Italy: First Impressions

Broccoli florets color a wall around this town that, from a view on a Roman carriage bridge, looks as though it could house sophisticated ants. Scenery fit only for a DaVinci painting in an Art History book makes my stomach drop to my toes. The trees and grass are deeper and cleaner than anything in America, where water must be filtered through a Pur attachment on the faucet in order to drink. Our group walks by four stone fountains cemented in limestone walls, where you fill your bottle with liquid purer than Holy water. After ten hours in the air, a Lana del Rey album on repeat outside a hotel that forgot you eat breakfast for free, internet and a cappuccino with lingering cinnamon and warm foam cures all jet lag. Paper thin walls echo the heels of teenage Italians while my brain draws blanks as to their conversations. I’m definitely the American; the glazed over tourist doubling as a student. As we wander streets that barely fit two cars and a single file line of students, nails disappear at the thought of traveling on my own. I gnaw the end of my pinky right now, thoughts of people who cut and stare at me confused when I speak Italian (sounding more of a mix of Spanish and French with an American accent) fill my brain. But I battle off hesitations with the postcard out my window: the rainbow of brown and terracotta ceramic lining the roofs of houses from before 1700, built into the mountain side with clotheslines drying sheets and acid washed jeans.