December 2024 – Finding Florence

A Foreigner’s Unqualified Guide to Gelato

written by Jack Wardynski for SPEL: Journalism

Gelato. I love it, you love it. If you don’t, yes you do. Despite early onset lactose intolerance, I will continue to eat gelato until I can no longer. The dairy-based treat is so good, it seems almost bestowed upon humanity by some higher power, like God extending his outstretched hand to Adam. If you ask me, though, gelato slots above Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel frescoes on the ranking of greatest human achievements – it probably lands somewhere between the printing press and the motorized carriage.

Who invented this frozen delicacy? Some say the ancient Chinese, some say the Persians, I say some very enlightened individuals. As far as Italy is concerned, it is believed that Florentine architect Bernardo Buontalenti may have invented a version of modern ice cream in the 16th century. We know that the Sicilians got their hands on some sorbet around the 17th century, and from there it spread to the rest of the mainland peninsula.

Like many modern creations, gelato has a vague and fragmented history that will probably never be neatly defined and sorted out. All that matters for us here in the 21st century is that it was made by someone, somewhere, at some point. But what are the best gelato flavors? What are the best flavor combinations? Should it be consumed in a cone, or in a cup? Where should one go to consume such a dessert? After two months of living in Florence, I can confidently say there is no one more qualified to answer these questions than me, a man with zero culinary experience whatsoever.

First off, it should be common knowledge at this point to avoid the gelato piled high in the storefront displays, usually with some bits and bobs of fruit or baked goods added for good measure. The best gelato I have found is the kind that you can’t see, hidden underneath the lids of steel containers. While not as visually exciting as the mountains of frozen, multi-colored dessert, the concealed nature of this more authentic gelato makes it perhaps more enticing. The reveal of your treat only upon its placement into your container of choice builds anticipation within your very being for the next ten minutes you will spend consuming it.

The cone vs. cup debate is one stretching back generations, and I am here to settle it once and for all. For clarity’s sake, I come from the U.S., and in the States, when you get an ice cream cone, you are rarely, if ever, provided with a spoon; licking up the ice cream is your only option. As one can imagine, in the summertime, this results in frequent, tragic messes. The ice cream spilled in the car strikes fear in the hearts of all American parents, and the weak, thin napkins ice cream shops provide are of no help. So my mind was blown the first time I ordered a cone of gelato and was given a complementary spoon. Needless to say, this changes the game completely, as you combine the convenience of the cup with the playfulness of the cone. It’s for that reason that the cone is definitely superior; the toastiness of the cone combines exquisitely with the sweetness of your gelato. Plus, you can break off a piece of your cone and offer it to a nearby bird, and now you have a companion with your gelato as well.

The phrase “less is more” does not apply to American ice cream; for us, more is more. Here, I will invoke my beloved Portillo’s, a chain restaurant native to the Chicagoland area that has been providing my people with beef, hot dogs, and french fries for generations. The beautiful folks at Portillo’s serve an item called the chocolate cake shake, which, of course, is a chocolate ice cream shake with an entire slice of cake mixed in. My personal preference is actually the strawberry lemon cake shake, which is the same thing but with strawberry ice cream and lemon cake. The Midwestern specialty is “food that will put you into a coma.” Suffice it to say, the no-frills, toppings-less style of ice cream here in Italy was a distinct change of pace in my frozen dessert palette. I haven’t seen a single sprinkle since I left home!

If you’re talking gelato flavors, I find that contrast is really the way to go when looking for the perfect combination. Personally, I am a dark chocolate champion. The bitterness of dark chocolate mixes best with the bright, sweet flavors found in most other gelato. Dark chocolate plus a fruit flavor is the strongest base for your gelato. I fear I may never again have quite as transcendent an experience as the first bite of dark chocolate and raspberry gelato. Strawberry would be a close runner-up with the raspberry, but you could of course sub in mango, orange, lemon, passionfruit, pomegranate, or even pear, which I did find at one spot. For sour and sweet, lemon and raspberry is the clear combination to go with.

There are a number of quality gelato spots across Florence, many with their own unique flavors and styles. Unfortunately, in just 10 weeks of being here, I have not had the opportunity to sample all of them, but here are some of the best that I have found. La Strega Nocciola, just south of Ponte Vecchio, has a white chocolate and cinnamon flavor that so closely imitates the taste of Cinnamon Toast Crunch it is eerie. I am not even sure if they have Cinnamon Toast Crunch available in Italy, but it is one of the premiere cereals, so having it codified into gelato form is truly a marvel of modern technology. In Piazza Della Passera, you can find the aptly named Gelateria Della Passera. They have a number of unique flavors, including the aforementioned pear, but the Monna Lisa, which somehow works in apple sauce, walnuts, and fleur d’oranger, is the clear standout. Grom’s Crema di Grom is a great toasty flavor that almost tastes like a s’more (do they make s’mores in Italy?).

Some other standout locations: there are two places named Cantina di Gelato, one south of the river on Via dei Bardi and one on Borgo la Croce. North of the Duomo are two spots, another La Strega Nocciola and Carabè on via Ricasoli. There are two shops adjacent to each other in Piazza di San Pier Maggiore, David La Gelateria and Rivareno. La Sorbettiera next to Piazza Torquato Tasso for people further away from the city center. As bonus shoutouts, outside of Florence, I loved the Gelati e Granit in Lucca and La Sorbetteria Castiglione in Bologna.

That’s everything I have absorbed about the intricate world of gelato in just over two months in Florence. I have certainly gained a newfound respect and admiration for the Italian renditions on the dairy treat, though I had no doubt that I would when I arrived here. Though, I cannot say that I fully have converted to the Italian mindset; I still find myself craving a chocolate cake shake from time to time.

A Magical Holiday Season at the Santa Croce Market

written by Makayla Sims

Just in time for winter, Florence’s holiday markets have been set up across the city. Here, residents and tourists alike can see the accumulation of different cultures, foods, crafts, and cheers within these stalls. The Santa Croce market takes place in the square of the Basilica di Santa Croce, with German-style stalls selling all different types of things.

The first place I make a quick pit stop at is this stall shown in the image below, where they sell little ceramic pieces. Here I take a look at the small houses and mushrooms that people often put in their garden, however, that’s not what I’m most excited about. Rather, I take a look at the bells that they are selling. Each one is engraved and painted with different patterns. I don’t know if they’re meant to be, but I know that my mom would love one of these to put on her Christmas tree. We have a long-standing tradition of collecting ornaments from every place we travel to, and since this is my first time away from home for the holidays, I want her to know that I am thinking of her.

After I pay the vendor and leave the stall, a drink hub with three steaming pots catches my eye. I walked over there expecting hot chocolate but was instead introduced to an Italian holiday staple, mulled wine. I decided to buy a cup. One, because it’s freezing, and two, because it smells really good. This is my first time buying this drink, and when I take a sip I can understand its popularity. It is mildly fruity and mildly sweet, but the taste of the wine is still there. By the time I finish my cup, I’m warmed, the sweetness of the wine and temperature working in tandem.

Afterward, I make my rounds through the remaining stalls. There is this stall that sells the most beautiful paper lanterns, but they only take cash and I don’t have any on me. After some looking, I decided to head home for the day and revisit this market later in the day.

As I’m leaving though I’m stopped by the muffled sound of a beautiful strong voice filling the air. I removed the headphones I had been wearing, which had Christmas music blasting, and was greeted by an opera singer. She isn’t wearing anything fancy, just a winter coat and curly hair, but she sings like no other person I’ve heard before. It’s gorgeous.

Later, I came back with my friend and we decided to window shop some more. She ends up getting a bratwurst and I go with the trusted potato spiral that I often get at my hometown’s local fair. They aren’t the same thing, that’s for sure. But, the taste of fried potatoes on a stick reminds me of home and how I’m leaving soon. I also end up getting a cream puff; one about the size of my fist and it is absolutely delectable. When we sit down to eat our food on the wooden benches they have supplied, she and I are separated by an accordion and trumpet player, who goes up to some customers asking for spare change. As I near the end of my residency here in Florence, I think I’m starting to realize that that’s what I’m going to miss most about Florence. The music.

Roma 15k

Una guía para principiantes

written by Paula Simon Borja for SPEL: Journalism

Ser un corredor requiere destreza mental. Los profesionales no me dejarán mentir: es un ejercicio que demanda rigor físico, disciplina y un enorme control sobre la cabeza. Al correr, la capacidad de mantener la concentración y gestionar el dolor es lo que marca la diferencia entre el éxito y el fracaso. Es cierto que para todos los deportes de alto rendimiento es importante entender el poder que tiene la mente sobre el cuerpo, pero, ¿qué es lo que tiene este de particular? Debo decir que no soy experta en el tema: Roma fue el primer acercamiento al mundo de las carreras.

Running requires mental skill. The pros won’t let me lie; it’s an exercise that demands physical toughness, discipline, and a ton of mental control. When you run, the ability to stay focused and manage the pain is what really separates success from failure. It’s true that in any high-performance sport, understanding the power of the mind over the body is crucial, but what makes running stand out? I’ll be honest—I’m no expert on this: Rome was my first real introduction to the world of running.

En agosto conocí a una mexicana en el centro de Florencia. Durante la conversación me platicó que recién había empezado a correr y que había iniciado un club para todos los interesados en el deporte. Dos días más tarde pagué la carrera de 15 kilómetros en Roma que se llevaría a cabo el domingo 10 de noviembre, lo cual me dejaba con menos de tres meses para entrenar. Septiembre fue de viajes y fiestas, y luego llegó octubre con algo peor: la postergación. Me amarraba a la cama en las mañanas, y en las noches cualquier excusa era lo suficientemente buena. Al parecer, correr era algo fuera de mi liga aún siendo una persona inclinada al deporte. Que curioso, ¿no? Parecería que podríamos colocar “correr” en una categoría separada de las demás, como si las demandas fueran sólo para unos cuantos valientes.

In August, I met a Mexican woman in downtown Florence. During our conversation, she told me she had just started running and had even started a running club for anyone interested in the sport. Two days later, I signed up for a 15-kilometer race in Rome that was set for Sunday, November 10, leaving me with less than three months to train. September was all about travel and partying, and then came October, bringing something worse: procrastination. I’d get stuck in bed in the mornings, and at night, any excuse seemed good enough. It felt like running was just out of my league, even though I’m someone who usually loves sports. Funny, right? It’s like we could put “running” in a category of its own, as if the demands were only for a select few brave souls.

Algunos dirán que lo más difícil son los entrenamientos, y no se equivocan. Cada kilómetro es una experiencia nueva: los primeros tres son fáciles, engaña la falsa sensación de que la energía durará para siempre; poco a poco las piernas se debilitan, el cuerpo se vuelve más pesado. Llegar al kilómetro cinco es un reto y después al seis, al siete, ocho… y así sucesivamente. Aunque es cierto que el cuerpo se acostumbra, la cabeza nunca para de gritar. El secreto es tener a alguien cerca, un compañero a quien seguir, alguien que empuje y motive, el vivo recordatorio de la importancia de seguir adelante cuando el cuerpo comienza a ceder a la presión de la cabeza. Establecer los días y el horario de entrenamiento ayudará con esa tan necesitada preparación mental. También el desayuno, por ejemplo, puede marcar la diferencia: uno lleno de azúcar y carbohidratos será el combustible perfecto.

Some people will say that the hardest part is the training, and they’re not wrong. Every mile is a whole new experience: the first three are easy, tricking you into thinking the energy will last forever. But little by little, your legs start to weaken, your body gets heavier. Reaching mile four is a challenge, and then comes six, eight, ten… and it just keeps going. While it’s true that the body adapts, the mind never stops screaming. The trick is having someone by your side, a buddy to follow, someone who pushes and motivates you—living proof of how important it is to keep going when your body starts to give in to the pressure from your head. Setting specific training days and times helps with the mental preparation you’ll need. Even breakfast, for example, can make a huge difference: one packed with sugar and carbs will give you the perfect fuel.

Cuando entrenas es imposible no conocer la marca por kilómetro, mucho menos si el camino es uno conocido, pero en un escenario nuevo las cosas son distintas: te abres a la posibilidad de ignorar la distancia. Aquí entra en juego el tiempo. Aquel que pasa siempre a la misma velocidad, ya sea que permitamos hundirnos en las afectaciones que provoca o no. Para un corredor, el tiempo es imposible de ignorar: conoce perfectamente cuántos minutos le toma recorrer cierta distancia. La marca del kilómetro ya no será medida por el recurrente camino sino por lo que tarda usualmente en completarlo. Dependerá de la particularidad dentro de cada corredor tomar esto como un regalo o como una tortura. Para mí, fue un regalo inesperado. La novedad de los paisajes me forzó a contar con el tiempo para medir la distancia, y cuando uno piensa en una hora y media la vida pasa más rápido que cuando piensa en 15 kilómetros.

When you train, it’s impossible not to keep track of your pace per mile, especially if the route is familiar. But in a new setting, things change: you open yourself up to the possibility of ignoring the distance. That’s where time comes into play. Time always moves at the same pace, whether we let ourselves get lost in the impact it has on us or not. For a runner, time is impossible to ignore: you know exactly how many minutes it takes to cover a certain distance. The mile marker is no longer measured by the same old route, but by how long it usually takes you to complete it. Whether you see this as a gift or a torture depends on the runner’s mindset. For me, it was an unexpected gift. The novelty of the scenery forced me to rely on time to measure the distance, and when you focus on an hour and a half, life passes by faster than when you’re thinking about 10 miles.

Nunca corras la misma cantidad de kilómetros que los que te tocarán en la carrera. Otra conocidísima instrucción de los profesionales. Yo la seguí a ciegas. No por ser fiel a las creencias restrictivas del deporte o por ser una persona compulsiva al seguir las reglas, sino porque el cuerpo lo pedía a gritos. La cabeza también, y con un poco más de intensidad. En una gran cantidad de entrenamientos me pidió parar y yo cedí sin cuestionarlo, como si de no hacerlo estuviera engañándome a mí misma. Como si una parte de mí se separará en dos, desatando una gran pelea entre el cuerpo y la mente, y que horrible traición darle la espalda a tu fiel compañera. Tu cabeza se deslinda de las acciones del cuerpo, hasta que en algún punto se convierten en algo tan ajeno que roza lo involuntario, lo automático. Si logras pasar el umbral de los gritos, las acciones involuntarias del cuerpo son otro gran regalo.

Never run the same number of miles in training as you’ll do in the race. Another piece of advice from the pros. I followed it blindly. Not because I was strictly adhering to the sport’s rules or because I’m compulsive about following instructions, but because my body was screaming for it. So was my mind, and with even more intensity. During many of my training sessions, my mind begged me to stop, and I gave in without questioning it—like I’d be fooling myself if I didn’t. It felt like a part of me was splitting in two, unleashing a huge battle between body and mind. And what a horrible betrayal it is to turn your back on your loyal companion. Your mind detaches from your body’s actions, until at some point, they become so foreign that it feels almost involuntary, automatic. If you manage to push past the threshold of the screaming, the body’s involuntary actions become another great gift.

La semana antes de la carrera es la más importante. Aquí deberás cuidar con más atención las comidas, las horas de sueño y el rigor de los entrenamientos: ¿cómo se siente el estómago por la mañana después de comer ciertos alimentos? ¿Ese gel energético es el correcto, lo necesito realmente? ¿Cuáles son los calentamientos que a mí me funcionan? ¿Cómo me siento corriendo junto a una compañera? ¿La música es lo suficientemente motivante o podré soportar el unísono de la respiración? Tomaré este momento para dar un consejo de principiante: la música es el mejor amigo de un corredor. La razón, supongo, recae en lo tedioso y repetitivo que son los movimientos. Correr es un deporte, me atreveré a decir, monótono. La música, con su ritmo y energía, no solo distrae, sino que también puede ayudar a mantener un paso constante y a darle a cada zancada un propósito, transformando el esfuerzo en algo más llevadero y, a veces, si realmente te lo propones, disfrutable.

The week before the race is the most important. This is when you need to pay extra attention to your meals, sleep schedule, and the intensity of your training: How does your stomach feel in the morning after eating certain foods? Is that energy gel the right one, and do I really need it? What warm-ups work best for me? How do I feel running alongside a training partner? Is the music motivating enough, or will I be able to handle the sound of my own breathing? Here’s a piece of advice from a beginner: music is a runner’s best friend. The reason, I suppose, lies in how tedious and repetitive the movements can be. Running, I dare say, is a monotonous sport. Music, with its rhythm and energy, doesn’t just distract you; it can also help you maintain a steady pace and give each stride a sense of purpose, making the effort more bearable and, sometimes, if you really commit to it, even enjoyable.

Llega el día y los nervios son incontrolables, o quizás, para algunos suertudos, ese sentimiento predominante es la emoción. De cualquier manera, será un impulso que deberás usar a tu favor. Llega prevenido ante cualquier circunstancia: la ropa cómoda y un clima favorable son algunos de los pequeños placeres que la vida te regala y uno solo aprecia cuando faltan. La repetitiva pero contundente recomendación es una buena lista de canciones. Aquellas te llevarán por el camino, pues tienen la capacidad de hacerte sentir invencible. En mi caso, cada canción fue meticulosamente seleccionada y acomodada en un orden que reconoceré como obsesivo: ¿cómo quiero empezar? ¿Qué emoción será la predominante en el minuto 30 y cuál será la canción correcta para representarla? ¿Cuál es la indicada para cerrar y cuál es la parte específica que deberá estar sonando mientras cruzo la meta?

The day arrives, and the nerves are out of control, or maybe, for some lucky ones, that dominant feeling is excitement. Either way, it’s an energy you’ll need to channel to your advantage. Be prepared for any circumstance: comfortable clothing and favorable weather are some of life’s small pleasures that you only truly appreciate when they’re missing. One piece of advice you’ll hear over and over is to have a solid playlist. Those songs will carry you through, because they have the power to make you feel invincible. For me, each song was carefully selected and arranged in an order I’ll admit was a bit obsessive: How do I want to start? What emotion will dominate at the 30-minute mark, and what’s the right song to match it? Which track should close out the race, and what specific part of the song should be playing when I cross the finish line?

No importa cuanto intentes controlar el momento, las cosas saldrán diferentes a lo que imaginas. La mente tiene el poder inmensurable de dar lugar, sobre cualquier otra cosa, a emociones completamente abrumadoras. En mi caso, los sentimientos no esperan a nadie y no frenan por nada. Sale una canción que recuerda a una persona o a un momento en específico, y la mente se inunda de memorias incómodas, alegres, dolorosas, o incluso de una tremenda nostalgia, entonces pega el momento incontrolablemente correcto y se clava un nudo en la garganta, el dolor de las piernas es diminuto junto a la nube de emociones que se acomodan en el pecho, todo se siente infinito y el lugar te recuerda al enorme privilegio de estar, de vivir, de escuchar y de sentir, de la incomparable capacidad del cuerpo para mantener un movimiento demandante por tanto tiempo y lo amable que es la cabeza cuando uno más la necesita. Llegar a la meta te recubre en un sentimiento de satisfacción que hace que todo el recorrido haya valido la pena. Prometo que lo volverás a hacer. Volverás a sufrir, pero también volverás a sentir.

No matter how much you try to control the moment, things will always turn out differently than you imagine. The mind has this immeasurable power to give way, above all else, to emotions that can completely overwhelm you. In my case, feelings don’t wait for anyone and they don’t hold back for anything. A song comes on that reminds you of a person or a specific moment, and your mind floods with memories—awkward, joyful, painful, or even filled with a deep sense of nostalgia. Then, the perfect, uncontrollable moment hits, and a lump forms in your throat. The pain in your legs feels insignificant next to the storm of emotions settling in your chest. Everything feels infinite, and your surroundings remind you of the immense privilege of being alive, of living, of hearing, of feeling, and of the body’s incomparable ability to keep moving for so long. The mind, in those moments, is gentle with you when you need it most. Crossing the finish line wraps you in a feeling of satisfaction that makes the entire journey worth it. I promise, you’ll do it again. You’ll suffer again, but you’ll also feel it all again.

A Traveler’s Guide to Enjoying (and Escaping) Bologna

What do you get when you mix a dead phone, a missed train, and a first-time solo traveler stuck in Bologna? A recipe for disaster — and resilience.

written by Savvy Sleevar for SPEL: Journalism

Flying Solo

Before I embarked on my semester-long journey to study abroad in Florence, I had never stepped foot outside the United States. Earlier this year, I had no passport, no overnight flights to speak of, and almost no solo travel experience. Before Italy, my most notable independent excursion was a quick trip to Chicago, which definitely involved a frantic sprint to my platform to catch the Amtrak train home. So, when I finally had a free day to travel during fall break, I figured I should start small.

Bologna, Italy was my natural first choice. It’s just over 100 kilometers from Florence, and a round-trip Regionale train ticket only put me back about 20 euros. Not only was Bologna a safe bet for Baby’s First Italian Day Trip, the city itself is stunning. After I spent the afternoon perusing the local markets, wandering through the miles of colonnades in the city center, and standing awestruck inside Basilica di San Petronio, I wanted to get a glimpse of Bologna from above. But with the famous Asinelli Tower closed for maintenance, Torre dell’Orologio was the only way to get the bird’s-eye view of the city that I was after.

To get to the top of Torre dell’Orologio, the historic clock tower in Bologna’s main square, you need to sign a waiver. The staircase that takes you to the rooftop looks ancient, and it’s steeper than a heavy-duty step ladder. Put simply, you can’t afford to fall. So very, very carefully, I climbed up the steps, putting all my faith in the wooden railing and any remaining traction on my threadbare, 4-year-old HOKAs.

Once I reached the top, though, my precarious journey up the stairs was quickly forgotten. Immediately, I was enraptured by the view.

New Heights

Hey, I say to a low-resolution image of Mom on my phone screen.

Hi, Savvy, she replies. How’s Bologna?

I flip my camera around, replacing the image of my face with the view in front of me.

Oh, WOW! she says.

I spin my phone around to show her the city from every angle, and nearly 8,000 kilometers apart, Mom and I take in the scenery together. We look out at the tiled rooftops on Bologna’s countless amber buildings, the distant green hills speckled with homes and churches, and the statuesque towers and domes beyond the main square. I could have stayed up there all evening, taking endless pictures of the panoramic view, but I knew I had more to see at ground level. After hanging up with Mom and taking one last look at the breathtaking Bolognese skyline, I made my descent.

For the rest of the day, I soaked up as much of the city as I could. I people-watched in the square, craned my neck to see the frescoed ceilings in the extensive municipal art gallery, sipped a spritz at Serre dei Giardini Margherita, and savored incredible food. Earlier in the day, I ate lunch at Ahimè, sampling duck and porcini mushroom filled ravioli — and a single oyster just for fun. For dinner, I treated myself to Trattoria Da Me; I tried a regional specialty, tortellini in brodo, and I absolutely devoured a plate of lamb chops, beetroot, and chicory.

My adventures in the world of Bolognese cuisine were exceptionally rewarding. However, they were also doing quite a number on my bank account, so I begrudgingly declined dessert after dinner. Besides, I didn’t have much time left now that night had fallen, knowing I had a train to catch, and soon.

So, with a full belly and the haze of sleepiness starting to creep in, I hopped on a bike and set off for the station, determined to get there on time. My train was the last one bound for Florence’s Santa Maria Novella station that night, so when I reached Platform 1 with some time to spare, I felt a wave of relief.

The feeling wouldn’t last.

A Daring Escape

During one of my three-week intensive courses at Florence University of the Arts – The American University of Florence, we briefly went over the Italian words for cardinal directions. Nord is north, sud is south, est is east, and ovest is west. Pretty straightforward. Unfortunately for me, though, I didn’t recall this key Italian vocab until after my train disappeared from the Departures screen.

What was going on? I’m at Platform 1, but a train still hasn’t come and gone. Am I where I’m supposed to be right now?

Spoiler alert: I wasn’t. Like, not even close.

Turns out, my train had arrived at Platform 1 Est, leaving without me as I waited with false confidence on the opposite end of the station. Once I realized I definitely wasn’t in the right place, I finally saw the sign behind me on a pillar near my platform. Ovest, it read. Ovest? Oh NO.

Thus began my scramble to find any other conceivable way back home. As much as I enjoyed my day there, I was not sleeping in Bologna — but my phone sure wanted to. During my feverish stress walk around the station, my phone decided that this was the perfect time to die. I had already maxed out the juice on my portable charger, and I didn’t think it would be necessary to bring a charging brick. Surely I’d be on my train home by the time my phone is in danger of dying anyway, I thought. No need to bring it.

Yeah, right.

I probably looked like a lost puppy, wandering around outside the station, seeing if any of the employees at nearby hotels would lend me a charger, even if I couldn’t produce a room key. I quickly realized this was a waste of time and decided to shift gears after choking up in front of a concierge. Even though I knew full well that there weren’t any more trains bound for Florence until the next morning, I tried the station’s customer service desk. They didn’t have a charger to spare, but the men behind the desk did give me a little bit of hope. There was a bus station nearby, and from what they recalled, there should be some late-night trips to Florence. Thank goodness.

The trouble was, the directions to the station that they gave me were either too vague or simply didn’t process through my frantic brain correctly. Regardless, my search for a bus home wasn’t going well at all. And this time, I couldn’t quite choke back the tears as I paced down the street. I flagged down a police officer, hoping he could give me a sense of where on Earth I should be going before the waterworks really started. Luckily, his directions were much clearer, and I headed in the direction of the station as fast as my feet could carry me.

A quick note: The folks who work security at the Bologna Central Bus Station are not in charge of the bus schedule or ticket management; anything outside of protecting the area isn’t really part of their job description. However, they’ll evidently help you if you’re scared, alone, and in desperate need of a charger. Thanks to them, I was able to breathe just enough life back into my phone to book a FlixBus ticket to Florence. And because everything about me screamed American, I wound up in a very impassioned conversation about U.S. politics with Fabio, a security guy who made me feel way less alone in the midst of my chaotic night.

After what felt like forever, my bus arrived. I was on my way back to my host city at last, slated to arrive at Piazzale Montelungo. I felt the tension in my body slowly beginning to fade, and I fell asleep almost as soon as we reached the highway.

Crash Landing

When I woke up to the shuffling feet of disembarking passengers around 1 a.m., we were most certainly not at Piazzale Montelungo. Instead, the bus took us to Villa Costanza and made a quick getaway.

Villa Costanza, which felt just as desolate as a middle-of-nowhere rest stop in the Midwest, was a two-hour walk from my apartment. It was too late to catch a tram, there wasn’t a rentable bike in sight, and the nighttime chill was just intense enough to make me shiver in my short sleeves as I tried to troubleshoot. Oh, and did I mention my phone blew through its meager charge and died again? Fantastic.

With no other transportation options at my disposal, my next task was to procure an obscenely expensive late-night cab. Running on fumes, I awkwardly approached the other stragglers at the station one by one, squeaking out “inglese?” in the hope that I could explain my plight and ask to borrow someone’s phone. After a couple awkward attempts, I finally found someone who patiently watched me fumble around with their cell as I secured my ride.

The cab was there within minutes, and I could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. As we sped down the nearly empty streets, I looked out the tinted windows, wondering how I would’ve ever managed to make this trip on foot, especially in the dead of night. Before I knew it, we arrived at the piazza by my apartment, but I couldn’t tell if I was more exhausted or elated. I used my final ounce of energy to walk to my building and trudge up the four flights of stairs, reaching my door at a cool 2 a.m. Needless to say, I was wiped, sleeping well into the afternoon the next day.

The way I see it, though, I can look at my trip to Bologna in one of two ways. On the one hand, I had to shell out a bunch of extra money to get back to Florence, I had my first real cry of the semester in Piazza delle Medaglie D’Oro, and I made more than enough travel mistakes to make myself question whether I’m even cut out for solo travel to begin with.

But on the other hand, the trip itself was fabulous, and it doesn’t deserve to be spoiled by a rocky trip home. And even though I was the one who got myself into this whole mess in the first place, I also proved that I was capable of getting myself out of it. I was overwhelmed and felt a little clueless, sure, but I promised myself that when I fell asleep that night, it would be back in Florence — and I kept that promise. I navigated the curveballs, I wasn’t too proud to ask for help, and someway, somehow, I managed to make it home.

It’s a little counterintuitive, but there’s something good about doing things wrong. It teaches you how to do things right, even if you have to learn the hard way. In that spirit, I’m confident my next trip to Bologna will be super smooth, especially after working through what felt like every possible worst case scenario the first time around. But even if things do go south in Bologna (or anywhere I visit, really) I know now that I have what it takes to persevere and get home in one piece, even if it means taking a route I didn’t expect. After all, where’s the fun in traveling if you don’t bring back a good story?