Hi from Italy! Welcome to Superb+Solid readers (and thanks for the shout-out, Todd)!
It was a week. The longest in memory. Hours with butt planted firmly in classroom chair, cycling between marveling at simply being there, and an almost unshakable sleepiness born of jet lag and mental fatigue and barely dispelled by break room Nespressi. I have pages and pages of notes. They will get reread eventually, in the dark night of the translator’s soul, once I am back home.
It wasn’t all classroom time, of course. There were all the walks to and from school, with quick, surreptitious snapshots of what I was seeing (like the one above), because I still, after all these years, have the obsession with not acting like a tourist.
There were new colleagues to get to know, to share with, to mine for useful information, to commiserate with, to have long heartfelt beer- and wine-fueled talks with. Everyone deserves to have a week like that every decade or so (if that’s your thing — maybe you want a weekly basketball game or book club, instead). I feel absolutely reset and reconnected to my former self, and maybe all it took was a plastic converter to change the voltage, an air ticket, and another language to slip on over my regular clothes.
Coming as it did so early in the calendar year, of course, this week away has also felt like another chance not to completely fuck things up this time around. In part, by refusing to be as hard on myself as the previous sentence would indicate. If you’re lucky, tectonic shifts don’t happen overnight… and I’m right in the middle of one.
As soon as the course had started, it had ended. Yesterday, I had a wonderful reunion with H., my roommate from my time in Florence 27 years ago. I went to her town and spent the day with her and her husband and their darling baby daughter who is learning to walk. C. cried when she first saw me, but eventually got used to me and answered all my questions with her favorite word (“No!”) and we read together and played ball and had some laughs. After lunch, we drove out to walk around the port of Pisa, at the mouth of the Arno, where I learned the Italian word for sailboat masts is actually trees.
Last night, back in Florence, the friends I’m staying with (one of whom I also met in 1992) took me to a birthday party, where I ate and drank wonderful things and started losing my voice from all the talking I was doing and then, past midnight, heard one of the guests sing Brazilian songs so heart-stoppingly beautiful I had to keep my hand by my chest, just in case.
The bad cold that was looming all week has finally descended, so I’m laying low on my last day here. Thank you, Italy, for being the place I always imagine you are when I am far away. I promise to come back soon.