This Florentine Life

By Alice Adams

August 29. Sunny, hot.

I finished unpacking my things in the morning. I arranged them. I arranged them again. I would rather stay inside around the items I know, the items from home. The street’s loud and I don’t speak the language, so I think that I’ll clean. I don’t feel like sweating, anyway.

September 1. Cloudy, rainy, humid.

The apartment is very clean. The housemates have been out a lot, exploring. I’ve been saying I’m still jet-lagged, so I’ll stay back this time, but I’ll come out next time, next time, next time.

In the afternoon, I went out to buy groceries, because all I’ve been eating is the instant ramen I brought from home. I walked eight minutes. The store was a string of corridors, where everyone pushed past each other, where I couldn’t read the labels and didn’t know the sections. I miss the big, open spaces of the stores back home. I got some basic pastas, sauces, vegetables.

At checkout, I couldn’t see the second cashier down the line so I didn’t know he was calling the next person, calling me, avanti, avanti, so I got pushed from behind. Once there, he scanned things fast, too fast for me to put them away, too fast, too fast. Before I knew it, the next person was hovering next to me, waiting for me to go so they could bag their own items.

September 10. Sunny, warm, pleasant.

I haven’t been grocery shopping since Sept 1, and I’m running out of food. I’ve only been leaving the apartment to go to class.

Someone in class suggested some outdoor markets. I left the apartment early, as I was instructed, because the walk was far and the vendors don’t stay all day. On the way, the weather was mild, there were many little dogs on the sidewalk.

I could barely hang onto the skinny sidewalks, and feared slipping into the street to get run down by a speedy little Fiat or three-wheeled truck. I mostly looked down so as not to trip on the cobble. I ran into a bus stop sign this way, and didn’t look back to see if anyone saw, but I know they did because I heard laughter.

But I pushed on and managed to make it to the market. I recognized the smell – fresh greens, ripe fruits – before I turned the corner to see stacked wooden boxes, tables piled with light and dark greens, bright reds and pinks, yellows, leaves, stalks; people bartering, clapping each other on the back, tossing coins over rows of produce on display.

I took a timid step forward and began inspecting the goods of the closest stand to me. The woman behind the crates noticed me and said, prego, but I shook my head politely, awkwardly, and kept looking. A few minutes went by, and I pulled a stalk of basil, and said, scusa. She turned back toward me and took it, weighed it, charged me a few coins, which I slipped into her palm as I leaned over the rows of food.

The plastic of the bag crinkled by my side. Empowered, I bought cucumbers and garlic, tomatoes, peaches, plums. I rinsed a plum with my water bottle and took a bite, letting the sweet juice run down my chin. A vendor nearby looked at me, laughed, said ah, che fresca, and this time I laughed too. He tossed me another from his stand and I stuttered out a grazie. He gestured and said, with a smile, sei italiana, and for a moment, I was.

Inside were pasticcerias, butchers, sellers of cheese and alcohol and fresh pasta. The market hall was echoey and just as vibrant as the outdoor part, but with too many bags weighing me down, I only browsed and went back out.

I bought a sandwich as I left. Eggplant, zucchini, tomato, mozzarella, pesto, the tangy sweetnesses and savory flavors like fireworks.

I went home and cleaned some more.

September 11. Cloudy, humid, sticky.

I felt good in the morning, at least. I was on a high from the market, I felt adjusted and normal, and I got arrogant.

It had rained in the night, and on the way to class, someone bumped into me and I fell off the curb – down, down, down into a reeking gray puddle. Of course, there was no time to go home and change, so I sat through class damp and smelling like gasoline garbage water. My journal slipped from my pocket, too, as you can probably tell by the look of this page.

Wanting to remedy the morning, I showered at home, warmed these pages with a blow dryer, fed myself. I traveled to an art exhibit, but the theme just seemed despairing and unhappy, with dark color palettes and abstract, disturbing creatures taking up the canvases, metal sculptures twisting and writhing like they, too, were trying to get out of there, back into the sun. My homemade dinner was flavorless and mushy, and I haven’t been able to focus on my schoolwork.

The day’s basically over now, but I’m still not feeling too good. I know the bad days are just gonna come around again.

September 18. Sunny, warm.

I stayed in bed late. I wanted the greenness and big skies of my home, bird calls, cold bubbling streams. I watched videos in my camera roll and movies that reminded me of my mountains. I spent the morning, some of the afternoon with tears in the back of my throat and no one answering their texts (because why would they – it was the middle of the night back home).

Eventually, the late summer humidity began to cook me where I lay. The windows were open, but it was still too much; I needed fresh air. I looked at a map, found a patch of green and set out.

The route took me out of the city center. I began to enter the residential areas, quiet streets with laundry on the line and dogs on terraces, kids playing soccer in the streets, potted plants on short brick walls spilling over to touch the sidewalk and tangle in gate doors. My calves burned as I walked the steep hills, and finally I reached a gate into a quiet, sprawling park.

And there it all was. High trees and bird calls, a little water feature with a small bridge, green hills, dogs playing in the golden afternoon, people reading books, laying in another’s lap, eating on blankets. And there I was.

I spent the rest of the day there until closing, reading Homer for one class and studying for another, breathing fresh air, eating berries and Conad chocolate melting over my fingers. I lay in the sun, made angels in the grass, basked in the quietude. And I found that when it was time to go, I didn’t mind falling back into the embrace of the city’s energy and noise.

***

As I left for home in the blue air of evening, the streets were renewed by cool breezes. There was much noise coming from the outdoor restaurant seating, and waiters carried sizzling, smoking Florentine steaks from the kitchen to set them on tables. I saw bright red drinks in tall glasses, green pasta swirled on forks, custard between flaky pastry sheets, drizzled in chocolate and tiny red berries.

People smoked cigarettes and smiled from behind big sunglasses, waving their arms and throwing their heads back with laughter. I still don’t understand the language, but it’s beginning to sound like music.

November 2. Cold, crisp, sunny.

I left for class early so I could grab pastries from the corner bakery for breakfast. I walked past San Lorenzo and stopped for a few minutes to say hi to the convenience store dog. Her owner laughed at me, as always, and I smiled back, as always. I kept going and gave a buongiorno to Ali where he sold his goods, and said hi to Marco behind the counter of the sandwich shop. I sat in class, and enjoyed it, and went to the next one.

At home, later, I cooked a late lunch with all the windows open and let the fall air cascade in. I let the soup simmer on the stove and tended to my windowsill herbs, pulled in my dry laundry, and folded it to the sound of street performers under my window and down the block.

It occurred to me that I’ve been here a couple months now. I never thought I would get by, able to pass the days without feeling remote from what I’ve known and alone in the experience. But the days go on no matter how we feel, and sometimes that’s all we need.

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