The end.

I wrote this entry yesterday while I was on the plane, so keep all the timing in mind...

Ciao all,

It’s hard to believe how fast the time has gone by. Nine months seems like nothing now, especially because I can relive my first days in Florence down to the hour. Our last week consisted of countless hours of studying (which we resented considering the fact that our days were severely numbered), rushed shopping sprees for the last-minute things, wild nights out, and insane binge-eating of anything Italian we could find. Since my last update that brought a few tears to my eyes, I’ve both studied for and taken my Italian Literature exam, encompassing the works of the Sicilian writer, Giovanni Verga. Exam day was full of pressure, as expected, seeing that I always stress the poor organization of the Italian education system. Claudio (our tutor, if I haven’t mentioned him before) had signed us up for the exam and we had been scheduled to take ours in positions 1 and 2. We were very excited and anxious to get it over with, so we had been thankful to be the highest on the list.

Naturally though, things never seem to go according to plan with the Italian university. We arrived at 8:30 am on exam day to find out that there had been two other “hidden” lists, for different students. So right there, we moved from numbers 1 and 2 to numbers 6 and 7. The worst part about the whole Italian-style exam is the actual waiting experience. Each person’s one-on-one session with the teacher was scheduled to take 30 minutes, so that put me, the first of Kevin and I, scheduled to take the exam around noon. I was tired of studying, so we sat there for 4 hours chatting with Italians who were completely freaking out, and playing games on Kevin’s iPhone. According to us, what we didn’t know at that point we weren’t going to learn under stress, the last few hours leading up to the exam. So, we threw in the towel.

Because Italians are so wild about their mid-morning coffee breaks, good ol’ Professor Bruscagli decided to take his right before giving me my exam. Watching student number five exit his office with a smile on her face was a good sign, and it caused me to jump out of my seat, ready for my fate. However, I suffered from the false alarm when Bruscagli followed behind the student, announcing that he was going for a coffee. “Great,” I thought, “another half-hour stuck in this window-less building on such a beautiful day.”

When Bruscagli returned, I finally got my chance at showing him what I had sweated over since February. I was very nervous and shaky, but tried my best to look calm. However, when you’re speaking in a foreign language, one can hear the uneasiness immediately. My excellent grammar skills had pretty much flown out the window as soon as I asked him permission to close his office door. (Italian exams are a public event; anyone can sit in and listen if they want to). He sighed and said something like, “Yeah, if you want. I guess you Americans aren’t used to taking oral exams, let alone public ones.” So right then and there, we started the exam. The first few questions I knew very well. I know I sounded like a complete fool because I just blurted out everything I had studied in no specific order. The final question however, was one that I hoped he wouldn’t ask me. I knew exactly what he was referring to when he said the “Sciascia article,” but I conveniently attempted to compare it to the article that it was positioned next to in my book, as I knew more about that one and Sciascia had completely escaped me. To be honest though, I actually didn’t study any of Verga’s critics too closely because I had been so focused on the novellas, his short stories that were the basis for the exam. Claudio had told us that the critics would be supplementary material, information to add to a conversation about one of the novellas. When I completely bombed that question, I assumed that it had brought me from a 30 to a 26 or something, considering that fact that I literally knew NOTHING of Sciascia and that Bruscagli was known to be a tough grader.

With that last question, he digressed and said “Well, I know that you (meaning collectively, Americans) have studied. I’ve seen you in my lessons, and you’ve taken the class seriously. So, I’m going to give you a 29/30.” I was blown away, and soooo relieved. I escaped as fast as possible. Kevin followed after me and received a 28, and Claudio, who was present and anxiously waiting the results, was very proud. When it was time for us to get out of there, Claudio popped his head in and thanked Professor Bruscagli. Apparently he said to Claudio, “Well, they knew the material, but their Italian…” and while saying that, he made some sort of negative, Italian person’s gesture. Guess he wasn’t interested in considering that fact that we were very nervous and probably speaking in stream of consciousness. And, above all, we were taking his class to practice and use our Italian in an intelligent way, not because we had an insane interest in reading Verga, an author I had never even heard of before second semester.

With that, we had finished with the Italian education system and nerve-wracking pressure that we could never have become completely comfortable with. We were out by 1 pm, just in time to meet everyone else with Maria and Piero for a farewell cappuccino. Right after all the exhilaration, it was pretty painful to say goodbye to Maria and Piero, easily the most genuine, fabulous and wise Italian couple that I have ever been privileged to know. After saying goodbye, I spent the rest of the day running errands and enjoying the sunshine, knowing that I had no studying waiting for me. We went out that night to an outdoor techno concert that was a bit of a flop, as I think we arrived a little later than we probably should have. We also witnessed the results of a fatal moped accident, sheeted body and all. Needless to say, that put the icing on the cake for an unpleasant night that we would have rather avoided.

That day and night passed in a blur and now we arrive at yesterday. It was a disgustingly rainy day, but I woke up early to meet Elia (our cultural adviser) for a goodbye breakfast. The only others to make it so early on that gloomy day were Maggie Rossi and Maggie Wright. Elia had 95 euro remaining that he had to spend on us, so we just went crazy at a café, picking out every sweet, croissant and quiche that looked appetizing. It was really enjoyable, even though not many of us were there.

After breakfast, I spent some time walking around alone and soaking in whatever I could of my last day in Florence. My window-shopping on the Ponte Vecchio turned into real shopping when I bought a gold-plated, Florentine style filament ring. I had been looking for a gold-colored ring that wouldn’t turn my finger green and there was no way that I could afford gold, so I was delighted when I found this ring for 22 euro. It was much more in my price range. I met Andrea, Grace, Jeff and Carla for our final lunch at Borgo Antico at 1:30 and I ate a great veggie pizza. Then, we walked over to Gelateria Carraia, one that I had really wanted to try because everyone else had already had the chance to do so. I got the flavors “After Eight,” “Yogurt and Nutella,” and “Cookies.” It was fabulous, but still doesn’t compare to my all-time favorite gelateria- Vestri. I can taste my favorite flavors so perfectly when I think about it.

Yesterday afternoon, we had crisis in the Maria Pia- Andrea- Elsa household while we packed.  As far as space goes, I had guessed really well in my packing, but I was having some too-close-for-comfort weight issues. I had no idea how accurate or inaccurate Maria Pia’s scale was, so I did my best to be as close to 23 kg per bag, without going over. One was over by .8 and I was kind of banking on the airlines giving me a break. Poor Andrea’s flight was leaving from Milan (not Florence, like mine), so she had to drag her luggage on the train by herself to Milan central station, and then take a bus from the station to the airport. She had a HUGE problem with the weight and I’m pretty sure she decided just to accept the inevitable fees that came along with overweight baggage.

Maria Pia’s final dinner with us was delicious, as expected. She made my favorite pasta, spaghetti, olive oil, garlic and pepperoncino for our primo piatto. For our secondo, she made chicken cordon bleu, salad, and stuffed tomatoes. We LOVED the stuffed tomatoes. Earlier in the day while we packed, Maria Pia had given us her gift, a Toscana calendar and little Florentine mementoes, which were all very cute. So after dinner, we gave her our gifts. Together, Andrea and I had bought a beautiful hand-engraved silver frame from the metal artisan that Elisa had taken us too early on in the year. We inserted a cute picture of the three of us from our joint birthday celebration that Maria Pia had thrown for us in January. I alone gave her a set of beautiful stationary from a really famous store, called Pineider. In her letter, I told her that the purpose of the stationary was to keep in contact with me. She was very moved. Andrea gave her a gift certificate to a bookstore in the city center. All in all, Maria Pia was very excited with her gifts and I was so pleased to present them to her.

Last night, Maggie Rossi, Carla, Andrea, Kevin, Grace, Jeff and I met up on Piazzale Michelangelo for some champagne and quality time during our last few hours. It was a picture perfect night looking down on Florence, but my camera was unable to capture the beauty that we were fortunate enough to admire. We sat on the cement stairs where a bunch of different groups were seated, and Maggie began a toast by pouring us all champagne. Each of said something, every speech equally moving. Following our reflection session on a perfect year, we were rudely interrupted by 4 wasted Welsh boys, who were singing incredibly loudly and chugging bottle after bottle of wine. When Grace said something to us that I suppose these boys thought amusing, they found an opening and came over to talk to us all. In the beginning, they were all very presumptuous and rude, insulting Americans through their slurred vocabularies. I spent a good 15 minutes ignoring all of them well Carla requested tunes for them to sing. With time though, we all started talking a little bit more. Some were cooler than others, but there was one kid who was a complete fool. He and Grace seemed to have a bit of a personality clash, as they spent a good while insulting each other back and forth. This kid was way out of line and too egotistical for me, so I told him that he was definitely the most annoying person that I had ever met and that he’d have been better off staying quiet. (Yes, that was the best I could come up with. I’m not really good at dishing it out.)

After our lengthy fights, conversations and jokes, we walked Maggie home because she had an exam early the next day and it was already 1 am. The rest of us made an attempt to go dancing but the club (Twice) reeked of European B.O. so we got out of there as quickly as possible. We then gave some drunk kids directions to their hostel and walked to Piazza della Repubblica and said our goodbyes. We all took turns hugging and talking to each other one by one. We were exhausted and emotional and really feeling the reality of the end of our amazing experience together. We all got in our respective cabs and went home.

For the past two weeks or so, I had been bothered by the fact that I hadn’t shed a single tear between all the goodbyes and gifts. Even at Piazza della Repubblica, I was shockingly one of the kids with the dry eyes. Typically, I’m one of the emotional ones, so I really beat myself up about the fact that I couldn’t seem to cry. I didn’t even feel a build-up or desire to and it made me feel uncomfortable, as if I had been ungrateful and unable to recognize the amazing year that I’d had. I did my best to let it go and imagined that I would have had an explosion of tears at some point. I guessed that my chances of that happening were most likely at the airport.

I went to bed around 3:30 am and woke up at 5:45 am to give myself ample time for the physical and mental preparation for my departure from the country that I had inhabited for the past 9 months. I weighed my suitcases a final time and tucked away my teddy bears. I took pictures of all the rooms in the house and then had my final, Maria Pia breakfast. She had made my favorite cake- apple, and also served me a yogurt and a cup of tea, as usual. I ate slower than I normally do, as the reality of my departure was finally starting to hit me hard and I was stricken with nausea. Maria Pia got herself ready, and we were out the door by 7:30 with 3 enormous suitcases, one backpack, one purse, and two heavy hearts.

At the airport, I grabbed one of those carts and thought about how lucky I was to have Maria Pia, willing to take me to the airport. I knew that most of the other kids would be taking taxis and, expenses aside, I was incredibly grateful for her presence. Once the suitcases were out of the car, I had told her to go home. However, she insisted on coming inside with me, which I ended up being incredibly thankful for, during the disaster that we faced.

We got ourselves into what we thought was the line, and were called forward by one of the attendants, who freshly told us that we were in the wrong line and needed to wait in the “Economy” line, “just like everybody else.” We were immediately rubbed the wrong way. When we arrived at the same woman about 5 minutes later, she started to weigh my bags. I was well aware that I would be paying for a third bag, so her rudely telling me that I would be shelling out 160 euro for that didn’t bother me. What bothered me is the fact that she spoke ENGLISH to Maria Pia, who was visibly lost by it and really only trying to help me. In weighing my bags, each was overweight by a kilogram or less, and she told me that I would have to pay 120 euro for each overweight bag. Then, she weighed my purse and carry-on together (which I’ve never seen done) and they totaled 14 kilograms, while they “should have” collectively weighed only 8. The fees that she rattled off to me caused my immediate waterworks, and this stupid woman didn’t even flinch. She said “get out of line and come back when you have figured it out.” At the end of that awful encounter, I had to tearfully explain the whole thing over again to Maria Pia, who was rudely ignored by this woman. She was so calm but felt horrible for me, as I was desperate. She did point out the fact that she was pretty sure our oh-so-friendly attendant wasn’t Italian.

I tore open my bags and did what I could to re-arrange and throw things out. The toss-able things that I found were minimal, and only totaled a kilogram between all 5 of my different bags. Maria Pia collected me and rushed me back over to the lines, as she saw that the rude attendant was busy harassing another customer. The second a nicer-looking attendant became available, she shuffled me and my stuff over to the respective counter as quickly as possible, with me hyperventilating at her side. I was still as pleasant as possible because even in situations of panic, anger doesn’t solve anything. Our new attendant couldn’t find my permission slip to check two bags without charge (when I left in August, the rules still included two free checked bags. As of January, it’s been changed to one. I had called the company and  been told that I would be permitted two.). Fortunately, I had printed out the flight change confirmation that blatantly stated my allowance for two checked pieces. Saved there, thank goodness. Maria Pia hustled my 3 overweight bags onto the belt, and the check-in process continued onward without our friendlier attendant saying a word about the slightly overweight situation. Maria Pia did a great job chatting her up, talking about the fact that I faced a grand challenge packing for 3 seasons, etc. The lady sent me off to pay for the one extra piece, and that all went fairly smoothly.

When I returned to the desk, my three enormous bags were gone, my boarding passes were ready, and the attendant had given my carry-on/purse combo a quick glance, an “OK” and a smile. We breathed a huge sigh of relief, narrowly escaping about 400 euro in fines. Maria Pia and I walked to the exit and she explained that when she had been conversing with the attendant, she had been able to confirm that our original attendant was not Italian, and was actually driving the other two check-in attendants crazy. All I have to say is God bless those who can see our sides of the story and know what it’s like to be a passenger dealing with the complicated airline industry.

Maria Pia gave me a brief speech on staying well, saying hi to people, and returning soon. I started crying in her arms and she started to cry too, which I was touched to see because she hasn’t found the reason to cry very much following her 2 painful divorces. We separated and I made it through security senza problemi and full of tears. See, I knew the tears were waiting to burst out at some point. The first leg from Florence to Frankfurt was uneventful. We arrived a half hour late and I got an immediate flashback of my Christmas horror story, so I booked it through the terminal, knocking through anyone in my way. It’s not like I’m going to see them again, right? I was unsure as to the size and distances within the airport, so I wasn’t risking a thing. I arrived at my gate, 10 minutes before boarding. Then, I finally stopped sweating.

So here I am on the plane, sitting in my chosen aisle seat and enjoying the concentration I am putting towards my final blog entry. We just breaked for what I guess would be lunch, even though the time has me all confused. I received a rude awakening by the spaghetti we ate and had the sad “I’m not in Italy anymore” realization. I would probably compare this spaghetti to a high-end play dough. Very appetizing. Maybe this diet I’m putting myself on will be easier than I thought, considering the fact that I’m pretty sure no food will be as good as Italy’s food and therefore, not worth eating.

For those of you who have made it to this point in my epic entry, bravi, because I am on page 6 in Microsoft Word and I’ve still got a ways to go! Allow me to digress with the list I have been compiling, the highs and lows of my nine-month, Italian experience.

What I will miss:

Pizza the Italian way- while I have always loved American pizza, the freshness of the ingredients and lack of soupy oil on the Italian pizzas have really made them winners in my book.

Piazzas- most likely the best architectural concept, certain to automatically relax a person

The Italian pace of life- while I had difficulty adjusting to what I thought was laziness in the beginning, I now appreciate the time that Italians devote daily to food, family and rest. That’s why everyone looks so much younger and lives so much longer.

Italian children- There’s nothing funnier than talking to a 5-year old who speaks better Italian than I do.

Public drinking- Yes, I’m guilty of the regular wine-drinking session on the Ponte Vecchio. The view is too breathtaking to miss for a drink, so why not do them both at the same time!?

The “pausa”- an Italian phenomenon that happens around 10:30-11:00 am when everyone heads to the “bars” for a cappuccino.

The cappuccino- I actually hate coffee, but there is a special place in my heart for Italian cappuccino. They have really mastered the art of coffee-making, from the dainty cup to the heart form that they create in the milk foam.

Outdoor discotecas- there is nothing better than breaking it down and sweating half as much as you would dancing inside.

Wine- Italy is wine capital. It’s cheap and delicious, so there’s not much else to say here.

Shopping- even though the supermarkets are strictly food and your shampoo must be bought only at the pharmacy, EVERYTHING can be easily found on the streets of Florence with a little extra thinking.

Italian family/friends- I now have discovered a whole other half to my life and people that I will love and appreciate forever.

Sitting down to dinner every night- As they always say “a family that eats together, stays together.”

I can guarantee that there is more, but I think that sums up most of the aspects of my life abroad.

What I can most certainly live without:

Senegalese immigrants- I think I’ll be able to breathe easier now that I won’t be followed around Florence by these horrendously smelling men, saying “Ciao bella” and trying to sell me tissues, umbrellas or light-up Duomos.

White-faced gypsy women- By saying “white face,” I am literally referring to the white paint that they cover themselves in while they chase people (and me) around, begging for money, making freaky kissing noises, and giving me the finger.

Every-day bus travel and etiquette- It’s hot, it smells like B.O., people fight for seats, people pick-pocket, there is yelling, babies cry, it’s never on time, it doesn’t come, the company goes on strike at random. It’s just a terrible combination and system.

Albanian men- They never tire of hitting on American girls that don’t speak Italian. They use the girls’ lacking knowledge of the language to convince them they are Italian themselves, and then they try to seduce the girls. They never won with our group.

Chain-smoking 14-year-old Italians- Italy definitely needs to crack down on the smoking problem

Italian drivers- They are MANIACS on the road.

Mosquitoes- Because Italian homes don’t typically have screens on their windows, the little critters enter by night and attack your body. The results are far bigger than those in America, and I don’t know why.

The University system- Everyone already knows my opinion, as I’ve ranted about it in probably ¼ of my entries.

Ridiculous superstitions- for example, Maria Pia thinks pepper (the spice) is terrible for you and clogs your arteries. Maggie Rossi’s host mom thinks ice is bad to put in your drinks. Maria Pia thinks that drenching foods in olive oil after they’ve been cooked is healthier than cooking olive oil with food. I will never understand where these ideas come from.

So in the end, this year abroad has taught me so much that I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I have made some incredible friendships with such wonderful people. In thinking about my relationships with the other Holy Cross students, I am so grateful for the design of our study abroad program. Because there were only eight of us for a full nine months, we learned the good and the bad of one another and also learned to adapt to different personalities. Had we been in social situations where we could choose our friends from different groups, we never would have learned what it means to acclimatize and create friendships with those who you wouldn’t necessarily choose as friends from the beginning. Being able to feel so comfortable around each other is what made the year so successful and fun. No one was ever ashamed to get crazy, or cry, or fall on his or her face. And, I’m only now finding the words for all that I would have loved to have said to my friends last night. On top of benefitting tremendously from my full-Italian immersion, I have learned tolerance, acceptance and self-discovery, and I couldn’t be more proud with this huge milestone that I have overcome both individually, and with my group. While I feared the intensity of Holy Cross’ program, I now completely understand their thinking and would always recommend what I did to others. Host families are a golden opportunity for immersion and cultural acceptance. Staying for two semesters provides for the perfect balance between traveling Europe and creating a life for yourself in your respective host country. While there were many low points, those were the scenarios from which I have learned the most, as they have taught me how to enjoy the good as fully as possible.

I’m now three hours from the “real world” and preparing to close the most memorable chapter, and best year of my life. Adjusting back to the life I left in August is going to be a huge challenge, and I know that a lot of my friends may not understand the things that will upset me at home, but I’m going to work through it all as best as I can, and have an amazing senior year at Holy Cross.

Well all, thanks for reading my 9-month blog, and let’s hope that when this plane lands, my 3 overweight bags have made the journey along with me.

Baci e abbracci,

Elsa