Welcome Home
Sitting on the stoop of my soon to be Italian apartment, I
surveyed my new neighborhood and attempted to sort out my bearings. Within the
span of four hours, I left Budapest, flew into Milan, hopped on a train to
Florence and hailed a taxi to my new home. I was meant to meet my landlord,
Maurizio, at 11am to get into the apartment and it was now 1pm. Just as I was
about to search for a café with wifi, a vespa screeches to a stop right in
front of me and my name is being called out from underneath a shiny helmet. “Amelia!
Amelia! Ciao cara, come stai? Tutto bene?” This was followed with a warm
greeting of a kiss on each cheek and a hug as if we have known each other for
years. Oh Maurizio. He is the quintessential Italian man. Short, perfectly
plump, almost bald, with round black-framed glasses, and a welcoming smile.
This kind little man carried my enormous suitcase up two flights of very steep
stairs and welcomed me to my apartment – all in Italian. I learned two
important things that morning: how to tell a taxi driver my address and the
meaning of Italian Time.
Florence is a long way from the picturesque waterfront of
Pakostane, the rocky beaches of Budva, or the impressive mountains of Bosnia. I
was suddenly in a new world, which was just as special and beautiful. Once I was somewhat settled and unpacked I decided
to explore. Florence is a walking city whose streets are far from organized as
the grid of Manhattan. Narrow alleys zig-zag and cross paths with piazzas and
bridges. Florence is old – left unchanged
since its peak of power and glory. It
was the birthplace of the Renaissance and home to the powerful Medici family,
who have left their mark on the buildings here. As I walked the streets and
crossed over the Arno River, I felt simply amazed that kings, emperors, and famous
artists all walked these same streets. I have spent a large part of my
scholastic career studying European history. I have written countless essays on
Italian nationalism and the Renaissance. Now, it has all come full circle and I
am here living within this grand city. My senses are alive and buzzing and the
space in my heart for history and culture is overflowing. I am
actually here.
I live in the Eastern side of Florence, away from the
throngs of tourists and walking tours. My neighborhood is known as
the traditional artisan quarter where specialty shops are nestled in the narrow
streets. Still today, this area is home to leather, book, art, and antique
shops and galleries. In this part of town, craftsmen and shop owners take part
in the famed siesta; from three to seven in the afternoon the neighborhood is
lullabied to sleep and the pace of life slows down. Starting at five the church
bells commence, slowly wakening the sleeping homes as if their purpose is to be
an alarm clock. Well-rested and energized, the neighborhood comes alive once again,
ready to start the night.
The next chapter of my life and journey abroad had
officially begun. Once darling Maurizio handed over the keys and called out “ci
vediamo” from his Vespa, I was on my own and ready to begin leaving my own mark
on this city. I am no longer a wandering
traveler or a tourist. I am a member of this community, reciprocating the
energy, beauty, and pleasure Florence gives to me.
how cool that you are living there! those pictures are beautiful!! visiting from christina's blog!! looking forward to reading more about you!
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