My first real day in Italy is not so different from my first real day in Chicago. I am stumbling over the new sidewalks in quite the same manner. In Italy, I have more of an excuse for clumsiness as this is my first time in regular contact with cobblestones. It balances out with Chicago, however, because my playful remarks that characterize my charming awkwardness fall on deaf ears. Not deaf so much as caught up in their own thoughts that are akin to “What is that American girl saying? Are all Americans that clumsy? I should smile at her.” The smile doesn’t always come, but the rest is written clear as day on their faces.
Chicago and Florence really do have a lot in common. I know someone will roll their eyes at this, but it's true. Aside from my clumsiness being heightened in both locations, there is a similar feeling of activity and energy. Plus, the locals love it when you smile at their dogs. This is a happy coincidence, as I am a habitual dog-smiler-at-er.
I woke this morning at 3am. At 6am, I decided I had better attempt getting a little more sleep, I still had an hour until breakfast after all. The next thing I knew it was 12:40 pm and the front desk was calling to tell me I was late for check-out.
After the world’s quickest shower and pack-up, I was back on the streets of Florence. The front desk is holding my bags until I can be let into my apartment. I did a small recon mission a few minutes ago, and the outside of my building is wonderful. Sto da favola!
In between the hotel and my recon mission, I strolled and searched for coffee. I first looked inside cafes, expecting them to be similar to ours: coffee, soup, internet. Cafes in Italy, I discovered, are more about wine. The place I ended up in, though I'm not sure what to call it, had coffee, food, and free internet. I am a lot more confident about communicating with the locals today. I’ve found that if I give it my best shot, they laugh good naturedly at me, correct my pronunciation, and speak English to me when I am completely hopeless.
After a particularly delightful moment for my waitress in which I attempted to ask for a napkin (un tovagliolo) I finished my café latte, biscotti, and (again to my waitress’ confused delight) orange juice.
Café lattes in Italy are out of this world! They taste like an amazing coffee-hot chocolate hybrid. I am already craving another, but I am contenting myself with sitting on a bench in front of a beautiful church, writing and waiting to see my home for the next month.
No comments:
Post a Comment