Refraction

Right now there are a number of things I could (or rather, should) be doing. I could be buying groceries like I told my apartment mates I would, I could be doing homework, I could be researching the tastiest places in Bologna, I could be reading, writing, any of the above would be fair game. Though I guess this does count as writing, just not of the reputable sort.

But it came to my attention sometime between my daily morning nutella brioche and visiting Michelangelo’s David for class that I’ve been in Florence for three weeks. I can’t believe it’s been three weeks, but on the other hand three weeks really isn’t that long. And while I’ve found I have been dutiful in reporting on the sights of the city itself, I haven’t really thought of myself in all of this.

When I was at orientation here, the school warned us about the issue of ‘culture shock’. Culture shock begins with a honeymoon period (ie, “Oh my God, everything is so beautiful!”) followed by the crises period (“Nothing in my 400 year old building works and no one sells peanut butter”) then to negotiation (“at least the International Supermarket sells peanut butter”) concluded with adjustment (“On second thought Nutella is better and it’s not five euro a jar”).

Now, I’m not exactly known for my ability to adjust well to new situations. So even though I took countless pictures, stared in slack-jawed wonder, and fell asleep every night to the tolling of church bells, a part of my mind kept insidiously reminding me that that this phrase couldn’t possibly last because I would soon be a neurotic mess plastered to skype and pictures of my cats from home. And though part of me feels like I ought to knock on wood for even suggesting it, I think I’m in the clear. Maybe part of this is because a friend of mine asked what it was like to live in Florence. Not the mundane activities of life, but what was it like to live in a place so rich with history? Ever since he asked I can’t get it out of my head- what is it like to live in this place? It’s like any other place yet no place at the same time. And so, from that day forward I dedicated myself to attempting to profile the personality of Florence.

And how, exactly, does this prevent an emotional Chernobyl you wonder? It reminds me constantly that, no matter how proud I am when the cashier at the grocery store doesn’t parry my feeble Italian with English, I am American. I don’t say it as someone who is particularly proud or resentful of that fact. But I talk loudly in public places, and I drink extra large cappuccinos, and I’m an English majour. There is no way you can avoid the irony in that. I’m not here to assimilate into Italian society. I’m here because… Florence sounded interesting. The way you pick an entree from a menu purely because it’s nothing like you’ve ever tasted before. I came here with no expectations, no demands. For once, I’m just letting things come as they are. I don’t remember the last time I did that.

I sense an eminent shift in my philosophy of self.