The villa stood, stoically whitewashed and patched with gray stucco in an attempt at pietra serena. 18th century buildings framed the garden, blooming with fuchsia bougainvillea and crawling with vines. The heavy oak door waited to be thrown open by the group of college kids crowded on the gasoline-chugging city bus.
After their 12 hour flight, they rush out of the tiny swinging doors, swarming the old villa, pouring into the landing, chattering excitedly and paring into groups of twos and threes. The program director's voice rings above the crowd, authoritative amidst the confused group of those who came to “study abroad.” I'll read off your names. Pick your roommates. The groups of twos and threes tighten as students divi up. Boys men on the bottom floor, women on the second, alternating, as if this will keep them from...studying.
Roommates assigned, giant suitcases are lugged up the stairs, the European elevator too small to hold all the essentials for studying in the Tuscan sunshine. After belongings are safely stored in rooms big enough to be called “servant's quarters” (the sinks, showers and toilets combined), students begin exploring. Venturing to other floors, feeling out their new housemates.
A small brunette with wild hair changes out of her comfortable traveling clothes. Sweatpants and teeshirt are discarded on the floor and traded for a filmy shirt and floating pink skirt, more appropriate for the Italian atmosphere. She meanders down the stairs, escaping a sour relationship back home to chase Titian, Caravaggio and da Vinci through Florence. Though she joked with her mother about finding herself an Italian man, she is determined to focus only on the artistic Italian masters. Her friends back home laughed at her. Everyone knows the right way to study abroad. She crosses the cool foyer on the bottom floor, trailing her fingers along the doorknob to her friend's room and pushes open the door. She pauses in the doorway, framing herself, startled at first. Her friend comes to the door. What? Lifting her eyes and brows upwards, her eyes flit across the room to the man at the desk.
Hey.
Hey.
Months later, they sneak out the solid door, hoping to avoid the furtive looks from their classmates. The black button down shirt seen only at the first banquet dinner, the black high heels pulled out for more than Going-Out-with-the-Girls. You guys are going out? It's about time. So much for not being noticed.
They wander the cobblestone streets together, getting lost. He has the address, double checked it even. Just past the train station. The train station gets farther and father away, fading away into gray, brown and green chiaroscuro. Maybe it's this way? She tilts her head sideways, glancing up. Or maybe you've gotten us lost? She pushes on his arm. You know it's okay for men to ask for directions? Good thing she runs fast in heels. Que catso fai?!?
The night grows colder. He helps her climb over the edge of the bridge to sit on the stone buttress, jutting out into the smooth river. They sit. The lights from the shops glow, the moss covered stone is cold beneath their feet. The night gets later and later. The sounds of student drinking, bottles clanking – andiamo! – mix with pinpricks of light in the water. Don't push me in!! They sit, laughing. It's cold! she says again. They sit closer this time. It is cold.
