Tornata

Is there really a way to answer that question I'm going to be hearing endlessly this summer? "How was Italy?" Honestly, no. Only the people who experienced that year, that indescribably fantastic, challenging, life-altering year, along with me are going to understand. The brief sentence they'll be looking for, ("It was the most defining year of my life," etc.) doesn't even skim the surface. I guess this here blog skimmed the surface, so...hope ya read it.

The day before I left Florence was yet another one of those "most significant days of my life." I notice that I'm always wearing this one shirt when huge things happen to me. So I wore that shirt. HAHA. I had my university exam. The one for which I studied with a professor that Monica and Giovanna found for me, about two times a week in the month leading up to it (he was amazing, by the way). Where I had to familiarize myself with all the poetry by Giacomo Leopardi and Giosue Carducci in the books I had. In addition to reading another (torturously dull) novel and pages upon pages of critical studies. All in Italian. But that goes without saying. This is the thing, the "THING," that seemed way too impossibly terrifying to ever materialize itself in my mind as a reality. What they'd told us about Italian universities: there's no homework, instead your grade is determined by one giant oral exam taken in front of a panel of professors and all the other students. Essentially, the personification of all my fears: speaking, speaking in front of the class, speaking Italian to Italians, being judged and graded WHILE ALL OF THESE THINGS ARE HAPPENING. Something frightening for even the most outgoing of people. Right? And so I spent most of the year in denial that this thing would ever really, actually, truly happen to me: while auditing a class at the University of Florence the first semester, then while actually taking one the following semester, then after learning the date of my exam, even while meeting with Paolo (the professor who was my tutor). I'd say it was only the week before D-Day when my body (not so much my brain) realized what sheer terror I was soon to face. I lost my appetite. For those of you who know me, you know I love to eat. Thus, this is an indication of a serious issue. Two nights before, I threw up (although this was not entirely stress-induced...). The morning of, I woke up at oh I don't know, 6? And lay there on my back with my stomach in a continuous KNOT until I had to get up. Then I almost threw up my breakfast.

But I did it. I walked the 6 minutes to Piazza Savonarola, I waited in the hallway with the other Italian students, Paolo came to stand with me and comfort me (I told you he was amazing), and I took the exam. It wasn't in front of the entire class as I had feared (oh God I had feared). It was just me facing the professor and a random woman, who was nice and encouraging. There was one other student taking her exam in the same room but it wasn't distracting. I was in the ZONE. haha. In the end it wasn't so much a test of information as it was a test of bravery. And at this point I'd say this is far more significant. I survived--I didn't seize up and blank, I didn't burst into tears, I didn't faint, I didn't go into cardiac arrest. And so I walked out of there feelin' mighty proud. Paolo said I was "bravissima" several times. The oral exam was the grand finale of all that this year was slowly adding up to mean: me gaining courage, self-confidence, independence. It's nearly impossible for me to step back and see whether or not I've changed as a person but the fact that I did this exam and didn't keel over and die is nothing but proof that I have. Or that I was stronger than I thought this whole time. Nah, we're gonna go with the one where I changed.

The hardest parts about leaving Italy: saying goodbye to Giovanna and Monica, seeing my wonderful host brother wipe tears from his eyes after we hugged (he almost got me), leaving my permesso di soggiorno at airport security and the Italian conversation with a nice old man that ensued ("she speaks Italian," "what do you need?" "I have a permesso di soggiorno to leave," "to turn in?" "yes," "you're not coming back to Italy?" *pause* "to study?" "not to study, no." ), flying over the green Tuscan hills. The easiest part about leaving Italy: my family was with me. Trust me, if they hadn't been, I would have been a blubbering WRECK. Throughout my entire last week, while they were here, they reminded me of what I was going home to and not what I was leaving. And I never once broke down and sobbed, much to my surprise (although I came close while hugging Giovanna). Because--and oh God I resent how this cheese-fest of a fortune cookie sentence applies--"Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened." I had the most spectacular year of my life. I am immensely proud of myself for having studied abroad at all. I lived in the heart of the Renaissance. What is there to be sad about? All the people who mean anything to me I'll see again. Italy will always be my second home. There's no way I won't be going back.