Sara.

As I was coming home at the end of my day, I made a new friend whose words have been tumbling around in my brain this evening.

Sara was sitting on the stoop in front of the door to my apartment, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette with some of her friends. It’s what all the cool kids do. I muttered a, “Scusa,” and she replied cheerily with a, “Caio!” But then she stopped me from entering, asking me something in a speedy language I can’t yet speak. After I apologized for my English, she asked me why so many people in my apartment “run away with their iPods in.”

Our apartment building is mostly local residents, with two apartments of American students. Running is such a normal thing for us, but for many Italians, it is a strange routine.

Yes, I go on runs in Italy. Running has shown me secrets of the city that I would never have stumbled upon otherwise. 

But I don’t want to be living in Italy constantly running and distracted. In fact, I don’t ever want to be living on the run with muddled senses.

These past two weeks have been a little hard. I’ve been overwhelmed by things I can’t control going on in the States. I’ve felt lonely being back in Florence without my family and friends. I have missed other cities and felt out of place in this one. I have been beating myself up for being homesick while also being sad about my time in Italy wrapping up so surprisingly fast.

With just over a month left in Florence, I don’t want routine to limit the positive interruptions. I don’t want my expectations to overshadow the surprises of reality. I want to pause and remember where I am. I want to sit more and see more and write and paint and do what I can to soak now so my memories can pour out for years to come.

Today that meant eating a most perfect lunch at a new restaurant and putting a pause on productivity. Tonight that meant asking Sara her name, and finding out she lives in my building and works at my favorite sandwich shop.

I plan to say “yes” a little more and try to worry a lot less, to drink more wine and watch the sunset from the top of Florence, to have conversations even when my Italian is lacking, to be willing to be here while I still can, to live more like Sara, and to say thank you at the end of it all.

And when I get home, this will look completely different. But I hope I remember Sara and our brief chat about why Americans are always running when they live in a place like Italy.

Thank you, Sara. I will gladly sit on the stoop and have a beer with you.