The first morning of class, my host-mother, Signora Franci, escorted me on the bus so I wouldn't get lost. She was about 4-foot-11 to my 5-9 and she talked continually to me in Italian, though she knew I was still oblivious. She left me at the Dante Aleghieri language school with a tip-toed kiss and a "Ciao, bella." I could love a country where absolutely everyone called you beautiful.
My class was a stray collection of 21-year-old Australian girls. I took them on as my friends; we'd circle through the city after class every day, then sit in the town square, dodging pigeons and eating gelato.
But I suddenly wasn't good at having friends. Something from the month before had made me shy. I wasn't very happy about people in general and it showed with these women. I questioned when they were nice to me and bristled when they whispered about anything. I was sure I was just weird to them, some older, freaked-out American who trusted no one.
And my boyfriend had been tricky. Yes, we broke up before I left, but the actual night before I got on the plane, he gave me presents and talked about missing me. So now I missed him.
I went to Rome to look at the Sistine Chapel, and I called him from a pay phone in front of St. Peter's to describe every detail. He screamed things back to me: "What are you doing there without me?" "When are you coming home?" And it rained the whole time and some guy grabbed my butt right there in Vatican City, but I didn't care. I felt filled up with Michelangelo and a boy and bringing worlds together.
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