I will always associate Florence with grieving. I went there in the death throes of my ambition to be an attorney. In a way, Florence was my attempt to make finishing law school seem possible, or palatable. I spent quite a bit of time roaming around and shopping with a judge who was spending her summer teaching. She spent much of our time together trying to convince me to return and complete. My life had already changed too much to stay on that track. It was painful to think that I had taken a wrong turn somewhere and was now on the brink of having a life I knew I would never enjoy.
The trip came hard on the heels of a dramatic and eventful coming out. Florence was the first place I had room to breathe and think away from the major players in the drama. My ex of 12 years – who lived right down the street and still contended that our breakup was the most traumatic event of his life. And my ex of 5 months – the first girlfriend, who dumped me suddenly and awkwardly while we were on a romantic getaway in Seattle. She then spent my remaining time before departing acting almost exactly like a girlfriend and expressing wonderment that she’d left a lovely girl like me without knowing exactly why. Confusion and guilt on every front.
In Italy, I spent a huge amount of time wandering. I would get up early with my roommates and walk to classes, grabbing cappuccino on the way. Class was about a 45-minute walk if you had the luxury to enjoy it, and a 30-minute walk if you were late. Traffic was murderous, and by that I mean crossing the street meant taking huge risks with life and limb. I attended class and got out at lunch time, quite a while before my flatmates, so I would set off for the apartment in a random direction and purposely lose myself in the streets. My homeward walks took at least 90 minutes, and had no agenda. While most students who spent a summer in Florence can tell you all about museums and art and churches, I never even set foot in the Duomo – though you had a great view of it if you stuck your head out our kitchen window. I am used to living in a city bisected by a large river, so I oriented myself by the Arno and the Ponte Vecchio, and I never once felt lost.
So it was, for lack of a better word, a beautiful kind of grieving. The kind that makes you wander the streets of one of the world’s most gorgeous cities feeling strangely energized by sadness.
Then someone I loved died. The first death in three that would happen in the span of a year. A friend, my brother and then my first love. June, February, June. This one was the hardest. I called my ex-girlfriend, who really, really cared about me, but she only responded by asking if I knew it was 4 a.m. I wanted to go home for the funeral, but the ticket was going to cost thousands on such short notice.
Things became grey. I now walked to school briskly, walked home the same way every day. Stopped always at an internet cafe to check on news and morbid details – because the death was confusing and unexplained. To read messages from other people who were shocked and sad, because I was shocked and sad. As with all deaths, I would forget and be distracted and then remember and feel ashamed of my distractibility. I think this is when I went to my sole museum and saw the statue of David, and the small painting of the Magdalene where she is all ginger hair covering her nakedness – the most compelling visual memory I have of Florence and art.
Down the street were two lovely gay boys. One a law student like me, and the other his boyfriend, along for the trip with no business in particular to accomplish in Florence. Jay, was the student and Adam, the boyfriend. But we had all decided early on that we would have new names in Florence. Secret identities. So we were Carlos and Trev and Violet. And Brandi, Caitlyn and Ingrid.
Trev began coming over at lunchtime when Carlos, and the rest of the dually named flatmates were still at school. Often, he would find me lying in bed or on the couch. Sleeping or staring. He would entice me to his apartment with promises of Jager and Red Bull, and once there, he would fuss about my hair and makeup and then try to get me excited for some adventure. We’d go do something random and then stop in the grocery to buy supplies for our communal dinners. One day, we decided to dye my hair at least three different colors instead of just the two and spent all afternoon, tipsy in various farmacia looking for hair dye and bleach. Another time, he asked me what would make me feel better and then spent a ridiculous amount of time looking for a yarn store because I just wanted to knit. By the time we were cooking dinner and the students returned to eat family-style, I was a little drunk and much more prepared to socialize. Also, better looking.
I try to regret not seeing all the things a student should see in Florence, but the rest of that terrible year had more grief in store, and the scenery was not nearly as lovely or the company so comforting.
redzorah 