Paradiso

june 30, 2019

Since I’ve been home, I’ve found myself—obnoxiously, I know—comparing almost every aspect of you to here.

I miss you in a way I could not have imagined when—just over three months ago—I arrived, frazzled, at your doorstep. Exhausted by hours of travel and too little sleep. Excited and anticipatory and altogether overwhelmed by nervous energy. I miss you in a way I could not have begun to conceive back then—in a way I am still trying to understand—the world you opened up for me; the happiness within you; the memories I now hold, warm and safe, in my hands. 

What else can this be but an ode to you? I miss the walk to school every day through the cold morning air—my host parents were distressed by the weather for weeks, telling us they’d never seen you like this before—and when it finally got hot, it was all at once: a stone dropped on an anthill, everything trampled by the heat. I miss the crowded, tiny streets and the insane drivers that I learned not to fear; the narrow sidewalks too small even for a single person; the taste of coffee and croissants at the train station; the evening noise—bars overflowing with light and sound and wine glasses—the happiest block party in the world.

I understand that most will perceive this as annoying, pretentious—and I’m sorry. At the same time, though, I really do think you altered me somehow. Don’t worry, I’m not about to move to Europe or anything. It’s just—you were, in many ways, one of the most freeing experiences I’ve ever had. And I am so, so thankful.

What do I miss most about you? That’s easy. It’s the people. I miss my host family: their grounded, sarcastic humor; their cooking; their home. I miss how my host dad always helped me practice my Italian, and how he taught me to make carbonara, and how much the dogs loved him. I miss coming home with too many shopping bags and getting absolutely roasted by my host mom for being a shopaholic, and wine at dinner every night, and the way we would linger at the table long after dessert—just chatting, not yet ready to end the evening.

I miss how my friends filled the Stanford center with their laughter and noise. It became such a rowdy and happy space, the red room with its white couches and chairs and unbelievable DVD collection. You made everyone lighter, freer—it was utopian; that’s how I always thought about it. There are so many moments that I have tucked away for safekeeping. Playing paranoia at one in the morning on the steps of a church centuries old, huddled together for warmth. The unrivaled intensity of presidents, one of the most entertaining card games I’ve ever played. The silence and splendor of Ponte Vecchio at night, so detached from reality and from everything that it was hard for me, sometimes, to remember that I was still connected to the rest of the world.

I miss the giddiness of our weekend trips, the exhilaration of running into the cold, turquoise water of Cinque Terre. The way my breath caught when I first saw the Colosseum. I could sit and go through my photos for hours, trying to remember exactly how I felt in every frame—and this list of memories, too, could go on—but it is you that I miss most, and everything about you that challenged me to break free from all that was comfortable—that took me by the hand and dragged me headfirst into the unknown. You, more than anything or anyone else, taught me to live in the moment: to anticipate change but not to fear it; to welcome struggle but not to surrender to it; to say yes to new experiences—always, yes.

You were like paradise, and I am still trying to figure out how you fit into my life back home. It was just ten weeks, and I am not stupid enough to think that you so fully changed me—and yet, there was so much of you that made sense an ocean away—so much that I now don’t know if I understand. Somewhere, I am searching for answers. Perhaps in the morning runs along the Arno, the streets alive with cars, the sunrise stretching to reach above the rooftops. In the rainy days crowded with pink umbrellas, inside jokes, and good conversation; or the warm nights lit up by bar tops and Moscow mules; or the sound of laughter echoing through a too-small room, filled to the brim with humor and superlatives and bread.

When I look back on you, I know I will remember it like this—like a tangle of emotions, of every sort of happiness I’ve ever felt. I can’t believe how scared I was in the beginning. I want to take that Veronica by the shoulders and tell her that everything will be all right—amazing, even. What more is there to say? I loved you; I loved everything about you. I didn’t ever want to leave. But I understand this: I returned home to a full and happy life, and I will have more than enough memories—the joy, the excitement, the pure contentment—to remember you by. And don’t worry, I’ve promised myself that I’ll see you again before too long.  

I can’t wait.