Last Night in Florence

Memories Amongst the Starlight

Written by Alex Mas

Photos by Rachel Larsen

After reaching my train stop on the outskirts of Florence, the winter weather was beginning to take its toll. I was on the way to meet my host family, an exciting moment that had been delayed because of this reason or that; bad luck. A sudden torrent of rain had left me stranded under a measly awning outside a tabaccheria, I was soaked down to the bone. It was just me, dressed poorly for the weather

in a denim jacket (the rain had made it a sort of pallid, grayish blue, I was cold and lacking style), illuminated only by an ad for condoms (sentirai tutto!). Florence, a place that simultaneously felt comfortable and overwhelming in the weeks I spent here, had finally started to become the home I had wanted. Studying abroad, being in an unknown and new place for months, speaking a different language; naturally this lends itself to being pushed far outside of one's comfort zone. I sought this discomfort, pushing towards experiences that were alien to me. Speaking Italian as much as possible, meeting new people everyday, spending time with different groups, staying out late, getting up early, going to random towns with no plan in sight, traveling alone. Whether big or small, elements of discomfort and fear (occasionally) pervade the study abroad experience, but they are necessary parts. It forces you to change. But in these five weeks, weeks filled with chaos, stumbling upon moments of serenity became some of the most poignant and memorable parts of Florence. They will stick with me and every other student lucky enough to walk along the same cobblestones long after they’re passed. It was late, the Florentine streets were quiet. In these hours, a calm washes over the city. Only a halfhour before, Becca and I got an email (from our college back home) saying that we should book our flights, the first signs of the crisis that was about to hit the entire world. Over those last few days, laughter lived among tears, anger was the cousin of joy; it was incredibly cathartic, exhausting, and sad. But in these moments, moments where you are heartbroken reading an email on your random Italian rent-a-phone, spontaneity is a savior. Absurdity is king.

Before truly falling prey to sadness and despair, we sped out of the apartment. The city is full of possibilities, ones we have to exploit now. There’s no time left, who cares what we do! Full of manic energy, we climbed up to the Piazzale Michelangelo, a famed viewpoint from which you can see the entire city. Once we made the climb, we were panting and we just sat, overlooking the city. It was glistening, almost sparkling, like a twinkling jewel in the moonlight. The lights sat among the city and squares. Little stars illuminated the Arno, perfectly mirrored in the still water. Along the stars stood the memories we had made in these short five weeks: from the soccer game to us sitting on that wall, laughing and taking pictures, and watching a couple of kids kick around a soccer ball in Santissima Annunziata. The karaoke bars, watching the street musicians at Uffizi, sitting in the sun at Palazzo Pitti, pizza in hand. Walking around in the early morning, in awe of the Duomo. All this was now a part of the past, fleeting moments that passed us by in this beautiful city, our future was now frighteningly finite. In spite of their fleeting nature, these memories were a part of the city for us, as tangible and real as the stones we walked on, glistening like the starlights reflected below us. Everything is finite, everything has an end, but the beauty lies in the fact that within the chaos life brings every day, month, and year we get to experience any of those things at all. Fireworks broke our collective silence. Behind us, some locals had set some off next to the replica statue of David to celebrate a friend’s birthday, unknowingly giving us a sendoff of our own. The next morning, I woke up early. I had choir, which somehow remained as the constant in my life through all of the massive upheavals that seemed to be occurring. I walked along the Arno, the beautiful river that had always been my favorite part of Florence. There were little birds flying above a man rowing along the water. The birds flew up to the Ponte Vecchio, which was quiet in the stillness of the early morning. I passed memories and possibilities of memories. I reached the church with time to spare, so I went and sat on the bridge down the street. I sat there for a few minutes, looking at the buildings, the stone, the water, the sky, and cried.