Firenze

Friday we left the hostel to head down streets narrow by even Roman standards. This time it was Florence for the weekend, and as we crossed the Pontevechio I took a star out of our constellation and stopped: how did I get to this moment in life? I’m young, I’m in Florence, I’m crossing a bridge older than my oldest family member, and I’m in the place where the Renaissance began: could life be this good? The river was flowing one fold after another, running the stars, saying: one, Florence, two, Florence, three, Florence, four…

I got to the stairs and Hannah is standing in front of me with this red coat, while Elliott urges us on (he’s Ryan’s friend). I walk downstairs into what looks like an exposed brick basement and end up in a restaurant with garlic hanging from the walls-- I knew: “Ok, this is the most Italian place I’ve ever been.”

As an American studying abroad, even though you’re in Italy, a lot of the places you go still aren’t really Italian. So when I stepped down and saw the view I knew I was in the right place, and followed the path of people ahead of me. Dinner was 3 hours, I don’t remember what the tables or chairs were like, but Molly sat across from me, and we all shared wine and appetizers, and had a great time. After that we had to go, and rolled through the night magnified like folds on the river, magnified like the folds on Florence.

So Elliott takes us to this bar and at first it’s disgusting, but then we go to another and it’s actually pretty cool. The walls are orange and red, with a table, and then the bartender looks like Albert Einstein and yells, VAI VAI VAI, everytime you take a drink. The drink took steps and first you put sugar on one side of an orange, coffee grounds on the next, and then drink Rum and Coke as fast as you can. Next we were at this Spanish place, drinking homemade Sangria from silly straws and then we were a this Zoolander blue light style club with raging techno and maybe disco lights on the walls but I don’t really remember.

We walked past the Duomo on our way back, white with fresco on the outside, and now the stars were above and bleeding white into the night, illuminating some kind of path for me. I followed it, and was drunk and young in Florence and stared up and wondered not what Michelangelo thought (because who am I to even wonder that), but how I got there and where I would be next and thanked the universe and moon for lighting a path for me this far.