and having to distinguish between Eurocent coins and shells.

In the vaporetto on the way to Lido, I helped Anna with an Italian crossword puzzle. Meaning she taught me several new Italian words and completely ridiculous definitions for them.

On the beach, we played volleyball and Italian tennis-badminton. I fell asleep in the heat and had dreams I couldn't remember. After which we ate lunch along a sidewalk, spending as much time watching the people pass as enjoying our tramezzini. And of course, gelato.

I'm here for a pretty long haul, but when I get bogged down I just read more of "The Sun Also Rises" and it's better. Instantly. Here's what I hit recently: "You're an expatriate. You've lost touch with the soil. You get precious. You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see? You hang around cafés."

Tonight, I did not hang around cafès. I ate sushi for the very first time. This was in Mestre, the city on the mainland right outside Venice. The place was called "Sushi Wok," and was an all-you-can-eat buffet. Needless to say, I feel like an elephant seal right now. One nice thing about Italian restaurants is that you don't tip. I know you don't like that, Matt Maerowitz.

Juliana went home to Pergine for the weekend. So at the sushi place were me, Anna, her boyfriend Giovanni, and four of his friends that he studies Japanese with. So cute going to a sushi joint with your Japanese classmates. They spoke fast, and this is only my second day back in this lingual world. I got issues. I thought, what would be easier, following this conversation, or doing Anna's crossword puzzle by myself?

All the Blockbuster stores I ever knew in the United States have gone out of business. Today, I saw one in Mestre. There were both lights on and people inside. Blast from the past.

Do I feel American? Absolutely. Do I care? I don't know. All I know is when I indulge my friends and speak English, it sounds about as weird as "Deliverance" dubbed in Italian. Which I haven't seen.

This isn't really a sightseeing blog, is it?

Jetlag: Urban Legend?

Well hi there. My name's Andrew. I just graduated from Boston College with an indulgent bachelor's degree in English. To prove (or at least to lay the allegation) that I do have a future in some capacity, I'm attending grad school next year for a Masters in English. After that... well, the utility of holding your breath goes way beyond swimming.

That said, this blog will not be proofread or revised in any way. Take that as an inside track rather than an amateurist streak.

Today I'm writing from my friends' flat in Venice, Italy. I'm here until Sunday, when I take the train to Florence. As it goes, I'm signed up for an Teaching English as a Foreign Language course, which lasts a month. During that period I'll be living in Florence.

My journey began on a grey and silent day in Munich, Germany, when my Charlotte-bourne plane touched ground. The airport was more quiet than a library. I got halfway through "The Sun Also Rises" and picked at my fingernails.

The flight to Venice I know well. It took me over the Alps and the Dolomites. I could spot the island where my semester abroad program was. My generous Venete hosts Anna and Juliana, whom I met last year in Venice, are now employed by the same program.

Yesterday night we ate gnocchi and I made fun of my friends for never having heard the song "Say Aah." I'd say this country's about 3 months behind on the music. They're still on Tik Tok.

After that, we hit the vainglorious narrow streets of Venice. Took me back, really did. Chillier than normal, but we stared at the fisherman boats docked along the Zattere in protest of new government netting laws. After the which, we got a spritz in Campo Santa Margherita. It was sweet, the aftertaste this time was bitter.

I feel like my Italian sucks, though I've been studying it consistently. Feels kind of like a shirt that instead of getting too small after some time, it got too big.

I'm glad to be here.