Saying Goodbye to Italy

I am writing this my last night in Italy, but I am not sure when I shall next have wireless to post it. I am currently in an adorable “bungalow” in a campground in Pisa. I was a bit nervous at first, because it looked a bit sketchy. Dormitory-style sleeping in trailers didn’t exactly sound like the sort of thing I wanted to do alone, but there were only so many places that offered dormitory space on such short notice, and this was the least expensive. As it turns out, I have a shower and a little kitchen and a British roommate, and I am well pleased. I am taking off for the airport very early tomorrow, from which I shall fly to Barcelona then catch a bus or train to Lleida for my internship. Frankly, I am terrified. I hate traveling alone, and I have to find an apartment and a phone and feed myself every night and all sorts of things that are much easier as a student. I even have to completely self-direct my own research on my thesis. It’s exhilarating, but nervewracking, so I am taking everything one step at a time. I managed two trans and a taxi with all my wordly possessions to arrive here.

It has been a charmingly Italian day. Everything that is typical about this temporary home of mine has stuck out in stark contrast today. This morning, I got on the bus to the center city for a farewell lunch that lasted three hours and involved multiple types of pasta and lots of olive oil. Heading back to my apartment, I rattled off an answer to a confused Italian tourist who was trying to figure out the Sienese bus system (which was not exactly designed with the convenience of outsiders in mind), and I was very impressed with both my Italian and my knowledge of bus schedules and routes. Then, on the bus, the dialogue I overheard was incredibly Sienese. One man talked about Aqua Calda, a neighborhood right next to mine, and he pronounced his c’s like h’s. Then, getting off the bus, a woman said, “Noi, si va,” which technically translates to “We one goes” but is used to mean “Let’s go!” My host father says, “Si mangia” (one eats) nearly every night instead of “Mangiamo” (let’s eat).

The train to Pisa was also incredibly typical. It was filled with Belgian tourists and small, badly-behaved Italian children, one of whom practically ran into me with my four bags then looked up and me and said, in Italian, “You’re in the way, stupid.” Once in Pisa, I took a cab to the campground, not wanting to navigate an only partially familiar bus system with my possessions. The cab driver had, I kid you not, a tiny TV in the cab playing (what else) world news. Italians love their news. In just about every Italian house or apartment I have ever been in, the TV is constantly on, playing either a game show (the Italian ones are harder than their American counterparts), the news (always depressing), or a talk show (inane and often terrifying). On the cab ride, I passed a condom vending machine just hanging out on the side of the street that was labeled, I kid you not, “Enjoy Box.” The sketchy streetside condom machine is an Italian staple. I even saw one in a quaint little fishing village in Cinqueterre. Generally, though, they are labeled, “Control.” Arriving at the campground, I got through several interchanges in nearly perfect Italian just to have the receptionist switch to English (my Italian was better than her English, by the way).

And the single most Italian thing to happen to me today: when I first arrived in Italy, I had to apply for a Permesso di Soggiorno, basically a formal permission to stay in Siena from the police. Well, they finally sorted through all the paperwork at whatever Sienese office was responsible for it, and I received my permission to stay in Italy . . . today . . . my last day in Italy.

I will miss this country.