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Every single person who has traveled abroad has warned me of the cravings. 23 year old, hell, 30 year old, Red Sox Cap wearing guys would say, “You’ll miss peanut butter so much”, or “Just wait till you are two months in and all you want are some twizzlers.” You would think that reformed backpackers were all at one time pregnant women late in their second trimester, craving the oddest of combonations. I didn’t believe any of them. Who could possibly have cravings in Italy? All the fresh food, the delicate balance between savory and sweet. The second my feet hit the Santa Maria Novella train station in Firenze, I had my first craving, and knew it would never be satisfied. Raw Toll House chocolate chip cookie dough. The White Hen Pantry down the street from my Phillips Street apartment seemed to have a never-ending supply of this stuff, cellulite in a tube, and chemicals spoonful upon wonderful spoonful. The wrapper instructed Lindsay and I to preheat the oven to 375 degrees. The only preparation for a tube of cookie dough that I did was to change into a pair of leggings that had an elastic waste.

My first meal in Florence was Smart Food that my uncle had packed in a plastic Ziploc baggie twenty-four hours earlier and half a bottle of warm lemon-lime Gatorade that I purchased in the Rome Airport in my British accent. I arrived in Florence at 22:00 (10 pm) and took a nice long walk to my hostel in La Piazza Della Libierta. I wasn't lost, I was exploring. The first hostel I stayed in was perfect given I didn’t have to share a room with anyone. The rest of the less than perfect details didn’t seem to matter when I didn’t have to listen to anything but the Vespas speeding by out my window. So, I organized my life, washed my face, ate my smart food and drifted off to the thoughts of Spaghetti Cabonara and Funghi Aranchinis.

For the first five hours exploring Florence, I only ate things that I could point to in a case, or pick up myself and pay for at a register. For breakfast, I had a mozzarella and pomodoro panino and a cappuccino. I pointed to the sandwich in a sparkling glass pastry case that was in a small café in La Piazza Della San Marco. I immediately looked at a clock and quickly asked for un cappuccino. The time was ten thirty and was just thankful that I could still be socially acceptable and order a cappuccino, never mind that the word, ‘cappuccino’, doesn’t have to be translated. My lunch consisted of two small snacks, and I spoke as little as possible to obtain each. The first snack was a bottle of water and two bananas that I bought from a street vendor. The vendor was Moroccan and spoke as little English as I spoke Italian, so we were both patient with each other. The second snack was after I took a nap and decided to get a gelato while I walked around to find a place to eat dinner. The second hostel in Florence, is much nicer than the first, much more modern, filled with young travelers and a hell of a lot cleaner than the first. The only trouble, which some people would find a perk, is that the hostel is situated one block from the train station in the Hotel Plaza. I knew only one thing: I had to get out of the Hotel District to find a decent, economic meal that would be my first real food experience in Florence. I stopped by una gelateria and pointed to the flavor I wanted to which the sweet woman behind the counter replied, “Only caffe?” and I nodded, I couldn’t even get out a Si, and this woman spoke English. I regretted that decision about six spoonfuls into the cup and wished I had combined to coffee ice cream with orange sorbet. I learned from that mistake, and will never let one flavor of gelato inhabit a cup alone again.

The shops in Florence are not very different than the likes of Modern Pastry or La Salumeria in the North End; all the people behind the counter speak both English and Italian. However, when in Florence, speaking English is responded with rolling eyes. When I ask Maria at Modern Pastry for un cappuccino doppio at Modern Pastry back home she responds “Brava”. Brilliant.

Staying in a youth Hostel overseas is like moving into your freshman dorm, minus the parents to argue with. At first, everyone is timid and politely smiles in the graffiti hall walls that leave premonitions of visitors past. I was the first to check into the three-person room at two thirty. For four hours I prayed that no one else was staying with me. Praying doesn’t work, clearly. The first bunkmate arrived at six thirty. I have no idea what his name is, he is from Germany so we’ll call him, Schnitzel. Schnitzel is thirty-three years old and here in Florence working on his dissertation for his PhD in Art History. Schnitzel’s focus in Art History is Saint Sylvester and his influence in Renaissance art. Schnitzel has been in Florence before, but has been traveling Italy for the past three weeks visiting different churches viewing the frescos that Saint Sylvester is in and writing about them. I immediately asked Schnitzel if his likes boys or girls, a custom the boys that hang at Sister Sorel back home have grown quite accustomed to, and he immediately says, girls. He followed that quickly with, “I know my jeans are tight, but I am European.” The second was Japanese, didn’t speak much English and left just as fast as he came.

Schnitzel convinced me to venture over the bridge to the University area of the city where he had studied, get this, eight years ago. Eight years ago, I was skipping my study block to go Wendy’s and buy dollar French-fries. So Schnitzel and I walked over the river and through the Duomo to a small trattoria that did not have single table open. Good sign. Schnitzel asked if we should wait of find something else, I told him we should wait. I don’t remember actually eating, because we I was too busy talking about food with Schnitzel and translating the names of animals from his unpracticed English. “What is the animal that you eat on Easter?”

“Lamb.”
“No, the animal, it has nothing to do with the church, like Santa Claus”
“Oh! The Easter Bunny, which is really a Rabbit, but we don’t eat that on Easter, we eat Lamb. The Easter Bunny just hides the eggs.”

Our entire conversation went on and on and on exchanging small facts about our different customs. Dinner ended with crème caramel and espresso. Schnitzel, being an Art History major knew far more about all the buildings architecture and which painting was in which church than I would ever care to read in travel guide, or in a museum pamphlet.

So with a full stomach, and a complete understanding on why all the Jewelers are now situated on the bridge rather than the butchers, I am looking forward to my first day in Umbria in the Morning. Here’s hoping my padded bike shorts arrived from The States to greet me.