Elena's blog

When I first signed up for the Art of Travel course, I was not sure what to expect. I knew that the class would focus on my experience abroad, but other than that I knew nothing. However, as the semester comes to an end, I am so happy that I enrolled in this course. Blogging once a week has really allowed me to keep track of my semester and reflect on the amazing experiences I have had (something I would not have necessarily done otherwise). After getting the hang of the blog, I began to pay more attention to details, in an attempt to share something exciting and interesting with my fellow bloggers. I have also realized how important taking pictures is. I have a newfound love for photography, as it is a way for me to document my travels and share them with my family and friends. The biggest problem I faced while abroad was definitely the language barrier, but having Italian four times a week definitely encouraged me to learn and speak the language. I will never forget the amazing art I was surrounded by. Living down the block from the David has been unreal. Although the flocks of tourists can often be annoying their excited and love for this city is contagious. Not only has living in Florence been the experience of a lifetime, I have also been fortunate to travel all over Europe to some of the most amazing and beautiful cities: Brussels, Budapest, Lisbon, Barcelona, Paris, Rome, Venice, London…you name it. Studying abroad has been the experience of a lifetime and I would definitely recommend it to everyone. I love and appreciate Europe, but I also definitely miss New York. Being away for four months has made me appreciate America that much more.
 

Florence is the perfect place to study abroad. When registering for housing, my friend and I decided to live in NYU’s apartments, which are off campus. We figured that living in the center of the city would allow us to have the best experience as well as expose us to Italian culture and we were definitely right. Although campus is stunning, it takes a while to get to the center of the city. Not only is it up in the hills, but it sits in a residential area, which makes it hard for students to interact with Italians, whether it be at a restaurant or while walking through the leather market.
Furthermore, after visiting friends at other NYU abroad sights throughout Europe, I have come to appreciate Florence so much more. After a week here, I knew my way around the city, had figured out where to grocery shop, and discovered where to get my morning coffee. Not only is Florence small, which definitely made adjusting easier, but also the people here are so friendly and warm. They may not all speak English, but everyone here is always willing to help you out and make you to feel at home.
My friends and I made the mistake of assuming that Florence is warm year round. It turned out, that this year was one of the coldest winters in European history. Leaving our rain boots and heavy winter coats behind was definitely a huge mistake. I also did not realize how heavily weather impacts ones experience in a foreign city—always check the weather before planning a trip!
Overall, my experience here in Florence has been amazing. Other than better preparing for the cold winter, I would not change a thing about this past semester. Having the experience to live in a foreign country has been life changing.

It took me a while to get used to living in Italy. Everything seemed to oppose the fast-paced, New York lifestyle that I had become used to.  The people are slow, the food is different, and the lifestyle is much more relaxed – literally everything here is different. What shocked me the most was the fact that everything and everyone ran on their own schedules; the bus schedule, (which changed once a week) was never reliable and the coffee shop next to my apartment seemed to open whenever the owner felt like going to work that day. At first, I didn’t understand how people could function this way. Didn’t they get frustrated? I mean it took a solid ten minutes for me to get a bottle of water. Although I often find myself frustrated with this lethargic behavior, I have learned to love this slow-paced lifestyle. Everyone seems to appreciate everything so much more. Drinking a cup of coffee isn’t just a two-minute process to wake us up in the morning. Rather, in Italy and even throughout Europe, it has become a long process, as each sip is savored and the fact that there are no to-go cups definitely does not encourage people to pick up the pace. After three months here, I have attempted to adapt some of the Italian habits.
Now, as I wait for the bus each morning, I know that I need to show up at least fifteen minutes early. The bus, which is usually scheduled to arrive around 8:20 can show up anywhere from 8:08 to 8:35. Frustrating? Absolutely, but no one seems to care. I cannot believe I am actually saying this, but I am definitely going to miss the Italian lifestyle. Hopefully, I’ll be able to combine my fast-paced life in New York with the relaxing lifestyle of Italy to find the perfect balance.
 

I came to Florence with three friends I grew up with and have known my entire life. I was about to move to Italy for an entire semester, but did not know any Italians. I wasn’t worried though; I assumed I would meet plenty. I mean Italians have the reputation of being extremely nice and friendly, right? Any nerves that may have slowly crept up immediately disappeared, I was too busy packing and getting organized before it was time to leave. However, after actually arriving in Italy and getting settled into what would be my home for the next for months, I began to miss my family. Sure, my I went to school in New York and my family lived in Los Angeles, but this was different. I was in a completely different country! However, my first day of Italian class my worries began to disappear. My teacher, Valentina, introduced herself and immediately made me feel welcomed and at home. Although there was obviously a language barrier between us, her warmth was evident. She made us feel like we were part of her family, like we were her children. She greets us every morning with a warm smile. At the beginning of every week Valentina makes sure to go around the room, asking everyone what they did that weekend and what their plans are for the next one. She asks us each personal questions, because she is truly interested. Due to the fact that I have Italian four times a week, I have been able to really see how caring Italians really are. When I found out that Italian is mandatory in Florence and meets four times a week I was almost positive that I would dread going to class each morning. Surprisingly, I look forward to having Italian. Not only do I get to learn a new language, I am taught by a professor who cares, and is interested in the well being of each of her students. Having Valentina as a professor has made me feel more comfortable with reaching out in an attempt to meet local Italians. I have been pleasantly surprised that my other professors seem to be just as caring and interested in their students well being as the next. I was worried Valentina would hold a standard that would never be met by another professor, but I was definitely wrong. It definitely took time getting used to the smiles I receive by passer buyers or the generosity evoked by the cashier at the supermarket. I guess I was getting too used to the New York ‘way.’

Before coming to Florence I was told by everyone who had studied here that finding the secret bakery is a must. I had no idea what a secret bakery could possibly mean or be, but I was on a mission to find it. I was given no directions or address, but was told that I would know when I was close; “you’ll find it with your nose,” everyone said. I was up for the challenge. On my first night here, my roommates and I decided to see what nightlife here is like. I knew the secret bakery didn’t open until 3 am, so I carefully watched the clock as we danced and met new people. A quarter to 3 I managed to gather my friends, insisting that we find out what was so secret about this bakery. At first I got a few eye-rolls but finally everyone agreed and we were on our way. As we walked down the cobblestone streets I asked all passer buyers if they knew where this bakery was. Everyone looked at me the same way. It was as if I was asking about something that didn’t exist. “che cosa?” was the response I got from most, but I was on a mission. I had convinced myself and everyone I was with that we would be able to find it if we just followed our noses. And that’s exactly what we did. Our noses literally led us to the famous secret bakery. A line of at least forty people wrapped around the block, everyone speaking in hushed voices. We were told to keep quiet and only whisper if necessary. (It turns out that a special license is required for restaurants and stores to be opened past 11 pm and since this specific bakery doesn’t, it’s supposed to be a secret). After waiting in line for 20 minutes it was finally my turn. When my chocolate croissant was ready I quickly took a bite. The chocolate oozed out of the hot pastry. My friends thanked me for taking them to this hidden treasure. The secret bakery instantly became our ‘late night’ spot. Although we’re never exactly sure of the exact address, we manage to find it by following the delicious smell. When I look back on my semester in Florence, the secret bakery will definitely play a large role. I am determined that by May I will be able to share this secret with others, and provide them with a address!

Prior to studying abroad, Los Angeles and Israel were ‘home’. I rarely ever referred to New York as home, always viewing it as somewhere that I was temporary living.  The thought that I would soon be referring to Italy as ‘home’ seemed impossible. I grew up in an Orthodox Jewish household and the thought that Italian culture could be similar to the culture that I grew up in never crossed my mind. However, two months later, I catch my self repeatedly referring to Italy as home (even if it is a temporary one). After reading Camille Cusumano’s “Italy, A Love Story: Women Write About The Italian Experience,” I realized that although many may not realize it, Italian culture is very similar to Judaism. Saturdays were my day to rest, hang out with friends, and spend time (most of which was done eating) with my family. I had always assumed Sunday was everyone else’s equivalent to ‘my’ Saturday, but I guess I was wrong. In her introduction, Cusumano writes “our weekly socializing often took place on Saturdays” (X). There was similarity number one.
I couldn’t put the book down. I was eager to figure out more similarities and to share my new findings with my family and friends. I was born and raised in America, but Israel was always my second home.
As I continued reading the book, I came across the short story Aromatherapy, Italian Style and noticed even more similarities. Cusumano introduces us to Holly, a cancer survivor, who came to Italy to experience Tuscany. Although I am in Florence to study the Italian language, culture, and art, she and I share a similarity. Upon her arrival, Holly was shocked by the strong scents, which feel the streets.  Although I’m extremely sensitive to the often-unpleasant smells, such as the whiffs of urine or the smell of ripe cheese, I am immediately reminded of Israel. Israel is filled with intense aromatherapy, whether it is the fresh falafel being dipped in oil, or the week old beer, spilled in the cracks of the stone streets. Of course there are times when I am forced to hold my breath in an attempt to avoid the nauseating smells.  I have come to appreciate these different smells, but over time I have come to appreciate them. Not only do the smells of Italy remind me of Israel, but also I believe that each scent can teach you something about the culture of the place you are visiting.
Ultimately, over these past two and a half months I have come to notice similarities between Italy, Israel, and America, making me feel at home. Although it sounds strange, I guess smells really do have a bigger impact than I thought.  

Work Sited
Cusumano, Camille. Italy, a Love Story: Women Write about the Italian Experience. Emeryville, Cal.: Seal, 2005. Print.

When someone says café I automatically associate the word with being social definitely as a place to hang out with friends. Florence has definitely confirmed my views on the meaning of this word. The cafes here serve as central meeting points, places to sit with others and hang out. Although Americans and Italians share so many similarities such as hanging out at local restaurants or cafes, it is interesting to see how different we are as well. Italians interact with one another in a completely different way. Rather than meeting up for a half hour to catch each other up on the latest gossip, they lounge around and take their time as they slowly (and I mean really slowly) sip their coffee. The café down the block from my apartment is small, literally half the size of a local Starbucks in New York. Yet this tiny venue manages to fit more people than I can count, especially around lunchtime. It may be common for Italians to congregate in these different cafes, but I have noticed that the Americans (myself included) definitely tend to hang out more at bars and restaurants. Sometimes it feels as if the entire restaurant is filled with only Americans, which allows me to somewhat feel as if I am back in New York. I guess most Italians eat dinner at home, with their families. There is definitely a huge stress put on the importance of family life.  The only time I really see Americans lounging around in a café is on campus. The large room filled with about a dozen tables is always crowded as students grab a bite to eat or simply sit down to catch up with friends. During my first week here I was surprised at how long people seemed to sit around and take their time. I was so used to the fast-paced lifestyle of New York City—sitting down to eat for a half hour was almost unheard of. I guess the laidback Italian lifestyle is starting to rub off on me. When my parents came to visit they were shocked and found it amusing to see me lounge around and really enjoy my food. At home I (embarrassingly) would stuff my face, hoping to get a million more things done that day. Hopefully when I head back to New York, I won’t get kicked out of restaurants for taking too much time to eat. It will definitely be another adjustment!
 

I always knew that Florence was a city filled with art, but until I arrived here I often associated Italy with ancient religious art. At school, I had learned about Brunelleschi and Michelangelo’s masterpieces such as the famous sculpture of David. From the Academy to the Uffizi, it is obvious that these great landmarks define Florence.  Although the artwork often appears to be similar and resemble each other, I noticed how different each painting really is. Each artist expressed himself differently, whether it is in the brushstrokes or colors depicted in the paintings. During my first week in Florence I visited the Uffizi, one of the most famous galleries in the world. I could not believe that I was surrounded by some of the most well-known and important masterpieces. I was even living a block away from the David! However, after visiting Pitti Palace, the Academy, and the Uffizi, I decided to visit museums that were not as famous and somewhat ‘undiscovered’. I was interested to see if there was something other than paintings of Madonna and child. And so as I walked through the streets, I stumbled upon the Anthropology Museum. When I first entered the museum I assumed that, with its simple façade, this exhibit would obviously be unable to compete with the Uffizi or Pitti Palace. But it turns out that I was wrong. The museum was filled with different types of dress from all over the world. Stunning and unusual textiles were showcased in glass boxes. Feathers and beads hung from the walls. As I skimmed through the different rooms, I was amazed. Although the exhibit showcased types of dress from all over the world, it was clear that Florence has always played a dominant role in inspiring fashion and art. It was evident that inspiration was taken from Renaissance art after examining the decadent fabrics, charming florals, and intricate gold detailing. Although Florence will always be identified as the home of the Renaissance, it seems as though many artists have learned to embrace their city’s history and use it to contribute to their great masterpieces. I guess I am not surprised that art and fashion and are often associated with each other. Although much of Italian art seems to somewhat dwell on the past, it is evident that Italians embrace their culture and appreciate their surroundings. Florence is truly the fashion and artistic capital of the world.

In Dean MacCannell’s article, “Staged Authenticity: Arrangements of Social Space in Tourist Settings,” he places tourist locations on a degree of authenticity. He argues that tourists often fail to see everything the way it should be seen. However, he states that some tourists do try to go beyond others in an attempt to understand and appreciate a specific society and culture, “exposure of back regions is a casual part of their touristic experience. What they see in the back is only another show: it does not shock, trick, or anger them, and they do not express any feelings of having been made less pure by their discovery” (MacCannell 1973: 601) . Over the last month in Florence, I have tried to experience authentic Italian life and culture, “all tourists desire this deeper involvement with society and culture to some degree; it is a basic component of their motivation to travel” (MacCannell 1976: 10).  I definitely fall under this category that MacCannell is talking about. I mean, I am here for a semester; won’t I stop being labeled as a ‘tourist’ at some point? I didn’t want to be led around by a tour guide; I wanted to become a part of Italian society.  Therefore, I decided to go to Florence’s Chabbad House one Friday night. Chabbad Houses, which are located all over the world, allow Jews to gather to celebrate the Sabbath together. I’m not going to lie I was a little nervous. I knew the Jewish community here in Florence is not that big, but I thought it would be a great opportunity to see what Jewish life here is really like and to meet locals. It turns out that the Jewish community here is even smaller than I had thought. Dinner was made up of twenty Americans who were either traveling or studying abroad in Florence. The rabbi didn’t even live in Florence. He commuted once a week from Milan, where he heads the Jewish community. On my walk home for dinner, I wondered if trying to immerse myself with the Jewish community here really qualifies as authentic. It was the first thing I had thought of because I knew it would be the easiest and most comforting. I should have none that by choosing an act connected to religion would not result to success or authenticity. It is obvious that people need travel in order to seek out new experiences and ways of life for themselves. I guess I will have to try harder.
 
 

As I boarded the plane, I immediately noticed that the Italian flight attendants seemed to be different. I was greeted with a smile that was friendly, but told me who was in charge. The flight attendants in the states were simple, polite, and attentive. However, it was obvious that, “the Italian flight attendant sometimes takes her job title literally—the plane flies, she just attends” (7)[1]. After settling into my seat, I put on my headphones and dozed off. I was exhausted. Two hours later I was awaken by what sounded like a mother, profusely apologizing for her daughter’s accident. In America, the annoyed flight attendant would have cleaned up the mess, while attempting to hide her disgust. I expected the same reaction from Guiliana, the Italian flight attendant, but was surprised that instead, what emerged was her, “inner mom, sister, confidante, friend, and lover. She [took] off her jacket and actually help[ed]” (8)[2]. She was ready to lend a hand, with a genuine smile on her face. I was amazed. Are all Italians this nice? I certainly hoped so and could not wait to find out.

The plane finally landed and I was ready for my adventure-filled semester to begin! I grabbed my bags and after waiting in line for what seemed like forever, I hopped into a cab. Overcome with exhaustion, I lay my head against the window hoping the ride would be quick. I was relieved that I would have a few moments to myself after the long flight. I was used to quietly sitting in the backseat, waiting for traffic to pass. In New York, it was rare for the driver to even acknowledge my existence. However, this ride was different. The driver began asking me questions in broken English, paying close attention to each of my answers: “Where you from? How old you are? English? Boyfriend?”  At first, I was shocked. Was this taxi driver actually trying to get to know me? Sure, he was being nosy, but I guess that meant that he was “thinking about [me]” (14)[3]. I had not even been in Florence for twenty-four hours and was amazed at how friendly the people were.

For the remainder of the ride, the cab driver continued to ask me questions about myself. Of course, he also attempted to teach me a few words in Italian. He explained that pronunciation and tone of voice is crucial. I also quickly realized that emotions are extremely important. When he spoke, he sounded excited and his words were filled with passion. It was as if everyone in Italy was excited to speak and share his or her ideas.
After being in Florence for a month, I realized that although Italian culture appears to be so different from America, we are all similar. No matter where we are from, “these spoken exchanges are the same ones that echo in a New York hotel or a street market in London” (5)[4]. Ultimately, Beppe Severgnini’s “La Bella Figura: A Field Guide Into the Italian Mind” explains this.

As I unlocked the door to my apartment my first day in Florence I was terrified: would the apartment be old? Small? Dirty? Would I like my roommates? I quickly pushed open the door; I couldn’t wait to find out. To my surprise, the apartment appeared to be decked out in modern, Ikea furniture: glass table, stainless steel appliances, funky light fixtures, denim couch…this will definitely work for me, I thought.
Laundry on the other hand is a whole other story. I mistakenly assumed that the washing machine and dryer would work exactly like the ones I use at school. I put my clothes in and three hours later the buzzer went off. I opened the door and began taking out my clothes. I pulled out a sock and noticed that it was blue. I pulled out one after another, each one a different shade of blue. ‘O god,’ what did I do wrong? Assuming that the dryer would magically fix my now blue wardrobe, I stuck everything in and shut the door. I checked on my clothes an hour later and noticed that my clothes were SOAKED. I had no idea what to do next, so I piled the drenched clothes into bags and carried them into my apartment.  Next thing I know, my entire room was covered in water.  I was tired and cold and this was the last thing I wanted to be dealing with. I decided to lay my clothes outside to dry overnight. I would take everything to the closest Laundromat in the morning. From now on, I’ll follow instructions. Lesson learned.
When I’m at school, I always follow a schedule. My oversized red planner is my Bible. But my first week in Florence was anything but organized. At first, the thought of not being on a schedule made me anxious; I was convinced I would be a total mess. How would I survive? Two days passed and I realized how obviously wrong I had been.  Maybe this would be a great chance to ‘go with the flow’ and take each day at a time. So far, most of my days consist of taking the bus to class, climbing through the grounds of Villa Pietra to get to class, going to the gym, and dinner with my friends. Luckily, I found a gym that’s three blocks away from my apartment. I can definitely live like this for a semester.

I’ve always been good with languages, so when I decided to spend a semester in Florence I assumed I wouldn’t have any issues communicating with locals, but
when I got off the plane in Pisa I began to panic. Asking for a taxi was a disaster. I must have gone up to at least ten different people asking for help, but all I got in return were stares and laughs. For some reason, local Italians think that if they prove to me that they know American curse words, I’ll find it amusing and forget that I asked them for directions, help, etc… How would I survive four months in a country where the only word I knew how to say was ciao? I instantly realized that using hand gestures and making eye contact would be my key to survival. A week went by and so far I had survived. I soon began to notice that I wasn’t the only one to use hand gestures regularly. Botton states that language is not simply composed of words, but “there are gestures, sounds of people’s voices, silly remarks…” (77). Not only have hand gestures allowed me to communicate with locals, but I promised myself that I would try to incorporate the Italian I learned in class into my every day activities. Sure, it was elementary Italian but at least it was something. There have definitely been times when I confidentially walk into a supermarket asking for something, hoping I’ll get a response in Italian. But mid-sentence I realize that I just threw English, Spanish and Italian into the same sentence.  Oops. Not only have I used the wrong words or mixed in a different language (embarrassing!), I have also been corrected for mispronouncing a saying or word. The first time this happened I couldn’t believe it! How could someone be so rude? Would I correct someone if they asked me a question and were clearly not fluent in English? I hated these people. It made me want to purposely speak English to annoy them. However, the fourth time I got corrected, I realized that these people are only trying to help me. If I’m going to try and learn this language, I might as well learn it the right way, right? This will definitely take some time, but I’m determined to go home speaking Italian. I probably should have ordered an Italian rosetta stone.

As the taxi pulled up to Via Ricasoli, my friend Becky eagerly awaited my arrival on the sidewalk. Relieved to see a familiar face, she welcomed me into our new home. As I stepped into the kitchen I was greeted by four unfamiliar faces; “meet our new roommates,” said Becky. After introducing ourselves we decided to get dinner together, “so, do any of you speak Italian?” I asked. At first I was a bit worried, how are we going to communicate with anyone? Dinner at a restaurant seemed like a disaster, but we decided to give it a try. I plugged the address of the restaurant into my Iphone (which has been a lifesaver thus far) and we were on our way. Getting to the restaurant wasn’t an issue, but asking for a table for six was. Becky managed to get us a table, as she combined hand motions with her ability to speak Spanish. We got through dinner by pointing to things on the menu. Getting to school in the morning would definitely be a challenge.

It was nine am and we were headed for the bus stop. We were told to wait for bus twenty-five which would depart at 9:10. How difficult could it be? Twenty minutes later we began to panic. Where is the bus? Did we miss it? We soon learned that absolutely nothing in Florence follows a schedule, ever. And so the bus finally pulled up at 9:50. We thought that the rest of the ride would be smooth, but of course, we were in for another surprise. Apparently the bus drivers switch shifts often, which took another fifteen minutes. We finally got to school at 10:20—thankfully we left ourselves plenty of time for the first day! Finding my way to classes was, of course, complicated as well. I couldn’t wait for the day to end and to get back on the bus and look for the duomo—the landmark that lets me know I’m almost home.

“Welcome to London,” said the pilot as I eagerly stepped off the plane. My legs ached, my eyes half open, my neck sore—all I wanted to do was get in bed. I dragged my bags through London’s Heathrow Airport. As I headed for the exit, I noticed all of the excited faces around me. Sure I was jet-lagged after the eleven-hour flight I had just taken from Los Angeles to London, but I definitely was not going to give up the opportunity to “turn [my] dreams of London into reality.” I had been to London on vacation with my family, but this time I was alone.  I was here for twenty-one hours and I was eager to start my four month long journey through Europe.

The sky was dark grey and rain began to drip down my back, but I was on a mission; nothing could stop me.  My day in London was amazing. I met up with my three friends, Rebecca, Talia, and Lauren who are studying in London for the semester. I could not wait to hear how they were doing, but insisted we first grab food. I was famished. They took me to a quaint pub and convinced me to order fish and chips. I mean I was in London after all. We finished eating and headed towards their dorm. As we walked the streets I was hit with a wave of grogginess. “C’mon, Push yourself Elana, you’re here for a day,” I repeatedly told myself. 

After tea and scones at Harrods we explored Piccadilly Circus. By eleven I was ready for bed so I headed back to the hotel I was staying at. Brotton discusses the idea that despite our anticipation, our actual happiness with, and in a place seems to be brief. As I lay in bed, reviewing the amazing day I had just had, I realized that Brotton is right, “the condition rarely endures for longer than ten minutes.” I had only spent a day in London and my excitement did not last for long, I was ready for my next adventure. I began to panic. Are the next four months going to be a waste? Am I going to forget everything? Will I appreciate it all? I then promised myself that from now on I would record my adventures in a journal. Maybe then I will be able to look back and revisit my experiences, for more than ten minutes at least. 

Growing up, my mom gushed about the semester she spent in Florence as a college student. By age eight, I was convinced that I too would spend a semester retracing my mom's experience in Italy. After confirming my spot in NYU Florence, I suddenly began to panic--how would I survive an entire semester in a
foreign country? Not only would the ten-hour time difference be a challenge, but I also don't speak a word of Italian! However, my mom nudged me to embark on this journey, encouraging me that my ability to speak Spanish would make learning Italian a piece of cake. And of course she was right; my first week of Italian class has been challenging, but definitely manageable.

Not only am I fortunate enough to learn a new language, but I am also constantly absorbing the beauty surrounding me. I live on Via Ricosoli, which is a block away from the duomo, a historic landmark filled with beauty and culture. Living in the center of town is amazing. Although the building I live in houses all American students, the moment I step out of my front door, onto the cobblestone streets, I am surrounded by local Italians.

The first time I walked through the gates of the NYU campus, my jaw dropped. Propped up in the hills, surrounded by lush greenery, are four astonishingly
beautiful villas. Not only is walking to class fun, but I also look forward to my classes. In addition to the Art of Travel, I am enrolled in Intensive Elementary Italian, Introduction to Marketing, and History of Italian Fashion. I am most looking forward to the History of Italian Fashion course, which is based in the center of the city, rather than a classroom. Weekly field trips are scheduled in an attempt to really expose and immerse us into Italian culture. Furthermore, this course fit
perfectly with my concentration, which is business and design. Ultimately, all of my professors are warm and friendly and it seems as though they make an effort
to get to know each student. I guess it makes it easier that the classes are small, which is definitely something I am enjoying.

Overall, my first week in Florence has exceeded my expectations. Living in Europe seems so surreal. Although I definitely miss home, I know this is a once in a
lifetime experience. Even though I don't necessarily miss the super fast paced, pushy lifestyle of New York it will definitely take time to get used to the slow
paced lifestyle here in Italy. I also thought I was escaping New York's snowy winter, but I guess I was wrong; my first week has been filled with hot chocolate as I try to keep warm from the snow!

I can't wait to spend the next four months exploring this amazing country.

Thanks Mom!