It already felt like I was saying goodbye to Italy as we went from Bologna to Milan with our departure weighing on my shoulders. I was worn out, but ready to see Milan. It threw me how industrial and modern it looked compared to the other cities I saw; I had to remind myself that they basically had to rebuild Milan after World War II. Mindy, Kaitlyn, and I took the metro to the Duomo stop. As we walked from underground and into the light, each step gave us a better view of the towering cathedral in front of us. It took my breath away. After the intense sight, our thoughts shifted towards food. My favorite thing about the small part of Milan I saw was Luini’s. I am officially obsessed with Panzoretti (it’s plural on purpose, because I can’t just eat just one). I got pomodoro y mozzarella originally, but I ended up back there in a few hours to try out a ricotta and spinach. Even if I hadn’t planned on coming back to Milan, I definitely would make a special trip for Luini’s. Next we made our way into the mall. One of the department stores was so big we basically got lost in the €700 shoes. Afterwards, we sat on the steps in front of the cathedral, watching people and talking about the day next to all the pigeons. A metro ride and a quick nap later, I found myself at dinner with a great group of people. It was relaxing and fun, a perfect way to end the trip. It was even better since I tried a crazy dish for me – I ate pasta dyed with squid ink, which is an insane feat for a picker eater like myself. (Full disclosure: I didn’t know that’s what it was until halfway through).  In a way, I feel like Milan passed me by in a way, giving me only a short look into its character. But don’t worry Milan, I’m coming for you next time.

I woke up with a start with the sun hitting my face through the bus window, realizing I fell asleep and I’m now high in the Tuscan hills in the small medieval town of Poppi. It’s bright and beautiful, and after days of city life this feels like the slow-paced break I need. I was glad to get a small lesson in Italian, because after arriving in Italy I realized my duolingo preparation was not as strong as I had thought. Now, I can proudly say mi chiamo Brenna. After this, we took a bus to Castle de Romana and got a crash course in its history. It was interesting to hear all the back story while climbing among the Tuscan hills. While I might have professed I thought I would die on the way up the hill, I felt the power of the landscape at the top. The view was incredible. I had to search out a quiet moment so that I could fully appreciate it. The next day, we explored Poppi castle. Its amazing how well preserved the castle is, considering all its weathered. I especially enjoyed looking around the dungeon and the tower. While the tierr offered an incredible view, the dungeon had a skeleton which was really creepy and really cool at the same time. It was crazy to find out they would put people in the bottom and starve them to death. My favorite was the library, although. It was so incredible to be around ancient books that are so well preserved. There was a grammar book from 1476 there. How sweet is that? Also, it was pretty intense reading Dante’s Inferno during a thunderstorm in a castle. I really loved hearing it in Italian so that I could hear the rhythm of it. I haven’t studied Dante, so I was glad to hear some of the main themes pointed out and context given to Dante’s life. All in all, Poppi was rewarding and interesting, along with insanely beautiful. I couldn’t get over the view from my room in the Convent. Everything felt more peaceful and I felt so relaxed that I got eight hours of sleep. I wish I could do an extended stay in Poppi, because I feel like it’s a place where you would get more out of it being there for a long time. I would love to come back to the experience the town, people, and sights even further. It really has so much to offer (except maybe Wifi). Poppi is wonderful and sincere, and it welcomed me with open arms.

🎶”Mi amore…”🎶 The men sing to me as a walk near a Venetian canal in the sun of the early morning. All the boats are unloading supplies and getting ready for a day of tourists. It struck me when I saw this, as I hadn’t quite thought about how Venice has boats instead of loading trucks. It was really interesting to see this, and being serenaded unexpectedly by Italian men is not half bad either. That morning, I was able to see Venice before the tourists swarmed the San Marco Piazza and bridge. It was so worth the money to be in the quiet of the morning city, seeing the gondoliers setting up and the square almost empty. It was surreal. Jenna and I tried to find our friends to get a group gondolier ride, but we ended up lost (one of the many times in the 24 hours we were there). It was stressful, but we took a wrong turn and ended up by the Rialto Bridge, with a great view of the water glowing in the sunlight. It was a happy accident that we ended up next to a gondola service and was able to cut a deal with one of them. The gondola ride was one of the experiences from this trip that I will never forget. The quiet of the canals was so peaceful and moving. Another gondolier sang in the distance. I watched as they kicked off the corners of buildings when they turned too close to the buildings. I enjoyed every second of it. This was the moment I had waited for in Venice. It was beautiful; I felt like I was a part of Venice. The blending feeling was intensified by tourists, taking pictures as we floated by. This one man, clearly a local, was passing through and stopped to look at us. Standing on the bridge, he looked at the people taking a picture of us and said in broken English, “yes, life short, huh, very short.” Yes, Venetian man, life is short and so is my time in Venice – but for both, I will enjoy the ride.

It’s a funny sort of feeling when you walk somewhere and you just know that you were always supposed to find this place in one way or another. It’s as if it’s speaking to you, whispering promises of its potential. I heard it when I stepped into Florence and saw the looming presence of the Duomo, which watches over Florence with a graceful presence. On my first day in beautiful Florence, I decided I wanted to get lost. I felt the pull to be amongst the Italians, experiencing the city as they do. I simply needed to wander – and what better way to gain my footing in a new city than to lose myself in it? So off I went with Jenna and Katie along for the ride. It started out so well, seeing the different piazzas and stores I would visit in the next week, always thinking the Duomo was right near us. And then all of a sudden, the Duomo was gone and so were the tourists. I used this opportunity to break out one of the few Italian phrases I learned: Dov’é…? The first couple I asked didn’t speak English at all, but politely told me to go sempre dritto – before scolding me for my incorrect pronunciation of an Italian word. Much like ordering two liters of wine instead of two glasses in Rome, the language barrier was my downfall. Having too much wine is a happier accident than getting lost in a city, although. I asked a nice old woman next. She started speaking very fast. “Non parlo Italiano,” I tell her, but she continues anyways. She grabs my hand and holds it to steady her tired limbs, speaking quick and intricate sentences. I didn’t want to let go because this lady was my physical connection to the culture that I was trying to immerse myself in, but I couldn’t understand her. I was 0 for 2 with directions, but after a few more tries I was finally on my way back to the apartments. The next day, Chef Marcello and the pasta maker, Doriana, paid us a visit all the way from Bologna. I had the privilege of learning the ins and outs of Italian cooking, but I ended up entranced by Doriana’s technique. It is a wonderfully powerful feeling to watch a person do something that they are practiced in and clearly love. You can see it in their eyes as they do it. Doriana closed hers as she separated the tortelloni filling into the pasta shell, with a small smile playing on her lips as you could see the muscle memory kick in. It’s almost like you can feel her putting part of herself into her pasta. While I could watch forever, I felt like I needed to jump in and try my hand at folding tortelloni. I hesitantly pick one up, feeling very amateur next to the woman who rolls pasta with her grandmother’s rolling pin. I fold it. She nods. I...

It was the best feeling when the little plane glided across the screen in front of me, signaling that my flight has twenty more minutes and that the the terrain beneath me was Italian. I landed in Rome on a Thursday morning, and I spent the day getting a crash course. There I was, giddy and lightheaded from all the excitement and dealing with waves of culture shock, yet still feeling more confident and like myself than ever. I wanted to connect with the people, the places, and everything in Rome in the few days I spent there. The bigger-than-life Pantheon drove me into a state of speechless awe, where I couldn’t do much but stare and feel positively insignificant (which was strangely freeing, in a way). Then there was the ancient ruins in the Roman Forum, where I saw the temple where Julius Caesar was cremated. The silence of the Sistine Chapel was relished in, the Spanish Steps were climbed, and a coin was tossed over my shoulder into the Trevi Fountain. I felt the impressive presence of the Colosseum that Hollywood loves to bastardize the history of. My first sighting of the Colosseum ushered in a surreal moment, with me trying and failing to grasp the full extent of its intricate past filled with gladiators and death that had entranced an empire.   More than just running from one tourist attraction to the next, I felt like I got a good first taste of what the real Rome is. I found myself in more than one out of the ordinary situation. It started on the first day where I wandered into a piazza where flashes of red and wisps of smoke came floating out of the politically charged crowd. A man climbed on the center statue and lit another flare. I felt tense but not threatened, yet people in the piazza sat around the outer rim on steps going about their normal business. I even adventured outside the city walls, getting lost and unlost amongst the locals, and finding some amazing gelato along the way. In a whirlwind of walks, talks, and espresso, I found myself unable to sleep, sitting on the floor with jet-lagged and bleary eyes, writing in the moonlight all I had experienced. It felt right – Rome is made for the desperate middle-of-the-night writing. It’s a place of immeasurable quality that attacks your senses in the best way; it not only pushed past but exploded my comfort zone, allowing me to go beyond it into a place of curiosity and passion that I hadn’t felt before. It showed, too. The words poured out of me with a quiet ferocity, a tribute to the city I’ve known for less than two days. Even though my late night ramblings and poorly drawn pictures can’t do it justice, my moment with Rome happened in the middle of the night on a cold tile floor of a small hotel room – not at the Colosseum or the Pantheon like...