Midterms have come around and, amongst the stress of reviewing mounds of work I didn’t half pay attention to in the first place; it dawned on me that my time in Florence is half over. I may be speaking Italian, and indeed I’ve worn heels a time or two, but there’s so much more I’d hoped to accomplish by this point. When I get back from a week of European travel, I’m only going to have one month left here before I have to start studying for finals and head back to New York, and all I can think is where did the time go?

Days turn into weeks faster than we realize, and with classes and site visits, sprinkled with weekend trips away, it’s kind of shocking to realize how much time I’ve wasted not exploring this city.

I once heard that you can’t truly call yourself a New Yorker until you’ve lived there seven years, but I guess I kind of put that in the pile of the stupid things New Yorkers (including me) say to make ourselves more elite- like “I could never live anywhere but the City,”  which by the way I totally couldn’t. I guess it’s important to realize though that no matter how comfortable you feel in a place time really is of the essence.

You could live in Florence for four months or seven years and it really doesn’t matter if you don’t make practical use of your time. Lucky for me, I attend a university that stresses the importance of going out and interacting with this wonderful city, and I do feel like I’ve taken full advantage. But if the person who has to go to museums for site visits and chooses to take strolls through the many different, and non New York-ish, streets still feels like she hasn’t explored the city enough in two months- I feel sorry for those of you who really haven’t explored Florence at all.

My advice? Come on… you know it- Carpe diem! Live each day here as if it was your last, and if you’re a permanent resident live it as if you’re moving away tomorrow. Don’t visit the Uffizi and the Duomo and call yourself a Florentine, because it’s the little known facts, the hidden churches and less crowded museums, that truly make you able to call Florence home.

I can tell you anything and everything about New York, from the difference between red street signs and green ones to the unspoken rule to always keep to your right to the hours of each and every Sephora- and my goal for the next two months is to be able to tell you anything and everything about Florence. I intend to make good use of the rest of my time here, and be it two months or the rest of your life- you should too.

My plane descended through the thick obscuring clouds onto the long Berlin runway.  It was to be the last time I would see the sun for the next six days, when a plane would again carry me through the clouds and back into the light of day.  Yet my time in Berlin was in total contrast to the dismal sky over the city. 

To sum it up, Berlin is the place to be in Europe.  I’ve spoken to Italians, Germans, and all sorts of other Europeans about Berlin and almost all of them agreed that Berlin is the happening spot in Europe right now.  This information made the destination of my week long trip an easy choice.  First off it is autumn in Berlin, making every tree in Berlin change into a mass of golden magnificence.  Secondly, it was cold as hell out. I thus had to go and buy a jacket.  I was daunted at the amount of money I would have to spend, thinking back to most heavy jackets and coats I had seen priced in Florence.  Yet after walking around for an hour or so I stumbled into a second hand shopping district in the northern Mitte section of Berlin.  There were about a dozen or so second hand shops that had awesome clothes, shoes and all sorts of other accessories.  I picked up a warm stylish coat for only 20 euro.

The rest of my days where then filled with all kinds of amazing site seeing and museum visiting.   I started off with the free walking tour of Berlin with Newcity tours.  This was an amazingly informative tour and I highly recommend it to anyone who has a day free in Berlin.  The tour is free, but the guides do work off tips.  At the end of our tour I was so happy with it that I tipped out guide 10 euros.  The next day I rented a bike and biked around the city with some Australian guys who were staying in my hostel.  The city was amazing to explore via bicycle.  The next day I needed something a little slower so I visited with Jewish Museum.  This experience is a must for anyone in Berlin, there was so much to soak in there that one could spend an entire day in the museum.  Yet the museum was also quite harrowing and emotionally draining.

The night life in Berlin is also amazing!  I went to a rock and roll club called Magnet.  It was full of Berliners who loved good music and new how to dance.  I was out till the early hours of the morning talking to many many Berliners.  All who invited me to stay at their places if I returned to Berlin.  So I am going back to Berlin, end of story.

My host family told me, let’s say mid- September, that after one month of living in their house (this would wind up being October 7^th) I would no longer be allowed to speak English at the dinner table.

“What?!” I said to my self, and to my roommate. “One month, that mean’s less than a month of Italian class, for someone who’s never taken Italian… if they mean that I’m just gonna become a mute.”

“Well just try and speak as much as you can before then, that way when it happens you won’t be thrown for such a big loop.” She offered, but that certainly wasn’t comforting.

In the weeks that proceeded, I complained to anyone and everyone who would listen, indeed cried to my sister, and all around dreaded the inevitable date when I would have to live life senza inglese, however, the date came and went to no dire consequence.

“How’s life without English?” A friend randomly asked me today. “What’s it been, over a week now?”

“Wow,” I replied. “You know, I don’t think they really enforce it.”

“Excellent, so you don’t have to become a mute!” she said, nodding. “I was kind of scared for you, picturing you just sitting there not saying anything for two hours every night.”

“Well no I talk... actually I’ve even been talking in my broken-Italian. I think they do speak less English to me now, but it’s so minute I can hardly tell. Like- instead of asking me if I’m going out tonight they’ll say, ‘Tiffany, esci stasera?’ and I can understand that.”

“Oh, so they’re starting slow, that’s cool. When’d they change it to ‘esci’?”

“You know, I don’t even know. I could have been living life senza inglese for a while now…”

“And you didn’t even notice,” She said. “Can’t be that bad then.”

“No,” I replied. “Not bad at all.”

I’m crossing bridges yet failing to come to any realizations.  Rather I enter into new neighborhoods.  Places where Greeks traded their wares centuries ago, Germans plied the markets with their gold and silver, Persians sold silk from the Far East and Venetians created a central market with their salt.  Turning corners and staring down long corridors watching people coming towards me and going away from me.  The sky above remains constantly overcast, obscuring the sun and the direction it would offer me.  Many of the choices I make end where the streets give way to the water contained in the canals.  I come to places where the alleys open into larger squares.  Here the skeletons are built on the outside of the large churches.  Constantly they remain in a state of healing, in a typical Italian fashion, never finishing.  The ground begins to sway with the waves as I step onto floating passenger rooms that drop me off a little further along water.  I become like a blood cell moving through the veins of the city, pushing past slower cells that get caught in the fatty windows on the sides of the veins.  I am expelled into the garden, where the art of the world has congregated.  My eyes do their thing, looking.  My mind does likewise, yet inward rather than outward.

I am carried by the same ferries to the station, where I had arrived earlier, and now would be doing the opposite.  I enter the device that will cause my expulsion from the vein corridored place of crossings. The light inside the train makes the window reflect the faces of the occupants inside, rather than revealing the twilight outside.  My head lay back against the seat as drowsiness creeps into me.  I eventually give in.

This past weekend I visited friends in Sevilla, and, needless to say… it was amazing. Palm trees, 85 degree weather, the world’s third largest cathedral… not to mention a McDonalds and Burger King right across the street from Starbucks (I drank entirely too many white chocolate mochas). Sevilla was perfect, but this weekend I began to notice something. Every time I’ve traveled outside of Florence and experienced a different culture, country, or even just town in I return feeling even more endeared to our city. As I was flying back to Florence yesterday I really felt as if I was going home. Home to . Very cool.

My favorite thing to do to feel at home in Florence is sit squarely (no pun intended) in the middle of Piazza Santa Croce late at night with a friend, when it is relatively deserted. You’d be amazed at the number of intellectual life discussions this setting can inspire… maybe it’s because I’m channeling some of the greats buried inside la Basilica… but these are the times when I feel like Piazza Santa Croce is ‘My Piazza’, and Florence is really my home.

If you’re studying in Florence, I encourage you to find a place like this that you can call your own, whether you get that feeling at the little coffee shop where the barista knows your name, or on the steps of the Duomo. My three and a half months here may not really be enough to warrant claiming an entire piazza as “mine”, but for now at least it feels that way. And in Florence, I feel home.

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good Vespa must be in want of a girl walking down the street.  I see this want, or rather, uncontrollable urge, everyday.  All women, no matter their dress, shape, or age are yelled at from moving vehicles, from store windows, from across the street.  This happens everywhere: in , in —one of the many cultural quirks uniting the two countries.  Perhaps these men should get together and write a book on the art of catcalls.  In a world where shows like “Beauty and the Geek” are glorified, that book would sell millions.

But what is the purpose of these shouts?  What do they think they are going to accomplish?  That I am going to drop my bags, jump on the back of their Vespa, and drive off into the Tuscan sunset with them?  All these men are doing, in my mind, are making complete fools out of themselves.  They are like Neanderthals who grunt and point at what they want.  Why? I am really interested in getting to the root of this complex.  Perhaps it is in their nature.  Sure, why not?  Guaranteed Lucy—one of the earliest ancestors of Homo Sapiens—had her fair share of Neanderthals running grunting at her.  Falstaff—Shakespeare’s greatest cad—is the king of dirty catcalls.  And we all know Benjamin Franklin was a pimp in .  It must be encoded on men’s DNA.  Ok, I accept that theory.  Why, then, do I have such a problem with it if catcalling is part of nature?  Perhaps it’s the language.

On my walk home one day, I decided to count how many times I heard a “Bellisima,” “Che cosa fai bella,” “Come stai ragazza,” and the like.  The grand total?  Seven.  When I am walking home after running Corri La Vita—the first physical activity I have done in a month—I KNOW I did not look beautiful.  I looked like death itself inhabited my body and was carrying me down the street.  I know they do not believe I look beautiful.  I mean, if they find me attractive then, what are they going to say when I am actually looking semi decent?  Is it then not an abuse of the word beautiful?  These men abuse the word beautiful like the rest of the rest of humanity abuses the word love.  Beautiful is word that should be reserved for something or someone that takes your breath away, that stuns your senses, that boggles your mind. 

And there it is.  When I criticize catcallers, I am not doing it to stand up for women everywhere, I am doing it to stand up for words everywhere.  For me, it comes down to using language to the best of its ability.  Humans have the ability to communicate like no other species on the planet, and catcallers use the same words over and over again because they believe it will get the job done.  Stop.  Take a note from Shakespeare, from Shelley, from Burns.  Use words to touch the soul.  So, yell at me all you want guys, just don’t fling language around like dirty laundry.  Then, maybe, you will look like an educated, passionate Neanderthal.  Just a thought.

Today makes it official- I have been living in Florence for five weeks. I am no longer a tourist. I have been here long enough to be able to know my way home from all major monuments, to know to order my cappuccino “da porta via,” and to be able to understand at least some of what is said to me. So, if I’m not a tourist, what am I?

This weekend I went to Amsterdam. Holland is a wonderful country and remarkably English-friendly (thank God because I know no Dutch), indeed every bit as liberal as one would expect. I had a great time but come Sunday, after a 2 hour plane ride to Milan and a 4 hour train ride back to Florence, I was more than ready to crash in my own bed.

Unfortunately for me, I had a big Italian quiz Monday morning, which I naturally hadn’t studied for, and so I broke out my flash cards and decided to go over my verb conjugations. Upon learning that I had down the basics, I decided to take a (long) walk to my favorite little piazza, Piazza Donatello, convincing myself that the hour it would take to walk there and back was more than enough studying, and it would tire me out enough to immediately fall asleep upon getting into bed.

That night, however, the walk was different than any other time I’d taken it. I could say the air was sweeter or the lights were brighter, but I’m not sure that they were. What I am sure of is I knew exactly what streets I didn’t have to wait at the light for, which corners to avoid turning, and what store meant I was half way home- and that’s when it hit me, Florence was home, Florence is my home. Who knew all it took to truly appreciate someplace was to depart from it for a little while. I guess absence really does make the heart grow fonder.

The rain had washed the clouds away allowing the sun to light the day up like an uncovered bulb hanging from the ceiling.  The sound of the water washing against the jetty that protected the small harbor was rhythmic and made staving off sleep a difficulty.  I had spread my blanket out on a rock that was perfectly smooth and flat, providing me with an ideal location to laze the day away under the light bulb sun.  Starting to be unable to take the heat on my skin any longer I figured it was about time to move myself into the cool ocean water.  I had purchased a snorkel and mask for just this occasion and thought this an ideal time to put my newly acquired product to use.  Stepping carefully over the rocks towards where the water calmly lapped against them I found a flat rock that would allow me to dangle my feet over it and test the water out.  My feet plunged into the brisk water and forced my entire body to shiver for a second.  My feet just moments before had been baking under the warmth of the sun and now were thrown into the rain chilled ocean water.  They quickly adjusted to the new temperature and I was able to wiggle my toes around while I acquired a new grin.  The water was transparent.  I could see the rocks below the water covered in algae and other forms of aquatic plant life.  Fish darted about the rocks in schools feasting upon the rock coverings, some coming close to my feet to explore the new addition to their environment.  In one quick movement I removed my feet and plunged my entire body into the sea.  The sensation my feet had experienced moments before was now spread throughout my entire body.  I surfaced from my dive and let out a large cry of excitement and exhilaration.  The goggles and snorkel allowed me to explore the underside of the jetty with perfect clarity.  There were multitudes of fish, swimming in schools about the rock and surface of the water.  Some of the white stones that the jetty was composed of shone through the greens of the algae that covered them adding an even radiant feeling to my view.

Some time later I emerged from the ocean covered in salt water.  I went to where my belongings were placed and set my snorkel and goggles down.  I looked back at the shore, where the cliffs of Cinque Terre went off in both directions, full of travelers enjoying the beauty of the trails.  Although I had enjoyed the trails myself I couldn’t help feel sorry for all of them that would pass within jumping distance of this beautiful ocean and not take the time to jump in.

This past weekend I found myself playing hostess to my good friend Sarah who was in town, taking a short vacation from studying in Madrid. After showing her some of the more beautiful sights our city has to offer, il Duomo, sunset at Piazzale Michelangelo, Ponte Vecchio, the David, etc… we decided to venture out and experience some more of Tuscany. Having a mutual friend spending the semester in Siena, we took the opportunity to spend a few hours exploring this beautiful little town.

Siena is just a stone’s throw away from Florence – ok, or a 13 euro round trip bus ride (a little more than an hour each way), yet since I’ve been here I’ve heard mixed reviews about whether or not to visit the area. Some claimed it to be dirty; a few others felt it was too boring for their liking. In my opinion, Siena turned out to be a hidden gem. Granted, I was lucky enough to meet up with a friend who, having already spent a good five weeks in the town proved to be an amazing and willing tour guide. 

Our visit started out at the San Domenico Cathedral, in which the head of Saint Catherine is preserved. It is impossible not to be awed by this miracle (the head is hardly decomposed), and also kinda hard not to make the ‘eww’ face when you see the well preserved pinky finger in a small case to the right of the head…oops. In any case, it is an incredible sight, and something well worth the ew factor.

Next, we made our way to Piazza del Campo, Siena’s main square. Had we not had our good friend along we absolutely would have sat down at one of the many tourist trap restaurants inside the piazza. Just a few steps outside the piazza, though, we were led to an authentic, hole in the wall trattoria where the servers only spoke Italian and the menu was recited aloud to you – in Italian. It proved to be the best meal I’ve experienced yet in , and one of the most authentic Italian experiences.

Getting stopped in many of the beautiful shops along the streets and with time running thin, we collectively decided to skip visiting Siena’s Duomo (apparently a bad choice, I hear it’s beautiful) and instead visited Santa Maria delle Scala, a MUST SEE sight in Siena. The first floor of Santa Maria delle Scale was once a hospital, underneath which is a church, underneath another church, and finally a maze of Etruscan ruins at the lowest levels. The lack of tourist in the maze of floors gave me a cool and creepy ‘maybe I’m not really allowed in here’ feeling, something you’d never be able to experience at the highly trafficked sights in Florence.

Buses to Siena run from Santa Maria Novella every hour and cost only $6.50 each way. My advice for visiting: know where to go, map out a route, and don’t get stuck in tourist traps.