Chapter Text
Apparently the cobblestones of Florence do not care about your American luggage. I learned this four minutes ago when the left wheel of my oversized Samsonite snapped off, leaving me dragging fifty-two pounds of my former life through a narrow alleyway that smells aggressively of espresso and diesel exhaust.
Up until today, "senior year in Italy" sounded like a cinematic masterpiece. I envisioned myself leaning against sun-drenched balconies, effortlessly conversing with locals, and discovering the deeper meaning of art history.
Instead, I am dripping sweat onto a centuries-old sidewalk, utterly lost, with a phone battery sitting at five percent.
The flyer on my university campus back in Boston promises a seamless cultural immersion. It omits the part where Roman-era street layouts defy modern GPS, or how the midday heat makes my shirt stick to my back like a second skin.
I stop under a chipped archway, gasping for air, and look up. High above the chaotic sea of scooters and tourists, the massive brick dome of the Duomo cuts into the blinding blue sky. It is completely overwhelming, terrifying, and spectacularly beautiful.
I take a deep breath, grip the broken handle of my suitcase, and take my first real step into senior year.
Which happens to be into a puddle of wet sludge falling from someone’s ceiling. Great. Just what I needed today.
I look up to see where it came from and a clump of the sludge falls onto my face. It’s sticky and wet and cold and I got it in my mouth.
I spit some onto the ground, wiping it off my face with my free hand. Now, I have to go to meet my advisor dirty, sweating, and wet.
I drag myself to the University of Florence, where my meeting is supposed to be. My advisor is supposed to tell me about my dorm, my roommate/s, and my classes. Hopefully, the University of Florence will be better than Boston.
It takes me 20 minutes to walk to UNIFI.
Wet.
Dirty.
Sweating.
🇮🇹 🇺🇸
“Ah, Mr. Williams! We are very happy to have you with us this year.” Ms. Marino says with a surprisingly good American accent as she greets me.
I managed to get the sludge out of my hair with a hairbrush I stole from the airplane I took here and I sprayed on some cologne so the smell of the gray substance dimmed.
I shake her hand with a forced smile. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Marino.”
“Come sit!” She pulls out the chair across from her desk for me and I sit as she sits in her office chair.
I put my bags on the floor, grateful to finally be sitting in a comfortable chair.
Ms. Marino’s office is exactly what I expected an office at an old Italian university to look like. Tall windows stretch across one wall, letting in the warm afternoon sunlight, and the walls are painted a soft cream color that makes the room feel brighter than it probably is. A large wooden bookshelf takes up most of the wall behind her desk, packed with books about Italian history, literature, art, and languages.
There are framed photographs of Florence scattered around the room, along with a few paintings of the city. One picture shows the Duomo from above, surrounded by hundreds of orange rooftops. Another shows the Ponte Vecchio at sunset.
Her desk is covered in neatly organized folders and papers, with a small Italian flag sitting in one corner beside a little American flag.
I stare at the flags for a second.
“Those are for international students,” Ms. Marino explains, noticing me looking at them. “I like to make everyone feel welcome.”
I nod. “That's nice.”
She smiles and pulls a thick folder toward her. “Now, let's get you settled.”
She goes over my schedule, my classes, and all of the extracurricular activities I'll be participating in during the semester. She explains where everything is on campus and gives me a map that I immediately know I'm going to lose.
Then she slides another folder across the desk. “This contains your dorm information.”
I open it.
“Your room is in the student residence about a ten-minute walk from campus. You will be sharing with another student.”
“Okay.”
“He is also in the international program, so we thought he would be a good person to help you adjust.”
I raise an eyebrow. “He's American?”
“No. Italian.”
“Oh, right, obviously.”
His name is Enzo Ricci. Apparently, Ms. Marino has put me in every class with him so he can help me get used to the university, show me around Florence, and help me with the language when I need it.
Which, considering I know, like, six Italian words, will probably be often.
Once she finishes explaining everything, she stands and grabs the handle of one of my bags. “I'll show you to your dorm.”
“You don't have to carry that.”
“Nonsense.”
I don't argue.
We make our way through the university's long hallways, passing students talking in Italian and English. The building is older than anything I'm used to back home, with tall ceilings, stone floors, and enormous windows overlooking the streets of Florence.
Outside, the afternoon heat hits me again.
I regret existing.
Ms. Marino leads me through a few narrow streets until we reach the student residence. The building is tall and pale yellow, with dark green shutters and flower boxes hanging beneath the windows.
“This is it,” she says.
I look up at the building. For the first time all day, I feel a tiny bit of excitement. Maybe this won't be so bad.
We climb two flights of stairs before Ms. Marino stops in front of a door. “Room 214.” She knocks twice.
I hear footsteps from inside. The door swings open.
And there he is.
A guy about my age stands in the doorway, wearing a loose white T-shirt and gray sweatpants, his dark hair messy like he just woke up even though it's the middle of the afternoon.
He looks at Ms. Marino then at me with the suitcase with the broken wheel. His eyebrows lift. “Uh…”
Ms. Marino smiles. “Enzo, this is Alex Williams. Your new roommate.”
Enzo's face immediately breaks into a grin. “Oh! You're Alex!” He has a good American accent, like Ms. Marino.
I blink. “…Yeah.”
He steps aside and gestures into the room. “Come in.”
I drag my suitcase through the doorway, the broken wheel scraping loudly against the floor.
Enzo winces. “That is… unfortunate.”
“You have no idea.”
He laughs and somehow, despite the fact that I've been in Italy for less than an hour and have already been covered in mystery sludge, lost my suitcase wheel, nearly died from heat exhaustion, and gotten completely lost, I think this might be the first thing that's gone right today.