Acceptance

I brought in 2015 by watching fireworks at the Coliseum at midnight and running around Rome until 5 a.m. with a group of friends, trying to avoid literal bombs being set off in the streets, which is, apparently, par for the course when it comes to Italian New Year’s celebrations. That night really did set the tone for a whole year full of adventure and unexpected twists and turns. Looking back on some of my earlier posts, I can hardly believe the wide range of lifestyles I’ve lived this year: teaching in Sicily, hostel-hopping around Europe, bumming around at home, starting law school, and bumming around at home again to wrap it all up. Every part of the year came with its own difficulties (most of which deal with the common theme of acceptance, as I cleverly indicated in the title of this post), but they each had their own unique tone.

At the beginning of 2015, I was still struggling with Italian life. I was quickly growing frustrated with how impossible it seemed to fit into Italian society. The gusto with which I had started my Fulbright year began to fade, and now, with some time for reflection, I can finally admit that I was, in fact, quite lonely. And depressed at times.

It became clear to me that I would never really be accepted in this society. The fabric was too complex, and I didn’t exactly look the part either. It’s hard to describe the combination of hospitality and alienation I experienced in Italy–halfway between a tourist and an immigrant, between a linguistic novice and a fluent ex-pat, being an employed college graduate with a small, but important, network of people, and yet perceived by strangers as one of the many South Asian immigrants escaping their native lands to try to make a better life in Italy. For the first time in my life, I experienced the incredible isolation of an immigrant’s life, despite being an immigrant to the U.S. myself. But in Italy, I was not a model minority, I was not 5 years old, and I always had the comfortable notion of knowing I was going home soon enough.

When I took a moment to realize that other immigrants, many of whom leave their countries only due to inconceivable hardship, do not have this notion of “home” to rely on, the true pain of an immigrant’s or a refugee’s journey dawned on me.

In Italy, I accepted I would never be seen as one of them, as hard as I tried. But I also accepted that this weight was far easier for me to bear because of the million advantages and privileges that gave me some solace in the face of such loneliness. My compassion for immigrants and refugees increased hundredfold, and, looking at the dialogue we’ve seen about the topic this year, I think that was a crucial moment in my personal development.

The Fulbright experience ended up making me a better conversationalist, less fearful, and (I hope) a better friend. Because, as I learned when my friends finally arrived from the U.S. to travel with me, the luxury of comfortable companionship makes everything better. I still value the importance of loneliness and self-reflection, but too much time in your own head definitely drives you a little bit crazy.

All this being said, I’m only one semester into law school, and I already miss the adventures of travel and exploration. The thrill of finding a cute little nook or alley of a famous city, the awesome weight of being in a space laden with history, the emotions of seeing great art or being in the presence of great inspiration are all a little lacking in my new life of logic, analysis, and endless, endless reading (and not the fun kind, either).

I haven’t posted since the end of my travels, and that’s because law school has consumed my life. It’s been difficult to even stop and breathe, much less think, write, and create in the way I used to. My poor guitar has been collecting dust in its case.

Law school has been an exercise in accepting that I cannot, in fact, do everything. Certain things must go on the back-burner right now in order to have the career I want to have and to do my job well.

It’s been a bittersweet realization. I remember sitting in my Ithaca apartment, which rattles every time a somewhat large truck drives by the road in front of it, poring over yet another contract case about what constitutes an offer, and suddenly finding myself crying when one of my favorite songs started playing on my computer. Was it partially stress and exhaustion? Probably. But it was also that I hadn’t experienced beauty or art or culture or all those things I grew to love as a humanities major in months. I used to spend my weekends hopping around the greatest centers of art and culture. I used to read great works of literature…for school. I used to feel something every day of my life. And all of a sudden, life had taken a drastic turn.

Nothing could have made this contrast more apparent than a brief weekend break from law school, when I journeyed to Boston to reunite with my beloved Veritones and sing with other people for the first time in months. It was so wonderful to be standing up on that stage with people who know me to my very core, experiencing that inexplicable bond that comes through years of singing together. It’s a sensation unlike any other.

And yet, even knowing all these things, I’m happy. I love the artistic side of myself, but, in law school, despite the relative dryness of the subject matter, I know I’m gaining the tools I need to help people in a meaningful way. I’m enjoying the intellectual challenges, and I feel confident–for the first time in my life–that I am where I’m supposed to be. I’m doing something that I will find fulfilling and important. I will undoubtedly have difficulties, and I will have to take risks, and I will have to push through incredibly frustrating times I’m sure (my first semester of law school was not without its (really) low points), but it’s a journey I’m willing to take.

It certainly  helps to be accompanied by some truly amazing friends that all have what I value the most: a good sense of humor, putting to rest that lawyer stereotype you have mulling about in your head (ha!). And because of the very powerful nature of the bonding experience of 1L year, for better or for worse, this is the fastest I’ve grown so close to so many people. Especially after the first half of this year, new friendships are not something I take halfheartedly. Occasionally, when I’m overwhelmed by annoyance or drama or frustration at the people in this very small world of law school, I remind myself how desperate I was, just several months ago, to talk to anyone, anyone, my age who could simply speak English fluently.

Of course, with this acceptance of my new life, and the relief and gratitude of realizing that I do, in fact, enjoy it, comes a little nagging fear that this is the beginning of the long, hard road of adulthood. That bit by bit, the logical, all-consuming nature of a legal career will take over and will overshadow the softer parts of my soul, that the rat race at the beginning of my legal journey will make me lose sight of the bigger goals I have, the goals that are informed by the fundamental understandings and insights I gained from my humanities background. That acceptance will soon turn into complacency and my own inertia will prevent me from leading the life I want to lead.

Alas, every theme has its flip side, and acceptance is no exception. But the good (?) news, I suppose, is having the remarkable knowledge that all of these choices are up to me.

Thank you to everyone who followed my crazy mishaps and bumps along the road this year; it’s been quite the ride. According to WordPress’ Year in Summary for me, the posts that resonated the most with you all were “Limbo“, “Language, Etc.“, and “Last Days in Sicily.” Notably, these posts were all written during some of my lowest moments abroad–perhaps darkness really does beget the best art? To anyone that offered me words of support and encouragement after reading my blog: thank you, thank you, thank you. I cannot begin to express how helpful they were and how grateful I was to receive them.

One last thing: I’ve recently learned about a very cool organization trying to ameliorate the abysmal way in which homeless women’s hygienic needs are treated. Check out this article, the non-profit #happyperiod, and their GoFundMe page to learn more if you’re still feeling the charitable buzz of the holiday season.

Peace and love.

Cornell Law School, my new home

 

Prague, Vienna, Salzburg, and Munich

From this point on, the trip included just the girls: Sophia, Gillian, and me. After a short flight from Zurich, the three of us ended up in the beautiful city of Prague. Prague was probably my favorite urban destination of the trip. It’s full of history, intrigue, and culture, but it hasn’t quite hit its touristy peak, meaning 1) it was significantly cheaper than our other destinations and 2) it still has a little bit of grit to it.

Our hostel in Prague–the Charles Bridge Economic Hostel–was absolutely amazing. It was right on the Charles Bridge and had a really friendly and helpful staff. We were greeted with a free guidebook to use during our stay and given free coffee every morning. I’m not usually a big coffee drinker, but when Euro-tripping, which usually entails being sleep-deprived, it is an absolute necessity.

The Charles Bridge is a great symbol of Prague. It’s clearly stunning and gives the impression of belonging to an important and historic city, but it’s also incredibly sooty. The statues along the side of the bridge are almost black from pollution and time, creating a gothic and mysterious atmosphere. From the bridge, you can see the spires of one of Prague’s main cathedrals, as well as the fairytale-esque outline of the Prague Castle up on a hill overlooking the city. When walking across the bridge late at night (as we did multiple times), you could get lost in the dark, surreal atmosphere surrounding you. The Vltlava River is also surprisingly wide, making the bridge feel expansive and never-ending.

Prague’s status as an alchemy hotspot during the medieval ages adds to its intrigue. The chemical experiments and “magic” of the time led to plenty of urban legends and ghost stories that the three of us learned about on a nighttime ghost tour of the city. Our tour guide was an adorable student, which took away from the potential spookiness of the tour, but we were nevertheless enthralled by the city’s back-alleys, full of tragic love stories and mental hospitals whose patients’ screams echoed through the streets. That night, we decided to continue our exploration of Czech mysteries by going to a traditional absinthe bar. Admittedly a bit of a tourist trap, the bar nevertheless had a really cool atmosphere, bathed almost completely in an eerie green light. There are two ways of drinking absinthe. The Bohemian way involves caramelizing some sugar and putting it in the liquor, making it warm, toasty, and sweet, while the French way involves a large vessel of water which slowly drips onto a sugar cube perched above the glass of absinthe. The sugar in the absinthe makes it appear cloudy. The French way allows you to really taste the liquor itself, which tastes (unfortunately, for me) like liquorice. I much preferred the Bohemian method. While we were a little loopier than usual, alas, no crazy hallucinations were had.

Another fascinating part of Prague’s history is, of course, its time under Communist reign. We spent our first day at the Museum of Communism, which was a delightfully sassy specialist museum that delves in-depth into the complicated history of the Czech Republic post-WWII. The coolest part of the museum was all the paraphernalia from the Cold War days. I bought a souvenir from the gift shop–a postcard that depicts women from the USSR with the caption, “Like our sisters in the west, we would have also burnt our bras…if there were any bras in the shops to burn.”

Gillian and I had the honor of spending 2 of our 3 nights there at Karlovy Lazne, the legendary 6-story club at Prague known as the largest club in Eastern Europe. Sophia came with us one night, but stayed in on the other. While there, we explored the ice bar in the basement, but my poor choice of attire (shorts and sandals) made the experience less than pleasurable. Those coats really do very little to keep you warm!

Another of my favorite sites in Prague was the Kafka museum. An immersive experience, the museum is completely dark on the inside and really tries to embody the eerie yet mundane sensation that pervades Kafka’s works. It was simultaneously disturbing and engaging and one of the best and most unique museums I’ve ever been to.

The Prague Castle was also a fantastic landmark. The castle’s cathedral took centuries to build, and is stunning as a result. The castle itself doesn’t even seem real because it’s so medieval and almost seems like a caricature of itself until you realize that our idea of medieval castles comes from actual castles like this one.

I could go on and on about Prague, which was such a fascinating city, but I must continue on to the rest of our travels. One last tip for anyone wanting to venture to Prague’s landmarks: don’t try to make it up the stairs to the Castle after a late, sleep-deprived, boozy night. Just don’t do it. It will be massively unpleasant.

To get to Vienna, we took a train from Prague. While trekking to the Prague train station, I, of course, fell on my face and bust open my knee. The scar is still there, just so you know. Despite emergency treatment in the Prague train station bathroom, we managed to catch our train and arrived in Vienna. Our hostel in Vienna was in the Naschmarkt, a long street with a diverse and delicious market running right down the middle. In the morning, we explored the stalls and ate some of the food available there, like baklava and dried fruit of every variety. The stalls are managed by some rather large personalities. One of the attendants, after I said “No, thank you” and walked away, started screaming after me “India! India, come back! Try this, India!” Gotta love Europe.

Vienna’s general atmosphere reminds me of a wedding cake. The buildings are mostly pastel in color and elaborately decorated. Art and music is on every street corner, and it certainly lives up to its reputation as the classical music capital of the Western world. We spent some time at a museum in the house where Mozart lived for 2 years–surprisingly enough, this was the house where he spent the most amount of time consecutively as an adult. He was constantly moving around and always in some kind of financial trouble. The museum also had an intriguing analysis of his opera The Magic Flute as some kind of Illuminati manifesto, which is always fun to consider.

In Vienna, we went to the Kunsthistoriches museum, a giant art gallery that was truly impressive. It had some of my favorites, including some Klimt adorning the walls of the gallery, and Bruegel’s The Tower of Babel. The building itself could be considered a piece of art. It was elaborate and rich, as you would expect of Vienna. We also spent a day at Schonbrunn Palace, learning about the fascinating relations of the Austro-Hungarian monarchy, particularly of the mysterious and rebellious Princess Sissi. Schonbrunn was absolutely stunning, and its gardens even more so. It exemplified the city’s lavishness.

Our visit to Vienna also coincided with Vienna Pride, part of which consisted of a series of food and drink stalls outside the Rathaus, Vienna’s city hall. We spent a lovely afternoon hanging out at Pride and enjoying the atmosphere. At this point on the trip, we were looking for relaxation and appreciation of the city’s ambience rather than checking tourist attractions off a list. We also went to one of Vienna’s famous coffeehouses and had some sachertorte. I found the cake not to be of my taste in desserts but thoroughly enjoyed Viennese coffee.

On our last day in Austria, we went to Salzburg for the day before heading to Munich that night. Salzburg struck me as a combination of Vienna and Prague–beautiful and elegant, but also intriguing and a little dark. In Salzburg, we visited the birthplaces of Doppler and Mozart, as well as Mirabell Gardens, where the “Do Re Mi” song from Sound of Music was filmed. We also popped our heads into a (really expensive) restaurant that is reputed to be the oldest restaurant in the Western world, and  the site where Faust sold his soul to the devil. A particularly beautiful and haunting monastery also exists in Salzburg, and we did some walking around the nearby hills and mountains, taking in views of the city from up above. Some of our afternoon was spent chatting and drinking (what else?) beer in a beautiful beer garden. It was such a memorable and ideal time, chatting with some of my closest friends about everything under the sun.

That evening, we bid adieu to the beautiful Salzburg and headed to the rather more industrial Munich. Gillian said goodbye to us that night as she was heading back to the States the next morning. Sophia and I are both naturally laid-back people, and, as it was nearing the end of our adventure, we were more conscious of both our wallets and exhaustion. We spent a lot of time wandering around Munich but didn’t join in on all the touristy activities.

Besides the old city, the historic center of Munich, Munich doesn’t really feel too much like a European city. The streets are wide, and it feels far more residential than you’d expect, almost like an American city. Sophia and I paid a visit to Hofbrauhaus, the very famous brewery and beer house in the center of Munich. It’s not only one of the oldest beer houses in Munich but also apparently the site of a famous speech Hitler gave during his rise to power. But Hofbrauhaus was far too crowded and chaotic, so after poking our heads around a little bit, we left. We both share a passion for Indian food and after 2 weeks of–let’s be real–relatively bland European fare, we desperately searched for an Indian restaurant, which we succeeded in finding. It actually was pretty good!

I had been to Munich about 11 years ago on a Eurotrip with some middle school friends and teachers. It was so strange to be back there, in Marienplatz, watching the same (rather disappointing, but still must-see) clocktower show. So much has changed in my life and in me since then. I was just a child and completely overwhelmed by the world I was seeing. I’m pretty sure 12-year-old Gargi would be flabbergasted to know that a future self would spend a year living in and gallivanting around Europe.

Sophia and I spent some time wandering around the massive English Gardens. It’s an absolutely gorgeous park. The greenery is intersected by lots of rivers and tributaries. In one river, there’s a current that creates what’s called a “Surfer’s Wave,” and yep, people in wetsuits actually go there to surf. It takes a certain amount of skill and courage, however, because large crowds of people gather around the river to watch the surfers. We also decided to spend a little bit of time at a real beer garden. There’s one in the Gardens called Chinesischer Turm, which is centered around what looks like a giant pagoda. On Sophia’s suggestion, I got something called a “currywurst,” which is essentially a sausage with spicy ketchup, a bit of a German junk food specialty. It was actually delicious, although massively overpriced, as touristy beer gardens can be.

Finally, our last night had come. Sophia and I said goodbye to each other and after nearly 2 and a half weeks of travelling, I headed back to Messina, where I spent 1 whole day before taking the bus back to the airport. But this time, I left for good, taking a connection to Istanbul before a gruelingly long 12-hour flight to Houston.

I’ve been home for over a month right now, and it has been so nice to spend time around family and familiar things. But it is undeniable that this experience has changed me for good. Even while sitting at home, flashes of the sunny, windy port of Messina will cross my mind. I sometimes am amazed at myself and the things I managed to figure out and deal with in a strange land. I’ll hear something about Italian food and culture or Sicilian eccentricities and quietly laugh to myself. It’s certainly been a life-changing year, and I look forward to noticing how it will continue to impact my life.

For now, I’m preparing for a completely different kind of adventure altogether this fall: law school!

Prague!

The Vltlava River

Sophia and me in one of the main squares in Prague

From the Prague Castle area

The absinthe bar!

Vienna’s famous state opera house

Schonbrunn Palace

The beautiful gardens of Schonbrunn

Gorgeous Salzburg

The gates into Munich’s old city!

“Surfer’s Wave”

English Gardens in Munich

Barcelona + Rome + Switzerland

I’m a little backlogged on blogging about my travels, but I suppose better late than never. After my journey to Siracusa with Iman, I flew up to Barcelona to meet a group of college friends: Mimi, Ryan, Joe, and Steve. My journey to Barcelona was a bit of a hot mess because I had a connection through Rome, and a few weeks earlier, Rome Fiumicino airport had an electric fire in one of its terminals, creating chaos and frustration as they tried to land and fly out far more flights than they were capable of currently handling.

But I finally arrived in Barcelona, took a train into the city from the airport, and climbed up what could only have been a small mountain to get to my hostel. Okay, it was just an inclined street, but after a long day of travelling, it was basically Mt. Everest. Upon arriving at the hostel, I learned that I had been placed in a totally different dorm from all of my friends, who were all in the same room, despite my careful orchestration and prior assurances that we would all be in the same room. It was a “classic Gargi” moment, but from experiencing the combo of emotions from finishing teaching, finally seeing some of my best friends, and getting ready for the journey of a lifetime, I almost cried right then and there in front of the hostel receptionist.

But I managed to pull myself together with my main motivation in life: food. With the group that was currently there, I went out to a nice tapas dinner with sangria on a busy restaurant street near our hotel. Each hot, spicy, flavorful bite of Spanish food was absolute bliss after 9 months of Italian food, which has its merits, but can get pretty old for me.

The next morning, Steve arrived, making our whole crew complete. We went to Park Guell that day after printing our tickets online. Park Guell is one of Gaudi’s many architectural wonders. Part of the park is open and free and part of it is an architectural smorgasbord, full of whimsical structures and designs. The sun was relentless, however, and we were all a little short on sleep. Other than walking around and exploring the city a little more, the main events of that day occurred later in the evening. First, we went to a tapas bar where each plate cost 1-euro, and you served yourself by taking said plates from the bar. We all ate an absurd amount, tasting the many varieties of Spanish food, like croquettes, chorizo, and small paella dishes. And later that night, we went out to a club in true Barcelona fashion. Joe was the experienced Barcelona traveler, so he picked the club. But that night also coincided with the championship UEFA soccer game, which FC Barcelona won. So the streets were packed with soccer fans. People were honking everywhere and chanting team slogans. Traffic was ridiculous, and it took our taxis forever to get to the club. It turned out not to matter anyway, because we were still among the earliest people at the place, as to be expected in Spain. It was one of those ideal dancing nights: not too crowded, but not too empty, our whole group was fun together, and things went relatively smoothly. Spain has consistently been one of my favorite countries to go out in.

The next morning, some of us decided to go to Barcelonetta, the beach area of Barcelona because it was Joe’s birthday and he had been wanting to go to the beach for a while. It turned out to be a comedy of errors. First of all, the trip had already been postponed to Sunday morning. Then, we were running a little late. We finally got to the beach, took our shoes off, set our toes on the sand, and realized it was scorching hot and we forgot to bring a towel. So we hurriedly set off to buy a towel from one of the nearby stores, and then the 4 of us that had gone carefully squeezed together on one towel, trying to avoid touching the white hot sand around us. The beach was comically overcrowded, but still a fun time with friends.

Afterwards, Steve and I went to the Sagrada Familia which was the definite highlight of my time in Barcelona. Another one of Gaudi’s creations that has been under construction on and off for a hundred years now, the Sagrada is unlike any other cathedral I’ve ever been to. Unlike the ornate structures of the approximately 1 million European churches I had seen up to that point, the Sagrada’s aesthetics were clean, neat, based on light and color, and remarkably futuristic. The exterior, which looks a bit like a melting, wonky Gothic cathedral, impressive in and of itself, is nothing compared to the light and spiritual serenity inside. It’s truly something to see, and one of the most unique things I’ve ever seen in my life.

The next day, Steve and I flew over to Rome, where we were going to meet 2 more very good friends from college, Gillian and Sophia. It was a joyous reunion with some of my favorite people in the whole world. Mimi and Ryan were also in Rome, along with one of Steve’s friends and her boyfriend, so the whole crew of us went out to dinner in Rome. It was actually quite emotional for me to be sitting at a table full of my American peers and friends after spending many dinners eating by myself in restaurants. Later that night, some of us grabbed some bottles of wine and sat on the bridge by Castel San’Angelo, listening to a street performer and admiring the gorgeous views of the Vatican’s splendors. It was a veritable Roman holiday.

My time in Rome was very laid back. Steve and I spent a lot of time wandering and enjoying the city without feeling like we had to run to all the tourist spots because the two of us had already seen them all. We did go back for round 2 at St. Peter’s Basilica because that’s always a marvel.

Our last night in Rome, Steve, Gillian, Sophia, and I decided to stop by this Irish pub that’s always intrigued me, particularly because it was karaoke night. Unfortunately, about 100 other American college-age kids also had the same idea. The bar was overrun by what looked like southern frats and sororities, and for a moment, I forgot I was in Italy and thought I had magically transported myself back to Texas.

The next day, we began our long journey to Lauterbrunnen, a small village town in Switzerland. One of our crew was unfortunately quite sick that day, and Fiumicino airport was still rather chaotic. After a delay on our flight to Zurich, we landed and tried to decipher the Swiss rail system. Lots of decisions were made, hands were wrung, and finally we managed to hop on the train. The train journey to Lauterbrunnen is simple to the experienced, but intimidating and cruelly long for us weary travellers: first, to Bern, then to Interlaken, then to Lauterbrunnen.

That very day, the reliable and trustworthy Swiss rail system–known for being one of the best in the world–had a disruption on the exact line we were trying to take from Bern to Interlaken. We were also surrounded by a group of hundreds of rather intense music fans who were going to a rock music festival in Interlaken. We had to take an alternate route to Interlaken, and after many rowdy rounds of “Wonderwall,” we separated from our music festival friends and managed to catch one of the last trains to Lauterbrunnen. We arrived in Lauterbrunnen at almost 11, and despite limited visibility, were immediately captivated by the quasi-magical atmosphere around us. There was a waterfall in the distance, civilization was far behind us, and suddenly we were surrounded by the tranquility of a quiet, rural town.

I chose Lauterbrunnen because supposedly this is the location that inspired J.R.R. Tolkien when he created Rivendell in Lord of the Rings. I received (perhaps, rightfully) many jokes because of this (“Look! There’s an elf, Gargi!”), but I think all of us who were there would admit that it’s an undeniably magical place. On our first day, we went on a hike through the mountains near us, and for every single second of the walk, we were immersed in a kind of natural beauty I’ve never seen before. I can’t imagine ever getting tired of those views. On our walk, we eventually stumbled into a town called Murren and then into an even smaller town where we had one of the most delicious and refreshing lunches I’ve ever had in a tiny beer garden. We also found a store called “The Honesty Shop” that has no attendant; you take what you want and leave the appropriate amount of money in an envelope. There, Gillian and I began our love affair with Ovomaltine, our new favorite Swiss chocolate. It truly felt like walking through a Disney movie.

Our other friend Michael joined us in Lauterbrunnen, making it a Veritones alumni retreat of sorts. There was lots of excellent conversation and cuddling. We promised to come back in 5 years for a Lauterbreunion (see what I did there?). For one of our days in Switzerland, Gillian and I made use of our rail pass by accompanying Steve and Michael on their journeys back. First, we stopped in Interlaken, a village quite literally between 2 lakes. We walked around one of the lakes and then had another excellent lunch at a restaurant nearby. I had a life-changing strawberry and brie risotto.

After separating from Michael, the 3 of us went on to Bern, where we spent the rest of the day. We walked around the Einstein museum, an in-depth look at his life and his work which I found very interesting. The city of Bern, which is actually the capital of Switzerland, was very sweet and cute-looking. It seemed to not have changed much since when it was built hundreds of years ago. After exploring Bern, we said goodbye to Steve, who was headed back to Zurich, and then America. Gillian and I went back to Lauterbrunnen, where the 3 of us ladies began our first of many nights together with just us.

Lauterbrunnen, beyond being unbelievably beautiful, was a very important break from city-hopping for us. The next day, however, we were back at it, as we headed back to Zurich for our flight to Prague.

At Park Guell

The Sagrada Familia

The amazing interior

Spiez, Switzerland

Lauterbrunnen

On our hike

Interlaken

Bern

Where Einstein lived

Last Days in Sicily

I just closed my Italian bank account today (after running around like a chicken with its head cut off trying to collect all the necessary materials for this task). Tomorrow I leave for my Eurotrip and meet some dear friends whose company I’ve sorely missed over the last 9 months. I had my last classes last week and have said goodbye to the teachers I worked with. My belongings are packed up into suitcases, and I’ve been practicing walking around my apartment with multiple pieces of luggage. I tend to be a late processor when it comes to big life changes. It takes time for me to realize the full emotional impact of life events, and this is no different.

A week ago, I went on a solo weekend trip to Palermo, an intense city with an old neighborhood that seems almost Middle Eastern and a modern neighborhood with straight grid streets that could be comparable to a small, low-rise Manhattan. I explored the city’s main sights, including the gilded Cappella Palatina, a royal chapel built by the Norman kings of Sicily in the 12th century. Palermo’s Duomo was what struck me the most. It has a truly unique appearance because of a mix of different styles of architecture.

I did not go to Palermo solely for tourism but also to join a delegation of representatives from the Fulbright and the Italian American Foundation to take part in an annual anti-Mafia march and rally held in memory of Giovanni Falcone and Paolo Borsellino, two magistrates who dedicated their lives to fighting mafia power and corruption. Both Falcone and Borsellino were killed in two separate car bombing incidents in the early 1990s. While my introduction to the delegation there was chaotic and less than welcoming, the march itself was actually really fun to see. There were lots of school children there from all over Sicily and Italy. There was even a group of American kids from Washington present as part of an exchange program. The energy and sheer number of participators was inspiring, and it was a noisy, boisterous event in the best sense. An Italian Fulbright alum was there, and she mentioned that the event was even more packed and busy in the years right after Falcone and Borsellino’s deaths.

Yesterday, I just got back from a 3-day visit to Siracusa with another Fulbrighter, Iman. Siracusa is definitely one of the most beautiful parts of Sicily I’ve seen. In particular, its island neighborhood Ortygia is on an unworldly level of beautiful. The streets are small and romantic, the sea is vast and unending, and the sunsets are jaw-dropping, not to mention Siracusa has one of the best collections of ancient Greek ruins in the Mediterranean. This is, no doubt, due to the fact that Siracusa was one of the most prized possessions of the Ancient Greeks. Additionally I had one of the most amazing items of food I think I’ve ever had–a mango creme brulee at (ironically enough) a French restaurant.

The ruins included an ancient Greek theatre and an ancient quarry that was used as construction material for the Greeks. There are square cut-outs on giant slabs of stone. There’s also a structure called Orecchio di Dionisio (Ear of Dionysius). This name was given by Caravaggio to the cave, which is shaped like an ear and also has acoustics that allow anyone outside the cave to hear everything that is happening inside. Apparently legend says Dionysus used to keep political prisoners in there so as to spy on their conversations, although, as Iman and I noted, it would take a pretty thick head not to realize that their words were echoing throughout the entire quarry from inside the cave. There is also a structure called “Tomb of Archimede,” although the man who worked at the archaeological park said that is likely a legendary name rather than a historical fact. As always, I was impressed by how incredibly old everything is. I love trying to imagine how great ancient cities must have looked back in the day. My desire to find a time machine and go back just to observe previous civilizations will never fade.

Iman and I had a great time sharing our stories of ridiculousness being an American woman of color in Italy. And after all of this discussion, on Tuesday night, we went to the theatre to see a performance of Aeschylyus’ The Suppliants, which involved an entire chorus of women dressed in blackface. I think I actually face-palmed. It could not have been a more perfect culmination of all our discussion. I’ll save more details about this play and this topic for a separate post I intend to write about my experiences with race, gender, and all that good stuff in Italy.

On our last day, Iman and I went on a boat ride around the island of Ortygia and into some of the sea caves off Siracusa. While the boat we expected to go on looked sturdy enough, when Iman and I showed up at 2 p.m. for our ride, we instead saw a dinky looking motorboat. However, we decided to brave the water anyway, along with 6 other tourists. The waters were at first quite choppy, causing me to comment to Iman that I rather felt like we were at Six Flags. But after we got over the overly relaxed demeanor of our “captain” and the swaying of our boat at any passenger’s slight movement, it turned out to be quite enjoyable. After finishing our tour of the grotto, the boat cut back through to the harbor. As it did so, it approached a very low bridge. We assumed we were not trying to go under this bridge because it clearly looked impossible. But the closer we got, the more of a reality this impossible situation became. Our only word of warning was a whispered “la testa” (‘head’ in Italian) from the man steering the boat. But it was not a mere ducking of the head that was necessary; I actually had to jump onto the floor of the boat and completely bend over in order to avoid any part of my body being separated from the rest of it. Afterwards, Iman and I looked over, incredulous, at our guide, who did not have even the slightest of reactions. Nevertheless, all’s well that ends well, and we got off the boat without further incident.

My last few weeks in school have been eventful but even more unpredictable than usual, if that’s possible. At Ainis, the students did their final presentations in early May. I was proud of my students. Public speaking in a foreign language is not an easy task, a lesson that I quickly learned in return when the principal of the school gave me the mic and said “I want to hear you speak in Italian!” I managed to mumble something slightly coherent out. Overall, the event went quite well, and I was touched by my teachers’ kind words and a gift I received from the students–a sparkly necklace with a star-shaped locket. It will definitely stay with me when I return to the U.S. as a reminder of my time at Ainis.

I did not expect, however, for this presentation to be a closure of sorts. Two of my classes said goodbye to me right then and there and the other two classes’ teachers mentioned that I could come to school if I wanted but there was not enough time for more lessons. It was now time to focus on collecting end of year grades and reviewing for exit exams for the fifth years. I took this surprise rather happily because teacher burn-out is a real thing.

At Jaci, my goodbye was much less formal. In fact, because of strikes and the absence of one of my teachers who was accompanying some students on a trip to Ireland, I didn’t have many full classes there at all. In order to finish a project I was working on with one of the classes, I had to come to school despite the teacher’s absence. It was in some ways a “final teacher test,” which went well and without incident. I will certainly miss those students as well, whose talent and potential are truly a joy to witness. As a matter of fact, one of my students from this school, who I nominated for the Ben Franklin Summer Institute, has won the international fellowship and will be in the U.S. for 4 weeks this summer! I’m excited I managed to directly pay forward the gift of international study and experience to at least one of my students.

Because I dislike the idea of glorifying things on social media, let me be clear: this job has not been easy. As a matter of fact, at times, it’s been downright frustrating and unpleasant. Dealing with miscommunication, lack of discipline, and teachers who choose to treat my periods as free time to run errands and zone out has been challenging. A complete gap in work ethic and priorities between American and Italian cultures only adds to my incredulity when teachers shrug off students who are unprepared for tests or who don’t turn in homework. The general emphasis on repetition rather than creation or analysis in this educational system can sometimes make it difficult to have insightful, productive conversations with some of my classes. My most negative classroom experiences occur when teachers enable students’ bad habits, and then punish them for continuing to engage in them. Meanwhile, I frustrate myself when I find I’m unable to successfully explain a concept or grammar rule. I get bored with repeating myself and having to carefully think about every word I say. Creativity in lesson plans does not come easily to me. The struggle of trying to find joy in a job that doesn’t necessarily fit my personality is exacerbated by the social and cultural isolation I felt in my personal life.

And yet, despite all of this, I have no hesitation in saying that this job and this experience has made me a stronger, better person. I will miss all my students and (most of) my co-teachers because despite our differences, we made many valuable connections, shared some laughs, and understood at least a little bit more about each others’ worlds. I have been taken into multiple families here: my roommate and her parents, who gave me shelter at their apartment when I accidentally short-circuited my place, my tutor Antonella, who took me on a final family excursion to an outlet mall in Enna last week, and another teacher, Mariangela, who took me on a road trip to Milazzo and Tindari with her husband. I have been helped by countless strangers and acquaintances, whose patience and kindness I will never forget.

A year ago, I graduated college with a diploma which officially said I was ready to go out into the world and face any challenge that came my way, but, although I would never have admitted it at the time, I felt as inexperienced and young and directionless as ever. Now, after 9 months at a job that is not at all intuitive for me and in a country with a different language, culture, and priorities, I truly feel as if I could handle any professional and educational obstacles that lie ahead of me. Additionally, with all this time to see the world and think about what really ignites motivation and passion within me, it’s become apparent that I will not truly be happy until I feel that I am somehow helping others and contributing something to this world, which desperately needs innovation and compassion. It’s made me completely reconsider the path I was on to big law in corporate firms in New York. Sure it can pay off my student loans, but it will not fulfill the questions and causes that I want to pursue and advocate for. Now I want to find a way that will allow me to both take care of my finances and do what I really want to do, which is to use the law towards fixing the glaring inequality that is all around us (as naive as that may sound).

While I may be leaving my Sicilian life tomorrow, I will actually be travelling in Europe for some time. I’m excited to write in the future about more travels and more reflection on my experience here with the Fulbright. Until next time!

Palermo

Duomo of Palermo

Cappella Palatina and it’s beautiful gold ceiling

Anti-Mafia march

Small street of Ortygia

More Ortygia

Altar of Hieron at the Syracuse Archaeological Park

Greek theatre

More ruins at the quarry

Ortygia from the boat

A sea grotto

Language, etc.

A few days ago, my roommate asked me for the month’s rent and I looked at her very confusedly, almost certain that I had already paid for the month. Until I realized…it’s not April anymore; it’s May!

This is my last full month of teaching and so far it’s been a really slow one for me. I get the sense that classes are wrapping up. The students in the final year are getting ready for their final exams, and many of my classes have been going on trips. Teachers are trying to finish their syllabi and ask me to prepare cultural lessons less often, leaving me with not much to do at work.

At one of my schools, the classes in which I teach are preparing for a collective presentation of the results of their year with a Fulbright assistant. They are presenting on one or two of the topics they’ve studied with me. The students are nervous about public speaking in English, but I don’t think they realize I’m equally as nervous to face the results (or lack thereof) of my 7-month presence. It can be difficult to stay positive about the impact I’m having on my students when I see repeated mistakes I’ve corrected before or answer questions about a concept I thought I had explained clearly.

Something that’s constantly on my mind because of the nature of my job has been the strange ways in which language works. My students’ questions and my own experience with and knowledge of Italian has given me a new awareness of language’s inexplicable behaviors and quirks. It’s taken me some time to realize that part of my students’ problems with English result from the fact that Italian and English are not only different in their vocabulary and conjugation rules but also in their inherent structure. I suppose this should be an obvious conclusion, but nevertheless, there’s something jarring about experiencing it firsthand.

For example, my students often speak in incomplete phrases. “Is a good thing,” they say, instead of “It is a good thing” or specifying the subject. When I took Italian classes at school, conjugation rules were drilled into my head in a way that makes sense to English speakers. So when I think “è” (the third person conjugation of “essere”, the Italian verb for “to be”; or simply, the Italian for “is”), I actually think to myself “IT is” or “HE/SHE is,” etc. This is a result of the mind of a native English speaker: always, always have a subject or pronoun come first in a normal statement. But “è” is actually only the verb, despite the fact that this particular conjugation implicitly denotes the subject. And in Italian, it’s perfectly acceptable to say “È una buona cosa.” To me, that translates to “IT is a good thing” because my brain is structured around English grammar rules. To my students, it translates to “Is a good thing” because they haven’t been trained since birth to think that way.

Sometimes I confuse myself on how much of my own English is a result of regional tendencies. For example, in Italian, people use “in realtà” the way an American English speaker would say “actually” in a contradictory or clarifying way. If someone made a statement I disagree with, in casual conversation I would say “Actually, I think that’s not right.” Naturally, I’ve heard many Italians use “In reality,” the direct translation of “in realtà” in this way. In my head, that strikes me as strange. But is it technically incorrect? How much of this is my American English? For that matter, how much of this is my Texan-based English? How much of my English comes from what I learned as a kid in India or the little regional quirks I’ve picked up from friends from Boston, California, New York, and everywhere else? Where do we draw the line between regional tendencies and plain old “wrong”? When I raised these questions to Joe, he rolled his eyes at how “Hist and Lit” I am. In my defense, Joe’s thoughts on language dispersal and usage were equally as “Economic.”

I’ve also realized how wordy English seems in comparison to Italian sometimes. Take ordering food or buying something at a store for example. When I first got here, the direct translation in my head of “Could I have this?” or “Can I get one of these?” or “I’d like one of these” into Italian always seemed a little clunky. Over time, I realized most Italians order without all the clutter of English buffering by simply stating the desired object or including a “per me,” which means “for me.” A lot of Italian communication also happens through tone. In Italian, simply saying a word a certain way can express an entire idea. Of course, sometimes, the same happens in English, but the tones are not always translatable, and it happens with much less frequency. Often a teacher will come up to me and simply say “And the fifth class” and I’ll look at her with a blank expression because I have no idea what she’s implying.

Another humorous source of confusion is the difference in spoken pauses in conversation. In American English, we frequently say “um” or “uhh”. I’ve noticed Italians have a different kind of sound for this–closer to “eyh” or “eym”. Sometimes when I’m answering a question or slip into bad speaking habits, my “uhh” is misconstrued for the article “a,” creating a lot of grammar confusion. I’ve only recently realized this, clarifying why so many of my students use unnecessary indefinite articles so frequently (oops!).

And then of course there are the situations in which one word in Italian is actually divided into two completely different words in English, depending on context (or vice versa). The word “ancora” in Italian is used in a number of different ways. Sometimes it can be translated to “still,” while other times it would be more correctly translated to “yet.” Recognizing this helps me realize why my students mix up the two. And of course, part of my hands-on education in Italian has been learning words that simply don’t translate to English. A common Italian practice is going for a walk in the evening before dinner with family or friends–a “passeggiata.” If I had to translate it into English, my best guess would be an “evening stroll,” but that doesn’t really encapsulate the custom of the passeggiata, so I use the word even in English sentences because there’s nothing quite like it.

I think so much more about the sentences I say, both in Italian and English and about what kind of phrasing expresses the equivalent idea in the other language. Much of my confusion in Italian stems not from understanding exactly what is said, but rather the missing context, or a linguistic shortcut I’m unaware of. Being surrounded by a foreign language while trying to teach one in which I’m natively fluent has made me experience on a conscious level something I’ve always been told in theory: language is about so much more than simply understanding the words being spoken. I may be able to “understand” every word of a conversation between two of my teachers. But if they ask me if I followed, I would be lying if I said yes. This can be due to unfamiliar idioms, unexplained context, a culture gap, or a mix of all of the above.

Besides all the pseudo etymology I’ve been mulling about in my head, I’ve also been trying to enjoy my last snippet of time in Messina. But that’s been getting increasingly harder to do as the anticipation of and preparation for all my upcoming adventures–travelling, moving back to the US, getting ready for law school, moving to Cornell–begins to overshadow the already difficult task of trying to live in the present. One of my favorite activities has become researching and making notes in my green Moleskine travel journal in preparation for my Eurotrip. If anyone has any travel suggestions for the following areas, please let me know: Barcelona, Switzerland (particularly Lauterbrunnen and surrounding areas), Prague, Vienna, Salzburg, and Munich.

Recently one of my teachers took me on a road trip to the beautiful Tindari and Milazzo

More ancient Greek ruins. Casual.

The beach town of Milazzo

Easter Break Part II: Amsterdam

I need to start off this post with a round of applause for a book I just read: Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides. If you’re a friend of mine, you’ve likely heard me go on and on about how completely engrossing this novel is. I never thought the personal memoirs of an intersex individual and his Greek ancestry would connect with me the way that this book did. It’s a generational odyssey that begins with the protagonist Cal’s Greek grandparents, living in a small village in modern-day Turkey, who escape from the burning of Smyrna during the Greco-Turkish war that caused the Armenian genocide. They flee to the U.S. and take up residence in Detroit, where the novel continues to follow Cal’s heritage, in an exploration of the genetic mutations that united to create Cal’s intersex biology.

The depiction of Cal’s grandparents’ plight in Turkey personalized and opened up a huge part of history I know shamefully little about (we all know how much I like my history in my literature–Hist and Lit for life). Intertwining the immigrant experience with the confusion of gender identity worked well for me, even if some critics claim it was trite or irrelevant. But mostly, I found the narrator to be immensely likable and unbelievably engaging. Up until the last page (or, in my case, Kindle screen), the book was a humorous, touching, and poetic journey. I felt sad to be done with it.

Okay, let’s return to my Easter travels. After saying goodbye to Naji, I headed up to Amsterdam to visit another one of my best friends from college, Joe. Upon exiting into Schiphol airport, I encountered a little bit of culture shock as I suddenly realized that this was my first time out of Italy in nearly 6 months. To jump from being surrounded by one foreign language to being surrounded by another, completely unfamiliar foreign language, is a lot like pulling yourself out of a steam room and cannonball-ing into an ice-cold pool.

Totally overwhelmed by seeing restaurant franchises I hadn’t seen in half a year (no Starbucks in Italy!) and by the elaborate and completely unfathomable Dutch language, I somehow managed to veer off Joe’s instructions and caught the wrong train to Utrecht. At least I ended up going in the right direction, but, unfortunately, in my complete panic, I had hopped on to a train that took an hour and a half to get there instead of the standard 30 minutes. FYI, Holland, it would be really nice if you could have just a little bit of English somewhere in your train stations. Even Italy’s beating you at that.

While on the train, a woman with a petition or survey of some sort came up to me and started blabbering in rapid Dutch. I stared blankly at first until I remembered that I didn’t actually have to know or understand this foreign language. As a matter of fact, there was absolutely no chance of me having any familiarity with it. So, I managed to stammer out “Sorry, I’m not Dutch.” She cheerfully accepted my answer, said “Never mind, thank you!” and walked on to the next passenger.

Later, Joe told me the Dutch are so used to having 2nd and 3rd generation immigrants of all colors that it’s not unusual for them to behave that way. It was a bit of a shock to me after living in Italy, where people speak in Italian to me, but with a sense of hesitation and trepidation. If I get confused, very often they’ll assume it’s that I can’t understand anything and will exasperatedly sigh until I ask them to just repeat themselves. I realized that the U.S. is quite similar to the Netherlands–we all speak English to each other without hesitation. Yet, I don’t know why I was so struck by this detail. The Dutch also switch to fluent, perfect English with absolutely no hesitation, which was a little oasis of relief for my poor, disoriented, exhausted brain.

Our first night was spent wandering Utrecht, which is a stunningly European city. The streets are dark and lit moodily with streetlamps, and it has a very Gothic feel to it, complete with a tolling bell from an imposing, very tall bell tower. We enjoyed an all-you-can-eat dinner at a sushi place aptly named Sumo, where Joe and I very carefully planned out our orders for each round, as you must do at all-you-can-eat sushi restaurants.

The next day, we went in to Amsterdam, which was much bigger and much busier than I expected. It was fairly cold and a little wet, but that didn’t stop us from waiting in line to see the Anne Frank house. Since it is a very small space and thousands of visitors flock to it every day, the line is an extensive one. Joe and I waited for 3 hours, keeping warm with hot chocolate from a miniature cafe and reminding ourselves that we were about to go see a museum dedicated to some of the worst suffering experienced in human history and maybe we should try to be better people and not complain about the weather.

I think I, like most people who have read The Diary of Anne Frank, will never forget reading their first copy. I remember I read mine while I was in India over a summer vacation. Anne is clearly a gifted writer, especially as a young teenage girl, but I was mostly struck by how normal she was. She was an exceptional young woman, but she was also just a young woman, and so many people with hopes and dreams and normal lives like hers were completely destroyed.

It was surreal to walk through those rooms, knowing that Anne and Peter and Edith and Margot had lived there all those years ago. It was surreal to look at the building from the outside and imagine the moment when Nazi soldiers realized who was hiding inside. The rooms were tiny; I could not fathom being cramped in there for months and months, especially as a young girl with so much energy and curiosity. It doesn’t feel fair to say that “three hours are worth the wait,” as if this is some normal tourist attraction. It’s a form of homage and a duty to go, and remind yourself not only of this remarkable story but also of all the remarkable stories that never had a chance to be shared.

The rest of our day was spent wandering around this curious city, where the buildings seem to grow on top of each other. Joe pointed out some poles sticking sideways out of the buildings. Furniture must be raised on ropes thrown over these poles and pushed in through the windows because the doors and stairways are so narrow. Amsterdam has bright colors everywhere, but if I had to choose a color scheme to describe it, I would choose browns and deep oranges. I wanted to enter one of Amsterdam’s famed “coffeeshops” so we went on a quest for them. They are not in any way difficult to find, but for some reason, I completely missed all the big ones we walked past and settled on a tiny one, a little off the beaten path. Joe assumed I was being picky and trying to find a non-touristy one, but no–I was just completely oblivious.

Since it was cold out, the door to the coffeeshop was closed, and as soon as we opened it, a wall of pungent marijuana smoke overwhelmed us. It is absolutely possible to get a contact high just by walking in to one of these places. Everyone looked up at us sleepily, and I immediately felt way too uncool to be there. But my curiosity was satiated.

After more wandering and bar-hopping, our day in Amsterdam was almost up. We ended with a nighttime walk around the red-light district, which completely fascinated me. First of all, although there’s an area with a high concentration of “red lights,” prostitution is legal in all of Amsterdam, so you can stumble across a window almost anywhere. The women spend their shifts displaying themselves in various levels of coverage from behind red lighted clear doors. But rather than conform to my 19th century idea of a brothel–a large, dingy pub where you enter through a hole in the wall– the system involved simply opening these doors and speaking to the woman inside for information. The experience is much like walking down the frozen foods section of the grocery store, if these frozen foods were wearing lingerie and winking coyly at you as you passed by. They all had different personalities, too. Some women were behaving in a conventionally feminine and sexy manner, while others had more of a sassy attitude. One woman was covered head to toe in a baggy dress and just stared angrily out of her window, making it clear who would be dominating in that particular tryst.

Everything was just so public, both for the prostitutes and for the clients. In some cases, you could see into a back room with a luxurious bed. When Joe and I walked back along a street we had passed before, he noted that the curtain of one of the women we saw earlier was closed.
“Looks like she got a client.” I was aghast. “You mean, he’s being serviced? Right now? Right there?!” I couldn’t handle the proximity of it. The Puritan-esque, American-raised, Indian-born part of me metaphorically clutched my pearls in shock while I also found myself laughing at the absurdity of it all.

My final day in Amsterdam was spent exploring Keukenhof, the famous flower gardens near Lisse. Joe and I once again got caught in an absurdly long line but it moved much faster than before, and soon we found ourselves wandering the various greenhouses and parks of the Keukenhof. The flowers were undeniably beautiful, the atmosphere was clearly Dutch, and we had a lovely time, but Joe and I kept cracking jokes about how the promotional pictures and Instagrams of the place made it look like way more of a grand, massive ordeal. I took all my pictures while kneeling down, attempting to take pictures and Instagrams that created similar illusions. We wandered around in search of a portrait of Van Gogh created entirely from flowers before realizing that the flowers just hadn’t bloomed yet. Hazards of the trade, I suppose.

The next morning, I left absurdly early to fly back to Catania and had yet another airborne mishap. Just as our plane was about to touch down in Catania, it sped up and flew back up in the air. The pilot immediately made an announcement saying they were going to swing back up and try the landing one more time, and the stewardess said the wind was too strong to make the landing the first time. Regardless, the sense of panic in those few moments were way too close for comfort, especially in my sleep-deprived state.

Thankfully, I made it back to Messina in one piece. Since this post has gone on for far too long already, I’ll write an update on life in Messina another time. Thanks for reading, friends.

Utrecht

Bell tower in Utrecht

Amsterdam!

More Amsterdam

Keukenhof Flower Gardens

Easter Break Part I: Milan

For those of you wondering: the amount of joy you feel as a student at the end of a school day right before a holiday is surpassed only by the amount of joy you feel as a teacher at the end of a school day right before a holiday. So I felt like I was on cloud nine as I exited the school on the Tuesday before the beginning of my Easter vacation.

On Wednesday, I woke up bright and early to catch a bus to Catania Airport, where I was expecting to get on a 9:30 a.m. flight to Milan, arriving once again in the company of a friend who knows me all too well. But, discerning reader that you are, I’m sure you understand the key words here are “was expecting” (dun dun dun).

Once we actually boarded the flight and prepared for take-off–we had even rolled out of the gate and everything–we unexpectedly stopped for some kind of repair to the airplane. For about an hour we sat on the uncomfortably warm plane, expecting to be ready and out of there soon, if a little delayed. The other passengers on my flight (all of whom were Italian) started to get restless. A particularly sassy middle aged man exclaimed in frustration: “Siamo qui come baccala’!” (“We’re just sitting here like a bunch of fish!”) Side note: I heard many people repeat the phrase “Pesce d’aprile” and I thought they were continuing on this fish metaphor, but later remembered this is the Italian phrase for “April Fool’s”. Wednesday was, indeed, April 1.

And soon enough, the bad news came. It was time to disembark, the pilot said. They would try to sort out the problem in the airport. So amidst rapidfire Italian bickering and confusion and exclamations, I grabbed my things and exited. After listening to a representative of Meridiana Airlines repeat herself about 5 times, I realized she was saying the flight was cancelled and they would do their best to put us on other outgoing flights to Milan that day: a lucky few would get put on a 12:30 p.m. Alitalia flight, and the rest of us plebeians would have to wait until 3:00 p.m.

As luck would have it, I ended up being one person away from catching the earlier flight so, exhausted and drained, I lugged my duffel bag up to the airport cafeteria where we were given lunch vouchers to eat. Eight hours after I had originally arrived at Catania, fresh-faced and full of energy, I finally boarded this second flight to Milan, now tired and really wishing I’d taken a shower that morning.

When this second plane took off, there was a concerning amount of turbulence. People started yelping excitedly. The woman next to me asked in a high-pitched voice “Cosa sta succedendo?” (“What’s happening?”). Soon, the plane stabilized and her husband very calmly said it was nothing, just turbulence.

But for me, the psychological damage was already done. I don’t know if it was my sheer exhaustion from an already strange day, or my inability to stop thinking about the horrific Germanwings incident, but all of a sudden I started experiencing flight anxiety like I never have before. It’s important to note that I have been making cross-country and international flights on the reg since I was 3 years old and I have not once ever been frightened of flying. But something about that moment and my already frayed mental state and the absolute absurdity of recent events in the world had changed that comfort that I’ve always taken for granted; I am concerned that it’s been changed for good.

Anyway, after landing in Milan, I caught a bus to the center of the city (uneventfully, thankfully), and could not have been happier to see Naji at the central station.

Milan is a curious city; as far as Italian cities go, it doesn’t seem to have the same illustrious history as Rome or Florence or the ancient Greek ruins of Sicily and Southern Italy. And yet, it is impressive in its own way. Fashion is truly in the air in Milan. You don’t just see it in the 5,000 euro handbags glinting at you from the windows of the Quartiere dell’oro (The Gold Quarter) and its famous shopping streets. You also see it on passersby on the sidewalk…and sometimes on their dogs.

We had some uncharacteristically fantastic weather in Milan, which has been described to me by Sicilians as rainy, cold, and gray. I assumed a lot of the eye-rolling and face-making that I usually see from Southern Italians when I mention Milan was just regional bias, but they weren’t entirely incorrect. Naji can attest to the less-than-ideal weather, but even in the sunlight and warmth, the city was also just gray. The facades of the buildings and the general color scheme of the city seemed to center around neutrals, a big change from the colorful towns of Southern Italy or the burnt orange and deep reds of Tuscany.

The exceptions to the gray, however, were stunning: First, there are two truly beautiful parks, where Naji and I spent a lot of time relaxing and observing dogs and their owners, which is far more entertaining than you would think. The Parco Sempione precedes the Castello Sforzesco, a castle named after the family that brought Milan much of its power and wealth. Second, the Duomo of Milan is unbelievable. I’ve seen my fair share of Duomos during my time here, but nothing is quite so massive as the one in Milan. Florence’s famous Duomo is a feast for the eyes and jaw-dropping in its colors and details. Meanwhile, Milan’s is also covered in a variety of intricate details, but what is truly magnetic about it is its imposing size and completely white facade, almost blinding in the midday sun.

The piazza in front of the Duomo was just as maddening as the Duomo was magnificent. You can’t take two steps without being assaulted by vendors selling selfie sticks, asking to take pictures, offering to give you crumbs to feed the swarms of pigeons (I was astounded that someone would actually pay to have pigeons approach them). I know the vendors are just trying to make a living, and I understand they have to do what they have to do, but it was incredibly overwhelming.

Inside, the Duomo is filled with some brilliant stained glass and soaring columns that make your neck hurt from looking upward. The atmosphere was a little smoky and mysterious, adding to its medieval appeal. I wanted to walk around in a long, flowy gown, pondering a family scandal or wondering how to rule a rebellious kingdom.

Milan is also preparing for the world Expo, so every once in a while, a sign or structure would pop up with information about the Expo events and locations. It’s clear from the graffiti that the people of Milan have mixed feelings about the Expo. “Expogate”, a la Watergate, refers to the belief some people hold that the mafia is somehow making a ridiculous amount of money from this whole business. Ironically enough, a large official structure in the middle of the city where you can purchase tickets and catch shuttles for the Expo is labelled “Expogate”–purposefully provocative or optimistically unaware? I couldn’t tell.

During my first evening in Milan, Naji, Dan, and I went out for a nice dinner and drinks. I was not at optimal socializing capacity because of the exhaustion of my travel ordeals but I did have enough energy to insist that we please find some kind of cuisine other than Italian. So we had dinner at a delightfully quirky tapas place, followed by drinks at a neighborhood dive bar.

My second and final evening in Milan was preceded by a very intense nap. After a whole day of wandering, Naji and I completely passed out while planning to just rest for a little at his apartment. We woke up at 9:30 p.m., but thankfully, for Italians, that’s just dinner time, so no harm was done. We went out to a club which actually played recognizable music with words instead of the unbearable boredom of constant bass-thumping house music. It was so much fun to just let loose with a good friend and remind myself that I am indeed 23 years old and don’t always fall asleep by 10 p.m. with the unflattering glare of Netflix on my face.

The next day, however, quickly reminded us that we are not the hyperactive 18-year-old college freshmen of yore, whose bodies had just recently discovered the wonders of alcohol. No, now we were exhausted and achy and slightly disoriented. So, communicating only in grunts, I managed to pack my things and we headed out so I could catch the bus to Linate Airport, where I took off for Amsterdam.

Milano

Hanging out with my good friend Naji

The famous fashion capital–don’t try to go into these stores for fun, though. The intimidating bodyguards will make you think twice!

The Duomo of Milan

Inside the Duomo

Castello Sforzesco

Parco Sempione

Getting ready for a fun night out in Milan!

Limbo

The first 2.5 months of the new year have not been easy. The initial whirlwind of this exciting new adventure, the culture shock, and the optimism of embarking on a life-changing experience have all passed. And now, I find myself in more of a routine.

To a certain extent, I love routines. I remember when I first got to college freshman year everyone was out in Canaday courtyard until 3 a.m. talking about how great pre-orientation and orientation weeks were. No classes, no responsibilities. Just chatting and getting to know each other. I nodded along, but in my head I couldn’t help but think “Are you kidding? This is awful. Where is the structure?!” Oh, don’t get me wrong. By the time senior year rolled around, and I had found my group of trustworthy friends who I was comfortable around, I did my fair share of complaining about classes and papers and obligations. But for the most part, I do have a bit of a love affair with structure and routine.

But here, falling into a routine has been the opposite of comforting. It’s been disconcerting. Am I really supposed to be spending this much time alone? Am I really doing all the soul-searching and creative work I can with my time here? Am I accomplishing anything at school?

The thing with a “routine” here is that I know when and where I have to be at school. But what will actually happen during my time with my classes (if they actually happen), regardless of what I have planned, is never fully predictable. So despite having structured time, I still feel dubious about what kind of impact exactly I’m having on my kids.

Two weeks ago, I went to Rome for the Fulbright ETA Mid-year Conference. It was truly inspiring to see the hard work and creativity of my fellow ETAs, and I have stolen many an idea from them. One of the ETAs discussed the importance of individualized feedback on written tests or essays: provide 2 positives and 1 “next step.” On my train back from Rome, I did exactly that for a class test I was grading. When I gave the tests back to my students, they were so excited that it took some time to regain control of the classroom. They were taking pictures of the comments with their iPhones. They kept saying “che carino!” (how cute!).

I’ve organized a new kind of “call and response” lesson with the same class, asking them to write what I call an “origins statement,” discussing where they are from, some stereotypes about this place and its people, what they are proud of, and what defines their hometown culture. I wrote my own statement about Texas as an example, and incorporated this activity into a broader lesson about national stereotypes and Canada, part of which involved watching, understanding, and discussing the “I am Canadian” beer ad, a more comic version of what I’m trying to elicit out of my kids.

Next time I see them, which won’t be until next week, I would like them to present these statements. Hopefully, it will go well.

I don’t have the space in all of my classes to whip out assignments like this, because some of my teachers have more of a direction they want me to take and provide more supervision, but for the classes where I do feel a little lost and out of ideas, listening to the ETAs gave me new material.

But it also made me question what I bring to the table as a teacher and a resource for my kids. For the first time in my life, I have absolutely no idea how I’m doing. I don’t know how to evaluate myself, and I don’t have anyone explicitly evaluating me. I’m not getting a grade for this. I’m never going to be promoted. I may ask a teacher for a future reference, and of course I’ve learned so many personal and professional skills, but, in terms of directly impacting my future career, this experience for all intents and purposes, at the end of May, will just end. No report card. No transcript. No scale by which to measure the quality of work I’m doing.

And that same sense of limbo can be extended to my personal life. Over time, I’ve let go of some activities that I pursued gung-ho when I got here. I’ve realized I probably will never make the kind of friends that I can text to hang out with every weekend. I’ve also realized my major problem with being alone is that a little part of me feels that I shouldn’t be, for the sake of stories and social media and having something to say when people ask me if I have any friends here.

But this is all a superficial evaluation. So I ask myself, instead, “Are you happy here?” And the truth is I do find myself quite happy at times–when my students finally engage with a lesson, when I try to cook something new, when I go for a spontaneous walk around the harbor. However, a key factor towards sustaining my mental sanity and “happiness” is knowing that this is temporary. This is not my life forever. I will go back soon to a place where the simplest interactions don’t require my entire brainpower, where my sense of humor is understood, where making connections with people won’t seem like a Herculean, impossible task. I will, in all likelihood, never teach high school English in Sicily again.

For a long time, I’ve been suppressing the notion that this temporariness was key to my happiness. Because to me, that was a big fat D- on my report card. That means I’m not really appreciating this experience. I’m not really doing everything I can. In fact, sometimes I wonder what it says about me as a person. But my reality is what it is. I find genuine joy and relaxation and peace at times like I’m supposed to but I also need to tell myself this is not my home. This is not my world. I am a visitor, and I will let it surround me and shape me and influence me, but I will also leave it.

Even this question–“Am I happy?”–is not really the point of me being here, though, is it? It’s about what I do for my students. For even one student. If I impact even one life for the better by helping them understand a grammatical concept or introducing an aspect of American history, literature, or culture that raises questions and thoughts, that’s what matters. I’m just not sure if that’s actually happening.

I’m over halfway done with my experience now. At work, all I can really do is push harder. Be more creative. Try new things. Bring more out of the students. In Messina, now that the days are getting longer and the weather is getting warmer, I enjoy the breath-taking beauty of the land around me. Sometimes I turn a corner or simply turn my head and I catch a glimpse of a stunning green mountainous landscape in between the buildings along the street. It’s truly remarkable. I’m also planning lots of travel. As much as I love routine, it takes a little bit of an electric shock to remind yourself that there is still much to wonder about, still much to seek and discover and be inspired by.

It’s strange to oscillate between counting down the days til I return home and feeling a premature sense of nostalgia about my life here. It’s strange to have structure in one sense–a schedule, a temporal routine–but feel completely suspended and lost in another. I’m constantly in flux, feeling a million different emotions and also absolutely nothing all at the same time. But I didn’t come here to experience something normal. I came to take myself out of the box, and I’m so far out I don’t even see the cardboard anymore.

A spontaneous trip to Scilla

Roma 2.0

We left off at my departure from Florence. Thankfully I made it to the train station with plenty of time and managed to board the correct train. I love trains. You see so much of the landscape. They have so much more charm than airplanes. But there is a ridiculous amount of anxiety involved while boarding and disembarking from them (at least in Italy). I’ve been shoved aside, casually pushed back in line, and blocked from my suitcase in the luggage compartment by an unsolvable passenger traffic jam. I’m also haunted by something I witnessed when I was heading up to Salerno. Two young women with rather large suitcases were waiting by the doors of the train as it pulled in to their stop. When the train stopped, they pushed the “Open Door” button to exit, but nothing happened. And by the time they realized the door was actually broken and tried to lug their suitcases to the other side of the carriage, the train had already left. So whenever I get ready to disembark a train, I always have to mentally prepare myself, suitcase in hand, to sprint to the other side of the carriage if that button doesn’t work.

I’d already spent a week in Rome with my parents checking off most of the touristy things from my list, so when I got off (safely and correctly) at Termini train station, I was confused about what to do for 2 days until some friends came down to join me.

My hostel was more than a little disappointing. After the delight that was The Academy Hostel in Florence, my new place was dark, unfriendly, and isolating. Unlike The Academy Hostel (which has a open, brightly lit common space and rooms all on the same floor), Alessandro Palace and Hotel’s rooms were split up on different floors in a large building. Their common space was a dim, sad bar, and the crowd didn’t seem to be solo travelers, but rather, people already there in groups. It also seemed to be more of a party hostel/crowd, and I wasn’t really feeling it. Additionally, it was freezing in Rome, and the heating in my lackluster room was abysmal. After 2 weeks of travelling and hostel life, I knew I couldn’t last long. Spoiler alert: I ended up moving to a legitimate hotel after a few nights. The privacy and functioning heater were totally worth it.

During my 2 solo days in Rome, I decided to wander and see if I found anything cool on my own. I was tired of planning my days and having a list of sites, so I wanted to wing it a little.

My first evening in Rome I headed over to Villa Borghese and found the entrance to the museum in the impressive garden area. I wasn’t expecting much, honestly, after my time in the artistic haven of Florence. But the Borghese museum went above and beyond my (misguided) expectations. The paintings were notable and quite a few were famous, but the real crown jewel of the museum is its sculpture collection. The Berninis alone are stunning. Some of my favorites were his David and Apollo and Daphne. The construction of details and incredible delicacy were truly awesome. The fact that tickets for the next 2 days had been sold out in advance should have tipped me off that the Borghese Museum is a real stunner. But again, thanks to my magical Fulbright museum card, I not only managed to sneak in without a reservation, I also paid a fraction of the normal entrance price.

I also hadn’t gotten a chance to explore Via Veneto the last time I was in Rome. Via Veneto is a famously fancy street with expensive shopping, hotels, and restaurants. Fellini’s La Dolce Vita brought the street much of its current popularity. While walking around that area, I stumbled across the Capuchin Church and Crypt. I had heard the name before, and it piqued my interest, but I was not quite sure what I was walking into.

The Church and the contemporary museum that details some of the traditions and history of the Capuchin monks were enlightening and interesting but nothing truly remarkable. I kept walking through, skimming some plaques, until I reached the end of the museum with a sign leading into the crypt. I didn’t really know what to expect until I walked inside the Crypt and my jaw almost fell to the floor. The Crypts contain the remains of over 3,500 Capuchin friars (or so it is said). But they’re not just skulls and bones sorted haphazardly. Instead, the bones have been arranged into forms, nailed on to the ceilings and walls, and used to create various symbolic shapes and designs. The intention of the art is not to be morbid but rather to use death to depict life. Regardless, it is quite difficult to walk through the crypt and not get the–for lack of a more poetic term–heebie jeebies.

I didn’t take any pictures because it just seemed too intrusive and disrespectful, but you can easily Google the place and get an idea of what I’m talking about. There’s nothing quite like physically walking through the Crypt and seeing everything for yourself–bones surround you from head to toe. The museum ticket and detour to check out this place is definitely worth it, especially if you’ve already done the major Rome things.

With the rest of my time, I revisited some of my favorite Piazzas, including Piazza del Popolo and Piazza Navona. I continued to draw in my sketchbook, and did a pretty decent rudimentary sketch of the dome of a cathedral.

Another personal mission while in Rome included not eating Italian food. Look, I totally get it. Italian cuisine is world-renowned. And I do eat very well in Messina. The sheer quality of produce and other products in the grocery stores is remarkable. But homegirl needs some spice in her life. I ended up checking out a sushi place for lunch one day, and went over to the Vatican area to have dinner with Iman at a legitimate Indian restaurant (one sip of a mango lassi and I almost burst into tears). While I have become an expert “table for one” customer at a restaurant, it was wonderful to have some great company while eating my favorite kind of food.

Eventually, Matt, Naji, and fellow Fulbrighter and Naji’s roommate Dan came down to Rome from Milan, followed shortly after by Liz, a Harvard classmate and Fulbright ETA in Norway. I cannot even begin to tell you how much I appreciated being around American peers. It was  the most relaxed I’ve felt in months. Conversation was easy, cultural references were understood, and jokes did not require belabored explanations. I’m pretty convinced that after my sense of linguistic and cultural isolation here, I’ll be able to befriend and be infinitely appreciative of pretty much any English speaker I meet.

But of course the merits of my friends went far beyond the bare minimum. They’re all truly funny and fun-loving people, which resulted in many very long and very cold but also equally enjoyable walks back from the Vatican after dinners at Matt’s favorite Roman restaurant- Mama’.

On New Year’s Eve, the crew (Iman, Liz, Matt, Naji, Dan, and I) all met up for dinner before walking down to the Colosseum area to watch the fireworks at midnight. I had been warned by multiple people that big cities in Italy can be quite dangerous on New Year’s Eve. People set off bombs–seriously, legit bombs–and fireworks without warning. Besides being problematic in the obvious ways, being too close to one of these can seriously damage your hearing. I was slightly on edge the whole time we were out on the streets. People were rowdy, and I didn’t know what to expect. When we finally got to the Colosseum area, I relaxed a little bit. I bought a bottle of overpriced champagne from a street vendor (because what is New Year’s Eve without champagne?), and we–in the classiest of ways–passed the bottle around after the countdown.

Speaking of which, there really wasn’t a countdown. I don’t know if I’ve made this abundantly clear, but keeping time is not one of Italy’s strong suits. We managed to have our own countdown because we were looking at our watches, but no one else really noticed or cared. All of a sudden it was 2015 and the fireworks increased in intensity.

Afterwards, we headed in the direction of Campo dei Fiori, a young area with lots of bars and clubs. Just as we walked into the piazza, one of the infamous bombs that I was warned about exploded and it truly made us all jump out of our shoes. We scampered into a bar and decided to stay inside the rest of the night. At around 5:00 a.m., we finally realized how exhausted we were and headed back home. We caught a cab back towards the area of the city where our hotels/hostels were and after annoying our poor, sober cab driver to pieces, we all finally collapsed, face first into our beds.

At around noon on January 1st, we began to display signs of life again as we texted each other “Can’t move. Going back to sleep.”

After reuniting the night of January 1st for one last dinner all together at Mama’, the boys left on the 2nd. Liz and I headed up to the Colosseum area that day. Seeing the whole thing again was no less impressive than the first time. If anything, it was nice to spend some time looking at it on my own instead of with a tour group. Later that night, Liz, Iman, and I had dinner at an Argentinian restaurant, probably because of my determination to eat as much non-Italian food while I could.

And on the 3rd, I came back to Messina. After 2 weeks of traveling, I was so ready to head home and sprawl out in my bed, but unfortunately, I hit one last snafu. I’ve been ridiculed by Italians and Americans alike for taking the 8.5 hour Intercity direct train from Rome to Messina or vice versa. So for my return trip, I opted for a “faster” journey on one of the high-speed trains to Villa San Giovanni, where you can catch a ferry across the strait to Messina. I managed to get on the ferry alright, although I had to lug my suitcase up several flights of stairs to get to the passenger deck. When we landed in Messina, I disembarked and suddenly realized that I had absolutely no idea where I was. This particular ferry (Caronte and Tourist) did not take me to the port that was near my apartment, and the one I’m familiar with. Rather, it dropped me off 40 minutes away at a port further down.

Between waiting for the ferry to take off at San Giovanni and the 40 minute walk back home, the journey ended up taking about the same amount of time and twice the hassle of the direct Intercity train. At least now I know. But during that 40 minute walk, sweaty and grimy from my travels, backpack digging into my shoulder, suitcase rattling so much on the sidewalk that my arm almost fell off, I thought I was going to explode from frustration or suddenly collapse from exhaustion.

One hot shower later, I realized that I did it! I told myself I would make the most of my winter holiday, and I planned and executed this 2-week trek all by myself. It was thanks to many friends, old and new, along the way that I have many of my treasured memories. But it was also fulfilling and liberating to travel on my own. I’m so grateful for my experiences in 3 beautiful cities, and I can’t wait to explore many more.

P.S. I have a snow day home from school tomorrow. In Messina. Absurd.

The Nativity scene at St. Peter’s Square. Arguably THE Nativity Scene.

Caravaggio in Santa Maria del Popolo

Santa Maria Maggiore, another major cathedral in Rome

The beautiful floor in Santa Maria Maggiore–this type of marble coloring is found in many old Italian buildings

More Santa Maria Maggiore

St. Peter’s at night

Firenze

I’ll start off with a quick update on my current life in Messina. January seems to be a bit of a gloomy month here. Energy is low. All the major festivals are over, and people are pretty much just going about their regular business. The weather is constantly on and off–it rains without warning, and can go from warm and sunny to misty and cold within a matter of seconds. I admit I’ve been a little low on energy myself. I got horribly sick last week with a monster of a cold, and I still don’t feel totally recovered. Francesca, my roommate, is out of town, so it’s nice to have the whole apartment to myself, but I’m definitely going through a bit of a hermit phase right now. A lot of the work I’m doing right now also lends itself to staying at home and working on the computer–lesson planning, preparing to do my own taxes for the first time in my life (and last year’s fillings are going to be a doozy), studying for the GMAT, researching for future plans and student loans (ew).

Since my job is not very time-consuming, I’ve taken up a lot of new hobbies, including sketching and yoga. I’ve actually turned into one of those nuts that updates friends about their progress with different poses. They roll their eyes and virtually pat my head.

While I still feel like I never really know what’s going on at school, I have found at least somewhat of a consistent rhythm. Lesson planning can be really taxing, especially when you’re working on 8 different classes that are all slightly different in attitude and subject material. As I’ve said before, if nothing else, these 9 months are an exercise in gratitude and appreciation for the wonderful teachers I have had in my life.

Anyway, time for part deux of my winter travels: Firenze, or Florence.

So far, Florence is my favorite Italian city. It’s even rivaling Edinburgh, Dublin, and London for one of my favorite cities in the world. As a Modern British studies concentrator and a career Anglophile, that’s a big deal.

One of the most remarkable things about Florence is that I never once felt self-conscious about being alone there. Even when I was wandering by myself through museums or stuck in a piazza with a giant map open or eating by myself, it all came so naturally. I just felt so at home. Part of the sensation must have a little something to do with its relative smallness. Between the chaos of Naples and the absolute massiveness of Rome, Florence was quiet. It was awe-inspiring, but in a friendly way.

The amount of history and art in Florence is just staggering. Of course, unlike Rome’s classic splendor, Florence is a Renaissance gem.  One of the first things I did after checking into my hostel and dropping my things off was just take a walk. While wandering, I stumbled across the Uffizi Gallery, the Palazzo Vecchio, the Loggia dei Lanzi–an open-air collection of some stunning statues–and the Fountain of Neptune. The most incredible part? They were all in the same piazza, the Piazza della Signoria. A little more wandering led me to a fantastic view of the Arno River and the Ponte Vecchio, the famous medieval bridge which houses the Vasari Corridor. And the most undeniably Florentian symbol, the stunning duomo with Brunelleschi’s famous dome, was literally right next to my hostel. Every morning when I went out and every evening when I returned, I would walk right past it, always pausing to admire it for at least a few moments because it is truly a feast for the eyes.

My first full day in Florence I spent quite some time at the Basilica of San Lorenzo and its accompanying monastic complex, including the Laurentian library, designed by Michelangelo. This was not a landmark I knew about before I arrived in Florence, and in some ways, it seems to be the lesser-known sister of some of the more famous tourist hotspots in the city. But it was definitely worth the visit. The library alone was a beautiful space, and the Basilica is the common burial place for the Medici family, a fascinatingly powerful dynasty.

Needless to say, the Uffizi Gallery was stunning. Not only is every wall adorned with at least one easily recognizable painting, but the building itself is also a work of art. There are hallways full of beautiful statues, and these are just the areas you walk through to get to the rooms with more art inside them. The other must-see museum of Florence is the Accademia Gallery, most notable for housing Michelangelo’s David. In the long hallway leading up to the David, there is a collection of half-finished Michelangelo statues. They are the strangest sight. It looks like figures are crawling their way out of a giant block of marble. It’s so fascinating to see mid-way into a genius’ creative process.

The David was unparalleled in its finesse. I never knew the statue was so big. It seemed absolutely enormous from the base. To see how every line, every curve came together to create a nearly perfect figure was a privilege I won’t forget anytime soon. There are replicas of David in other areas of Florence–Piazza della Signoria, and Piazzale Michelangelo, but, seriously, nothing is like the original.

Inspired by all the art around me, I bought a little sketchpad and a black pencil and perched upon the steps leading up to Piazzale Michelangelo, attempting to sketch the lantern on top of a lamppost. It was hideous and completely disproportionate. I called it modernism and moved on.

I do have to say that going to Florence around Christmastime is a pretty smart tourist move. Don’t get me wrong; there are plenty of tourists. But it’s nothing compared to the throngs of people that come during the summer. Additionally, the cooler weather is a blessing if you have to stand in line for hours outside a museum. However, I visited the Uffizi the day before Christmas and there was no line. None. This is completely unheard of. Having my handy-dandy Fulbright card that helps me skip lines anyway was pretty great, too. Plus, the city is just gorgeous during Christmas season. There are lights hung on the streets and the Piazza del Duomo is graced with a giant Christmas tree.

One of my absolute favorite things to do while travelling is to visit the burial sites of historical figures that I respect and admire. If you also share this slightly morbid fascination, I would definitely recommend visiting the Basilica di Santa Croce, burial site of Galileo, Michelangelo, and Machiavelli. There’s also a shrine to Dante, but the famous poet is actually buried in Ravenna. There was a votive candle rack near Galileo’s grave, so I lit one, pointed to him and quietly whispered, “This is for you. Not all of that,” while vaguely gesturing to the grandiose cathedral he was housed in. How ironic and sad to have his final resting place be smack dab in the middle of an institution that ruined his life. Speaking of grandiosity, the interior of this cathedral is a stunner, which more than makes up for the disappointingly empty interior of the Duomo.

However, it seems Galileo gets some post-mortem revenge, because he has his own museum in Florence. It houses some pretty cool old scientific instruments, and perhaps, most interestingly, also has one of Galileo’s fingers on display. Pretty gnarly. It’s so unassuming you could potentially walk right through the Galileo room without seeing it. But the joke is that it’s his middle finger. So he’s eternally flipping off everyone. I would too, if I’d had a life like his.

It was also an absolute pleasure to spend some time with two other Fulbrighters in Florence. Anne is a research fellow living in Florence, and Sara, another ETA who lives in Viterbo, came up to visit for a few days. Anne took me out to some delightful events, including a quirky cafe’ with even quirkier characters that hosts various literary and cultural events. That night, someone was talking about the complexity of the Bosnian conflicts. I followed along as much as I could (it was in Italian, of course), but it was equally entertaining to see the discussions that occurred between the various frequent patrons of this particular cafe. Anne also introduced me to a friend of hers, a British professor of literature, who invited me over to a Christmas dinner with him, Anne, and an Italian friend of his. It was incredibly fortunate to have excellent company and conversation on Christmas Day–something I was worried about earlier. Everyone there was particularly interested in literature, art, music, or all 3, so it was quite fun for me to pretend to be a semi-intellectual in a city so famous for its ideas and innovation.

I really lucked out with my hostel in Florence, the Academy Hostel. I cannot speak highly enough about it. It was not only clean and neat, but also had a great atmosphere that was really conducive to befriending some other lone travellers. One night I met another Bengali girl (who was actually from India) and a Korean guy currently studying in London, and we went out with the hostel receptionist and his friend. It was silly, stupid fun, and it was something I really needed. We went to a karaoke bar and were the only ones dancing and looked absolutely ridiculous and had a blast. Nights like that are the reason I love staying in hostels.

I also took a day tour up to Pisa and Lucca with a tour group. The tour would have been completely delightful…if it hadn’t poured all day and been teeth-chatteringly freezing. I did not have an umbrella and was completely unprepared for the horrendous weather. I ended up befriending an older woman in the tour group who was also by herself–or rather, she befriended me by coming up to me and asking me if I was American. She was divorced with adult kids back in the States. Now that she had more free time, she enjoyed travelling and was spending 6 weeks in Florence, staying in an apartment with her friend, who hadn’t come on the tour with her. She was hilarious and sassy and simply not having it with this mess of a tour.

From what I could see of Pisa and Lucca from under my coat hood and my new friend’s umbrella, they are beautiful cities, full of the quaint medieval Tuscan charm that Americans just adore. The leaning tower is still…leaning.

Upon returning to the hostel that night, soaked through and well on my way to contracting pneumonia, I realized I had gone over a week without my laptop. How did I possibly survive, you ask? With some really fantastic books by one amazing author, whose style is bitterly humorous and hopeful and emotional and simple all at the same time: David Nicholls. I recommend Us by him to anyone who enjoys a British sense of humor. Or stories about people. Or words. It’s pretty great.

But alas, after being soaked to the bone and going through a whirlwind checklist of all the big and small sites in Florence, it was time for me to bid adieu to my new favorite Italian city. On to Rome, on to New Year’s Eve, and on to 2015.

Piazza della Signoria, Fountain of Neptune

Ponte Vecchio on the Arno River

The famous Florence Duomo and tower

Inside the Uffizi Gallery

Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, inside the Uffizi

Inside the Uffizi

Galileo’s grave in Basilica di Santa Croce

A replica of the David in Piazzale Michelangelo

View of Florence from Piazzale Michelangelo

Pisa