The last time I was in Florence, it was coming off a week-long sailing trip (slash bender) through the Greek Isles with fifty of my soon-to-be closest classmates that I would be studying abroad with in Luxembourg for a semester. What I remember about Florence is I smoked a lot of cigarettes, consumed a frightening amount of gelato, waited in an endless line for the Uffizi attempting to look cultured, and shaved my head at the barber shop. It’s amazing what thirteen years will do to a person’s perspective.
I loved everything about Florence—talk about people who appreciate life—I am so envious of the Italian lifestyle and found that the slow pace, absence of timely bus departures, and three hour shop closings for lunch was slightly reminiscent of the continent I am so fond of—Italy is like the Africa of Europe! Mom and Dad were great travel companions…they have become well-accustomed to my weird habits like hand-washing my clothes in the bathroom sink and still wearing flip-flops in the shower (you can take the girl out of the village…), and most importantly, are in strong support of my daily afternoon naps. As much as my father and I tend towards the tightly wound, obsessive planning end of the spectrum, my mother presents a nice balance and we ended up having a relatively spontaneous, laid back itinerary. We’d wake up every morning to a lovely breakfast and spend the day exploring. I had forgotten what it feels like to be surrounded by art and history, architecture and culture. We wandered through art museums, meandered through blossoming gardens, visited ancient churches, and hopped buses to Tuscan towns with incredible views of the countryside. The pace, the style, the long lunches at outdoor trattorias, the lovers laying in the grass in the park, the rhythm of the language, people zipping by on their Vespas with a cigarette dangling from their mouth—it was beauty in its simplest forms…and I did my best to appreciate every last moment of it.
Dad and I were basically having an unspoken contest on who could consume the most food, and I earnestly enjoyed participating in said activity: pigeon ravioli (um, yes please), zesty soups, salty boar meat, juicy steaks, melt-in-your-mouth mozzarella, homemade pastas, vegetables roasted in olive oil, tiramisu, cheesecake, cappuccino and wine, wine, wine. Gosh, I miss marvelous, glorious food. It seemed like each and every meal somehow outshined the last. And just when I thought I couldn’t get enough, I’d have a scoop of gelato that would really put me over the edge. Luckily, I was not feeling even slightly compelled to adopt the style and swagger of Italian women, and wore the same outfit the entire week, so it was well-stretched and comfortable to account for my caloric intake.
The best part about the trip was seeing my parents—just having uninterrupted time together to chat and share, unload my frustrations and doubts about my future to two people that know me better than anyone in the world—and who support me regardless of the circumstances. It was exactly the therapy I needed to come back to Juba feeling refreshed and inspired to work harder, do better, live fuller. I mean, who better than your mom and dad to convince you that your world is not self-destructing? It’s part of their job description to give us kids hope. And let’s be honest, the backdrop of rolling hills and historic picturesque towns, engulfed in amazing food and drink made it all the better. So, huge thanks to the best folks around, for dragging me out of my lingering shit storm normal people refer to as transitioning, and for understanding me and accepting me without hesitation. Onward and upward for the next three months in Juba!
