Thursday, June 6, 7:30am - Riomaggiore, Italy
I can feel that I’m hungover the moment my alarm goes off, a fate I accepted last night when I fell asleep with the room still spinning and one leg dangling off the bed. Only a couple hours earlier I had been hanging out on a beachside cliff with my new traveler friends (Americans) and the local guys who ran the boat tours (Italians). The music was bad, and I was hoping to relocate to the rock beach so we could swim in the sea, but the boys didn’t want to and the girls were scheming to win a discounted boat ride the next day, so on the cliff we stayed. Not long later I convinced a tan Italian with a chiseled jaw and nice arms to give me a goodnight kiss as compensation for putting up with the Italian reggaeton. Upon reflection I don’t think he was very keen on it. Whatever. This morning my stomach swirls and the room is dark, but fuck it, I have a train to catch.
9:00am - Trenitalia train to Florence
I believe without a doubt I’m going to vomit, but somehow I don’t. It’s a miracle, it’s Omeprazole. It’s Extra Strength Alka Seltzer, espresso, scrambled eggs with focaccia, it’s slowly and carefully chewing down on crumbly pieces of taralli every few minutes, it’s the cool plastic of the water bottle resting on my unsettled stomach as the train speeds through towns and lulls me in and out of sleep. We are somewhere here, then somewhere else. We whoosh by. I eavesdrop on who I assume are hot backpacking Australians sitting a few rows down. I clutch a plastic bag with another plastic bag in it, just in case, and hope nobody can see the sight of me.
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1:00pm - Firenze Santa Maria Novella train station, Florence, Italy
Hallelujah! Or should I say, Holy Santa Maria Novella. Whatever’s been stirring in my stomach has suddenly and seemingly dissipated. I figure it must be a sign from God, or maybe one of the Medicis, celebrating my arrival to Florence, my favorite Italian city. I maneuver to the train station bathroom to change out of my hangover tee and into a cuter, tinier top, then trek a few blocks to pick up the house keys from my AirBnB host, Morgana, who has the same name as the witch in the legend of King Arthur.
Waiting on the sidewalk, I lean against the handle of my carry-on, sweating brazenly in the sun until Morgana finally pulls up on a bicycle. Like the legend of King Arthur, she is similarly mythical-looking: with waist-length curly brown-orange hair and frosty blue eyes lined in periwinkle. We talk tattoos, then she gives me her keys and instructions, says I am to be independent, and we part ways.
4:00pm - My AirBnB
After gawking at Morgana’s beautiful apartment, which is sparse but thoughtfully decorated, I take a shower in the floor-to-ceiling navy blue bathroom. I gawk more, this time at my own reflection through the completely mirrored walls, seeing as I can check myself out at every angle. Despite my stomach growling with hunger, I take a zillion selfies in a Renaissance-esque fashion. It makes me feel both incredibly vain and dissociative. Finally I get dressed, say Ciao to the house cat, a longhair tabby named Linx (who looks and acts like a little old Italian man is stuck inside him) and leave the apartment, although not before spending a good 15 minutes and AirBnB DM to try to figure out how the hell to open the front door.
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4:30pm - Libreria Libri Liberi & Cafe
It hasn’t even been an hour and somehow I’ve found myself on a date. That is to say, eating a focaccia sandwich in the company of a stranger sitting across from me, in the sunny grassy courtyard of a hip Italian library-cafe, busy with students. He wears glasses, has a two-letter name, and is also eating a focaccia sandwich.
Minutes earlier I had been standing outside of a bakery I didn’t want any food from and before I could even decide on where to go next, the stranger complimented my tattoos, recommended the sandwich shop, and was surprised to hear that I lived in New York, too. Despite the impending heartburn I could feel slowly creeping in (and was choosing to ignore), a sign that my hangover had feigned its exit, I agreed to join him for a sandwich and a walk. So here we are.
The courtyard is busy so we share a picnic table with a girl sketching in a notebook; she sits on the far end, out of earshot but not quite. Between bites of sandwich, the stranger and I exchange the reasons for our travels. His, to get a giant snake tattoo on his chest from an artist in Milan, which he promptly shows me, going from one arm to his chest to the other arm. My reason, similarly straightforward, is to return to my favorite club, which I have only been to once, five years ago.
“Hey, not to eavesdrop, but you’re talking about Club21?” The girl sitting on the other end of the picnic table has turned to us. She explains she’s a student, finishing up her semester abroad. I explain yes, we are talking about Club21, in fact it’s the very reason that brought me here. She says we definitely should check it out, and I agree vigorously, just as long as my heartburn goes away. I later learn that the club is closed for the entirety of my short visit, and that the end of season celebration of their house/disco party was exactly a week before my arrival. Oops.
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6:00pm - Somewhere in Central Florence
After the cafe, we walk on. The stranger is enthusiastic and we quip about our passions and parties and I bitch about my evil neighbor and he immediately follows my Substack, so if you’re reading this I hope you’re OK with this (anonymous) portrayal of yourself, since the first and last time someone wrote about me publically on a blog was in 11th grade and I freaked out to them in our American Lit class, forever puncturing our relationship.
As we walk, I only wonder slightly if I’m rambling and being annoying, which is a common intrusive thought I have when speaking to men. In this moment though it feels neither here nor there, and I am here, as in trying to be present. I can’t help but wonder if all of this — my readiness to hang out with a stranger off the street, my blasé reaction to my most fearful thoughts — is the Zoloft working, or my newfound European independence, or maybe both. I have never felt more peaceful. Upon clutching my shoulder bag closer to my body, I imagine a scenario in which I get caught up in a Ponzi scheme or some sort of scam, but then I remember that the stranger is an app developer who lives in the Lower East Side, is on a two-month travel sabbatical, and is probably not here to steal my identity. If anybody were more likely to do that, it would probably be me.
Finally, sitting on the steps of Basilica of Santa Maria Novella, we part ways. I desperately need to nap and commit to a brief bout of silence (kind of like a cool monk or a Buddhist, but a hot girl instead). We exchange phone numbers, say we’ll be in touch, especially if we want to go out dancing later, as its his last night in the city. I have (mostly) already accepted that I’m out of commission for the evening, because if anyone knows myself best, it’s me, and my hangover isn’t going anywhere until tomorrow.1
10:00pm - Central Florence
Like I anticipated, my heartburn has not gone away despite my two hour nap. In fact, it has only gotten worse and my insides are feeling especially fiery. I decide to take a walk, hoping the movement will help my digestion. I walk through Piazza Duomo, past the tourist knickknack shops, then along the Arno. I watch a few live street bands, and while passing restaurants admire the huge racks of red meat displayed behind glass, advertising for the famed Florentine Steak. In America, these glass displays would be showing only cakes and tarts. I think we should take note, because raw meat is beautiful too. Unfortunately I think the only person who might agree with me is a bodybuilder on the raw diet. I’m sad I can’t have dinner tonight, because my mouth would be watering if I didn’t feel as though there was a brick stuck in my esophagus.
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11:00pm - Piazza della Signoria
I sit on a bench in Piazza Signoria for a while and journal, then decide it’s time to go to bed. I can’t stop belching. I think: If a tree falls in the woods, and there’s nobody there to hear it, does it make a sound? I’m grateful to be the only one bearing witness to my unrelenting dispelling of air.
I retrace my steps, passing hoards of locals and abroad students and the oddest sight, American frat bros in polos and backward hats, drinking outside various bars. I return to my AirBnB and only feel a twinge of FOMO. Before journeying into a more peaceful plane (a good night’s sleep), I reinforce the soles of my broken sneakers with super glue successfully purchased earlier in the day from an Italian hardware store. Tomorrow my sneakers will surely guide me on many more adventures.
Unless I’m blessed with another sort of miracle