In March I knew my time in Italy was coming to an end. The shiny new-ness of living somewhere foreign was starting to fade. The long, slimy stare the cashier at the grocery store gave me was no longer authentic and nowhere near as exciting. It was downright annoying: give me my effin buffalo mozzarella, gyp me out of 5 cents and let’s stop pretending I’d sleep with you, you’re 55 and live with your mom, she owns the place.
The sun was starting to make a daily appearance and my English lessons were finally starting to see that I had something more to teach them besides duck-duck-GOOSE! Life was good. I thought I’d push my luck and book an Easter trip to Florence.
By myself. Alone. Solo io.
Moving to a foreign country by myself seemed a league below booking a vacation just. For. Me. The move to Italy was clouded with “where will I live?” “What will I make for dinner?” but a vacation, I’d actually have to start enjoying time with myself. Alone. Did I mention I was going unaccompanied?
I heard mysterious praises for Florence but most intriguing were from a half-drunken fraternity boy that spent a promiscuous semester abroad and said it was “totally awesome”. Sold.
I booked my train tickets through tren italia, which gave me a 20% discount for booking online and two weeks in advance. I browsed the borrowed guide books, Frommer's and Let's Go, asked the hedonistic frat boy for ideas on where to stay and packed a bag full of layers.
With my iPod full of new music, my camera’s batteries charged , numerous emails to local friends and family in America with exact address and phone numbers just in case. With my bravery at an all time high, I was on my way.
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