By oncptime
The brochures warned me that something like this might happen.
These people, they’re…different than I am. Their music is foreign to my ears. They use phrases that I’m not entirely familiar with. I can’t make sense of their senses of style and I struggle to understand their jokes. Lost in translation does not describe.
I’ve expressed this to death to anyone willing to listen from back home and to the few Florentines I’ve met around town.
“I know.” My friend Stefano states flatly in exasperated English. “That’s why we’re going out tonight. Now no more Italian please, you need to practice more.”
You see it’s not the Italians I’m having difficulty with. They’re fine. They like olive oil, I like olive oil—it’s all very simpatico. It’s my American roommates that I’m finding myself at odds with.
Many moons ago, I began to work a bit of academic black magic, that eventually led to me to a joint program between GWU and Kent State University in Florence, Italy. I wrote a few essays, submitted a few applications, and within a month’s time—I was a dual-enrolled student—equal parts Colonial and Flash.
The idea of studying in a completely foreign country, learning a new language, and living with fellow Americans from a different part of the country excited me deeply. What would living with Ohioans be like? Would they be political junkies like me? Did state school people really go that much harder than us private school folk? The possibilities were endless.
GWU’s an internationally oriented school by nature. We all have friends or roommates from Columbia or Nigeria or Germany. It’s the norm. Coming to Italy didn’t feel all that out of the ordinary to me—everyone just spoke a hell of a lot more Italian. My roommates, though, were struck upon arrival.
The first week or so, conversations inevitably began with an exclamation of “Dude, I can’t believe we’re in Italy!” Or “This is amazing, we live here now. This is my first time living in another country.”
I nodded along and smiled, feeling like a bit of a tool for not being as enthralled at the prospect of living in Italy for a few months. These guys were younger than I am—Sophomores from the middle of America, this was a new experience and I should try to make the effort to enjoy it with them.
The first weeks were fine, when we were all new to the city and the, getting easily lost around city’s winding streets. We’d explore, and take cheesy touristy pictures, and marvel at the never ending kebab shops on every block. It was easy then, when school was a brief shadow on the horizon—hardly something to worry about.
Inevitably, though, school became a thing for me. It didn’t, however for my roommates and many of my fellow students. At first I didn’t understand the need to throw parties every weekend, or the compulsive traveling that seemed to take up everyone’s weekends.
“Where are there so many boxes of wine in our fridge?” I’d wonder to myself. And then it struck me.
Studying abroad as a senior, I’d come to Italy with a different perspective. More than anything else, I wanted a chance to scope out potential job opportunities in Europe. I wanted something to make my resume shine a little in the oncoming months. I wanted to see…the David. My peers were coming at the experience differently though. For most of them, this was the first time they could drink legally—and in public no less. They didn’t have the same jaded outlook on bar-crawls that I’d developed after one too many outings to McFadden’s.
While I was busy applying for internships left and right in preparation to return to D.C., they were still in the thick of being in college. I’ve since come to recognize that we’re in vastly different places in our respective lives. Yeah, there are times that I find myself wondering if I were ever so…willfully fancy free as they are. That said, my roommates just as often remind me to slow down, enjoy the flow, and remember to appreciate this experience for what it is.