What I regret about studying abroad
I lived in Italy but don’t remember much about it.
I believe I may have been an unappreciative drunk at age 20.
This conclusion hit me like a midlife crisis on a recent holiday to Italy.
See, at age 20, I spent nine months “studying” abroad in Italy.
For nine whole months I called the awe-inspiring, art history haven of Florence, my home.
And during this eye-opening visit, exactly one decade later, I couldn’t find my way around.
I couldn’t figure out where I lived or went to school without using a map. I couldn’t find my favorite restaurant or name the museums or the piazzas. I don’t remember if I ever walked outside the city center and I never learned how to skillfully navigate the bus system. I don’t think I ever sat on a restaurant patio drinking wine (responsibly) in the afternoon and I could probably count on one hand the number of espressos I drank at hidden cafes. Aside from the David and the Duomo, I couldn’t point out anything of historical significance.
What a waste.
That’s all I could think as I shamefully attempted to lead my boyfriend through the streets I’d bragged about knowing so well.
