Frolicking in Florence

Feb 7, 2024
8 min read

L'amore che muove il sole e le altre stelle

Perhaps we are all just a little bit lost. Over the past month, I have come to find that there is such a beauty in letting yourself be lost, being okay with the discomfort of the unfamiliar. A little over a month ago, I arrived in Florence. Throughout all thirty hours of our travel, I couldn't help but shake the feeling that this place was meant for me. At first, I was so set on writing it all down because I was fearful that I would forget the important details, but I was so swept up in my worries that I forgot to enjoy the moment that was happening in front of me. I think maybe there's something in all of us that sets out in search of a new place in hopes of finding ourselves. If I have learned anything in my psychology classes, it is that we all desire so deeply to belong somewhere. With the trials and tribulations of the past year in mind, I wanted a fresh start in a new place surrounded by the possibility of adventure. Luckily for me, Florence could not have come at a more perfect time.

Just before the holidays, my family was told that my grandma would have to be put on hospice care. This was devastating news to receive just before my finals, but I was so fortunate to be able to spend time with her in her last month of life. My family and I spent hours at her bedside singing, laughing, sobbing, and reminiscing on the sweetest moments of grandma's life. At first, it seemed as though I was doing my grandma a disservice by leaving her in her last days to travel to Florence, but I know better now. This trip is all she could have wanted for me, she so longed for me to have these grand adventures and embrace the world in the way she did. My grandma is the most adventurous woman I know! She married my grandpa after only knowing him for a short time, and together, the two of them embarked on a cross-country road trip down Route 66. Beginning in Canada and ending in Burbank, California, her sense of adventure paved the way for her family. My mom and her brothers were raised in the same house my cousins, my sister, and I returned to every Christmas throughout our childhoods. As someone who moved around quite a few times, that house was the closest thing I had to a childhood home. Grandma filled it with so much laughter, delicious smells, ridiculous stories, competitive game nights, and soothing songs. She seemed to have the perfect solution to every problem, and she was simply the best listener. Although she has graduated to Heaven now, she was still somehow there for every magical moment in Florence.

I see her in my new friends. I met so many wonderful people in Florence who reminded me just how good it feels to get to know one another. Meals were spent sharing silly stories over the most perfect pastas, delectable pizzas, and many, many bottles of wine. There is something so wonderful about basking in the beauty of simply being together. If there is something Italians have mastered, it is the art of slowing down. While she never failed to amaze me with her involvement in our lives, my grandma always knew just how to slow down, listen, and make me feel important. We spend so much of our time racing from one thing to the next that we forget to just enjoy where we are now! Our hodgepodge crew shared many meals where I laughed until my stomach hurt and enjoyed the best food I have ever eaten. We seldom take the time to just exist alongside one another. When we care for one another, we are able to recognize what makes the people in our lives so extraordinary!

I see her in my cooking class. My grandma always spent so much intentional time preparing food for our family. Holidays were marked by the making of pumpkin bread, gingerbread houses, bunny cakes, and all kinds of traditional Slovakian food. In my Italian cooking class, I was reminded just how rewarding it is to spend time thoughtfully making something for the people you love. We made an appetizer, two different types of pasta, and this delicious panna cotta completely from scratch, and it was the most delicious meal I had in Florence. It could have just been because I was so hungry, but I swear everything tastes better when it is made with love.

I see her in the Sistine Chapel. My friends and I decided to take a last minute trip to Rome for the day during our program's free weekend. We saw the Pantheon, the Spanish Steps, the Colosseum, the Trevi Fountain, and the Vatican. We walked fifteen miles in eight hours, and yet none of us had any cause for complaint. I will eternally be grateful to my group for all of our beautiful visits, but I would be lying if I said any of them stood a chance to the Sistine Chapel. From the moment we stepped off the train, my friends said "Gracie has to see the Vatican." Even though no one in the group was a practicing Catholic besides me, they made a point to walk over five miles to make sure I made it to the Sistine Chapel. Somehow, in my most vulnerable moments of exhaustion, anticipation, and anxiety that I would somehow let my group down with a subpar response, I knew grandma was with me. And sure enough, the moment I stepped foot inside the chapel, I understood. There is something so beautiful about standing in the middle of that square, staring up at these classic masterpieces that are over five hundred years old, and being surrounded by thousands of people who are speaking all different languages, and the only thing that unites everyone is our love for our faith and our shared awe at the sheer beauty of this remarkable art. I couldn't help but shed a tear. These are the moments when you think to yourself: This. This is it.

I see her in Red Garter, the infamous karaoke bar where I sprained my ankle and lost my voice. The memories are undoubtedly silly, but I can just picture her smiling at me. After a very passionate rendition of Kesha's "Tik Tok," I spent some quality time dancing with my friends. When I was in sixth grade, I was in a band called Eclipse. We had exactly one original song, and we performed at our school's talent show two years in a row. The second year, I was a very enthusiastic sixth grader who had attended maybe five guitar lessons but nevertheless dared to learn Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'." We were a hit. Grandma was so proud. I thought I had peaked. But then, when the DJ at Red Garter pulled out his electric guitar at this karaoke club in the middle of Florence and invited my new Australian bestie who I met in the bathroom and me to the stage, those opening chords to that classic 80s song took on a whole new meaning, and not just because of the shooting pain in my ankle after I missed the last stair onto the stage. When you're in sixth grade, you have all of these grand notions of what your life will be like when you finally grow up. And then you start growing up and working and taking hard classes and experiencing heartbreak and grief and loss and think to yourself, what happened? This was not how things were supposed to go. And maybe it isn't. But luckily for us, we are learning and growing and evolving into the people we are meant to be. We're changing. It's poetic and it's messy all at once. But let me tell you, as I screamed the words to one of my favorite songs in a club packed with tourists, strangers, and classmates, I smiled and thought to myself that perhaps adulthood isn't so bad after all.

I see her at the Trevi Fountain. There are moments in life when you are reminded that you are a little human in a profoundly big world, and that isn't a bad thing. In fact, I've come to find that it is actually really beautiful. I turned around, closed my eyes, and tossed my one euro coin into the fountain. In that moment, I only wished that my grandma could be with me, that she could read this and understand just how much this trip meant to me, how her dreams for me were finally coming true. This beautiful fountain has held onto centuries of wishes like mine, and for the first time since embarking on this whirlwind trip, I didn't feel so alone. The ones who love us never truly leave us, and they live on in the hearts of those whose lives they touch. I can only wish to be half the woman my grandma was, but I have a feeling her sense of adventure will serve me well for years to come.

I see her in the sunset. Specifically, the very last sunset of my trip. I spent my last evening in Florence running around and trying to find souvenirs for all of the people I love. I was so sidetracked that I almost didn't make it to the sunset at all. Thankfully, I made it to the Ponte Vecchio (this beautiful old bridge over the Arno with all of these beautiful jewelry shops and a perfect view of the sunset). I did not have international cell service on this trip, so if I wanted to text someone, I had to wait until we got to the school or hotel to use their WiFi. Sometimes, the default "Firenze-WiFi" would kick in, but it was spotty and slow at best. But somehow, standing on that beautiful bridge overlooking this breathtaking sunset, my WiFi decided to kick in. I received my uncle's text to our family group chat informing me that my grandma has passed away very peacefully a few hours before. It was simultaneously such a tragic and peaceful moment. She had painted the sky so beautifully for me, and as I said my goodbyes to Florence, it dawned on me that in a spiritual sense, she just knew. She didn't want me to be all alone and sad in a foreign country all by myself. She wanted me to have adventures and worry about exploring with the knowledge that she would be just fine.

When I was in Florence, I took a class called "Dante and the Medieval Renaissance." In that class, we studied Dante's works, specifically Inferno and Paradiso which depict details of Heaven and Hell. Through our discussions of the afterlife each day, I found myself fascinated by the possibility of something more. Dante certainly has interesting ideas of what karma, punishments, exile, and reward look like. We investigated the significance of multiple circles of Hell, and we read stories of peril, tragedy, lost souls, and the desire to be known. But the thing that struck me most was the final line of Paradiso: l'amore che muove il sole e le altre stelle which translates to "the love that moves the sun and the other stars." What a beautiful thought that is. That these celestial beings are remarkable, but their beauty is only made visible to us by the love that moves them. Our souls are moved by this love, and there comes a time when we look around and go oh. That's why. That's why life is worth living and light can be found in the darkness. We understand. And just when we finally understand, the moment passes, and we might forget again. But that's okay, because I've found that life is an abundance of such moments. And just like a grandma's love, they will come back.