My Home Across the Atlantic

My nights were filled with loud laughter, dinner tables circled by smiling friends, wine glasses brimming with Tuscan chardonnays and stomachs warm with burratas and bologneses. These rendezvous often lasted late into the evening hours, ending in winding walks home guided by the enchanting yellow glow of the European eve. Empty streets once flush with tourists wielding bulky camera equipment and sporting patterned fashions were now silent, apart from the melodic trot of our boot heels against the cobblestones.

These nights gave way to slow mornings, air punctured by steaming capuccinos and lingering cigarette smoke from the previous evenings’ affairs. The sun kissing the glistening Arno, the screeches of metal as shopkeepers opened their doors, the familiar murmur of locals gathering in the square — these were the signs that the morning hours were upon us.

In the endless rolling hills of Tuscany, nestled among vineyards and medieval dwellings, lies the city of Florence. The birthplace of the Renaissance, a history buff’s dream, steeped in chronicles of antiquity. A center for culture, fashion, and art. A city where you can find Gucci Garden and Ponte Vecchio within the same mile. The streets are lined with big-name luxury brands and family-owned panino shops, centuries-old cathedrals and buzzing leather markets. You can walk end to end in under an hour, and see hundreds of years of history in passing.

A city frozen in time but bustling in motion, a city full of life but ossified — a city full of contradictions. Buildings crumbled with the weight of centuries prior and crooked streets whispered with secrets of the city’s past.

My August days were long and warm under the Tuscan sun, with afternoons soaked in sweat, tanned legs but burnt backs. Days were jam-packed with exploring all of the offerings of this new place, and evenings were spent splayed on piazzas enjoying aperitivi. 

Monday through Thursday elapsed in classrooms, housed in an old Renaissance palace, pen to paper as we learned about all of the classical Italian offerings — renowned art, rich history, and impeccable design.

The promise of the weekend loomed, where we’d hop on buses, trains, and planes and whisk away to somewhere new. From the rocky coastline of Santorini to the sienna sands of the Sahara, the breezy hills of Lisbon to the twisting canals of Amsterdam. The weekend was a mystery to be uncovered, a present ripe for unwrapping.

New sights, new people, new languages, new foods. Each new place leveraged all of the senses. I once was one to order off of the kids’ menu, but I broadened my palate to all of the foods that each country had to offer. (Spoiler alert: Pastéis de nata were my favorite).

Each weekend, I’d arrive in a new scape, equipped with an extensive list of restaurant recommendations and must-see marvels. I often found the moments that filled the gaps between the itinerary bullets to be more fulfilling. Passing encounters with shopkeepers or locals, storefronts I’d wander my way into with welcoming signs on the door, even following my trusty sense of smell towards a freshly baked pastry.

The people I met in passing, some who touched my life in ways ephemeral and others more long-lasting, have become stamps on my personal passport, signatures of cultural capital. Strangers I shared a spin with on the dance floor, conversations with taxi drivers, the mundane and traditionally brief “Where are you from”s with fellow American tourists that occasionally turned into uncanny coincidences.

Some of my fondest memories of wandering come from the day I spent getting lost alone in the charming canals of Venice. Right, left, straight, left, left, left, right, I turned and bent and twisted with the ebb and flow of the Grand Canal. No final destination, just focused on the journey. I found this to be an allegory for my adventures abroad.

I’d return to Florence late Sunday night, my walk home guided by dim streetlights, back hunched as I scurried along, carrying the weight of the weekend. The familiar meandering path would lead me to the Duomo, where I’d freeze in awe between panting breaths and admire the impressively imposing cathedral.

My apartment was situated on the bustling pedestrian street of Via Pietrapiana, frequented by locals in the Sant’Ambrogio neighborhood. They would conduct their daily regimen of grabbing a pastry from Pasticceria Nencioni and a coffee from Cibreo Café, often sitting outside in café tables that lined the streets to savor their morning delight.

Just around the corner was the famed Sant’Ambrogio market, which became the destination of my morning ritual. I’d stop by the fresh produce vendors, picking up an avocado or some berries along the way. My favorite pastime was browsing the vintage booths that lined the square, owned by a veteran band of Italian vendors.

I became acquainted with Daniela, the Turin-native, free-spirited, and fashionable middle-aged owner of one of the booths. She had a long silver mane that hung to her waist and a playful poodle named Penelope, who was always in her company. She’d sport some variation of leggings and a chic dress, complemented by furs, every day. Her storefront, which resembled more of an eclectic walk-in closet, was a decades-long collection of one-of-a-kind threads. Instrumental lo-fi funk music wafted from her booth, and her extensive collection of vintage garments spilled into the alleyway filled with other vendors and passersby.

As I’d peruse her stock of silky ‘60s nightgowns and Italian furs, she would tell me stories of her travels, her life, and her passion for amassing vintage treasures. My friendship with Daniela brought me a great sense of connection and understanding of the Italian people and way of life. Her generosity (she once offered me a scarf free of charge) and nonconformist spirit inspired me in my journey abroad.

The beauty in Florence, I realized, is in its intimacy. The barista who’s memorized your obnoxiously American coffee order, the rotating friendly faces of locals, the waiter at your favorite restaurant who offers rounds of Limoncello shots on the house at dinner’s close. The faces and spaces of Florence are sacred, not only christened by history, but by familiarity.

Across 12 countries and four months, I’ve collected plane tickets, concert wristbands, postcards, receipts, and more. My travel notebook became an archive of assorted memorabilia, and I’ve become a mosaic of them too. Now Scotch-taped into the lined pages, they exist evergreen in my memory. 

I’m a collector: of photobooth strips and sandwich wrappers, of friendship bracelets and film photos, of fleeting conversations and nights that bleed into mornings. I’ll keep this collection, even as it frays in my folder and in my mind.

There is a Florence-shaped cavity in my heart where these cherished four months will remain.