International For A Semester: Florence, Italy

The first time I remember hearing the Italian language, it sounded like a song.

I was in seventh grade. My middle school in California had begun offering after-school Italian classes—just barely an hour long, once a week after school. My friends urged me to go with them, mainly because they’d heard biscotti would be offered during every class. That was enough incentive for me.

Every Monday afternoon, our Italian teacher would walk into our little classroom, her kitten heels clicking on the linoleum floor, and call out, “Buongiorno, ragazzi!” In unison with the class, I’d repeat the handful of basic Italian words she had taught us, carefully turning over the sounds of a foreign language on my tongue. “Gra-tzie-eh.” “Per fa-vorrr-eh.” “Ah-lorrr-rah.”

I sat down at my high school freshman orientation two years later, filling out a sheet to select which foreign language I wanted to study. As my eyes gravitated immediately toward Italian, I could still hear the harmonies of the language in my head, the smooth up-and-down intonations of the words, the soft rolling of r’s—the sounds of the language that enchanted me when I first heard them.

I studied Italian for all four years of high school, even taking the advanced course in my senior year. By my sophomore year of college at Syracuse, I decided to declare my third major in Italian. Italian had always captivated me, but every summer I’d let it slip. I had no one to practice the language with; there was no reason or opportunity to use it outside of school. No one in my Filipino family knew an ounce of Italian, so the language became something I turned off the moment I left the classroom.

When I first sat in my seventh-grade classroom, eating biscotti and slowly repeating after our teacher the words “buongiorno,” “buon pomeriggio,” “buona sera,” I couldn’t have imagined that eight years later, I would be sitting at a kitchen table in Florence, sharing childhood stories with my host mom in slow and careful Italian. I would have never thought that one day, I’d find a home for myself in the heart of Italy.

I’ve been studying abroad in Florence for the past three months. Every day, I wander through the city’s narrow cobblestoned streets, lined with golden-toned buildings that have stood there for centuries before me. I walk past statues sculpted by the hands of Donatello and stone castles built in the 14th century, all on my way to grab a quick cappuccino and cornetto at a local cafe.

Sometimes I’ll walk by the River Arno as the sun sets, watching the sky melt into warm gold and deep orange, and listen to the sounds of Florence: the music of performers, playing their violins or singing their haunting operas on the street. The bustling of tourists, ambling to take their selfies on the Ponte Vecchio. The melody of Florentines, conversing in their sing-song Italian in the pastry shops and the bars.

I’ll hear my own voice, speaking the words of the language that enchanted me eight years ago, blending in smoothly with Florence’s diverse orchestra of sound and song. Standing on the corner every morning before school, I’d chat with the old man at the bus stop as we wait together.

“È in ritardo,” he’d sigh, and tap his watch. It’s late.

“Come sempre,” I’d reply. Like always.

Each day here I take it in, gradually learning how to compose my thoughts and fine-tune my feelings in a language that once was so unfamiliar. I’m still learning the song; I don’t know it yet by heart.

But I can feel the beat.