In anticipation of my study abroad trip to Italy, I said I was most excited to write.
My plan was to be with myself fully, internally, and meditate on my surroundings in an intensified version of my usual observational nature. I said so in our pre-trip meeting on campus, nerdily, while everyone else said that they looked forward to the food or the culture. I thought that delving even more into myself would give me more answers.
Yet in the enchanting midst of the breezy Italian haze, I struggled to put pen to paper. Instead, I danced.
I danced for hours on end in the middle of the day at a local get-together on a restaurant’s grassy side yard, I danced when the warm, languid dinners were over and we awaited the check, I danced at random Italian men who I decided needed to dance as well, I danced with my new-made girlfriends on the trip until we would topple over to the ground in fits of laughter, later to reminded of our tomfoolery in the form of bluish purple bruises the next morning. After nights out on the town, fuzzy and sweet in my memory, my companions reflected that they had never seen someone dance for so long and look so undeniably happy while doing it. They didn’t dare try to reel me in, partly because of how much fun I was having and partly because they did not think they could stop me if they tried.
Pangs of pride and fulfillment swelled warm within me every time someone recounted my pure joy, a genuine smile shaping their words. Maybe it was the constant flow of free drinks that possessed me; maybe it was the destruction of my social chrysalis and fanning of my miraculously readied wings. I’d only ever known that girl under the wraps of her own home and behind the shield of those deemed trustworthy. I couldn’t believe that my new friends wanted to know her, too.
In my second-grade music class, one of my funniest friends made a joke that truly knocked the class’s socks off and resulted in a chorus of laughter. Seeing that everyone’s favor for her just rose after one successful quip, I decided to turn to my friend and try my luck at a similar joke. Her response was not good, considering it was stolen material from five minutes ago, and I sat confused and defeated. I wanted people to like me, rather desperately, yet was always a painfully shy young girl. Observation was my superpower: I would take note of what people liked, what they didn’t, what made someone rise higher in the figmentary social rankings. Then, I would try on these different hats, trying to fit the situation, and secondly, trying to see what fit me. Weighing my options and drawing from what I knew felt better than just doing on my own.
Yet there I was as a nineteen year old woman, swathed in every possible unknown.
Every moment abroad was fleeting and fascinating. There was little to no time to perform my usual nervous analytics, only time to do and be. And how was it that the people around me seemed to revel in this unfiltered, discombobulated version of myself? These people didn’t really know me after just a few weeks. Middle school bullies (aren’t they always the culprits?) that muddied my already short supply of confidence—at the time and many years to follow. Crippling, and sometimes outright strange anxieties that often made simple tasks seem impossible. The nagging fear behind my every spoken word that I will be judged and even repulsed.
I am afraid a lot of the time. But isn’t everyone? Why the hell should I or anyone else ruminate on that fact, if I am gaining experiences and learning from them day after day despite it?
I didn’t really know Spoleto. Forceful Roman dominion of the primitive colony in 241 BCE. Spoletan battles with the likes of Hannibal in the second Punic War and Napoleon in the early nineteenth century. Profound economic crisis following World War II (History of Spoleto). But I loved the city all the same. The staggering Roman aqueduct, which stretches from the side of Monteluco, over the valley, and under the village’s cobblestone streets, is a symbol of influence stamped upon Spoleto. Sure, it is photographed and visited often, but is not solely responsible for instilling a love of Spoleto within travelers and inhabitants. That which we overcome does not make us more lovable. More impressive or powerful or worldly, perhaps, but not more capable of receiving love.
When I am alone and creating—my most comfortable and natural state—stepping away from a project for a while and then returning to look at it with new, fresh eyes deepens my appreciation for the beauty of what I have created. They say that missing someone is a privilege which makes the heart grow fonder. I suppose that this is true of places and people that have only just come into your life, to an even greater degree than if you had known them before.
So thank goodness I did not spend my summer in Italy pushing myself to artfully dissect every detail about the place and myself within it. This method of real-time reflection can, by all means, produce lovely work—it just so happens to be a fearful habit of mine that I never realized needed to be broken.
I love to dance, goddamnit.
Perhaps I was never really shy, but rather unwilling to let go of my internal monologue—my apprehensions toward the world make it feel more real; what am I left with if I abandon my ideas? Turns out, it feels incredible to just be, for a few moments, instead of thinking about being. Twirling mindlessly and clumsily through crowded spaces was the perfect opposite of a wake-up call; Spoleto, in all its warm, homey glory, just so happened to make the most brilliantly bright and supportive stage.
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