Inspiring – Finding Florence

You Don’t Just Study Abroad…You Study Yourself Too

Discover the three transformative life lessons that I learned during my six-week study abroad experience at Florence University of the Arts that I would not have been able to comprehend if I had stayed home this summer.

When I boarded the plane to Florence, Italy, for a six-week study abroad experience with Florence University of the Arts (FUA), I knew I was going to grow academically and professionally. I enrolled in a three-week course and worked a public relations internship covering diverse community events, conducting research, and collaborating with interns from various departments.

But as much as I learned in classrooms and internship meetings, some of the most valuable lessons came from simply assessing myself and my surroundings while living abroad. Here are are the three main insights I gained in Florence that no textbook could teach:

1. Discomfort is a Great Teacher

Moving across the globe from my familiar Michigan environment was the first jolt of discomfort. I was no longer just a few hours from home like I am for college, instead an entire ocean! That kind of distance forces a newfound level of independence. Whether it becomes overwhelming or empowering is up to you.

There were emotional hurdles, like the occasional hits of homesickness. And then there were the practical challenges, such as navigating a foreign metro system when my international phone plan suddenly stopped working, or trying to communicate professionally at public events where most attendees spoke only Italian. Getting lost, whether physically or in conversations, became something I eventually grew more comfortable with. That said, safety always comes first and keeping your guard up where it’s due is essential. No adventure is worth compromising your instincts or well-being.

Every time I stepped outside of my comfort zone within reason, not once did I regret pushing through the fear. Because if you’re always comfortable, you’re probably not going to grow in the long run.

2. Everyone You Meet Carries a Story Worth Hearing, Including You

During my stay in Florence, I shared a multi-room apartment with eleven roommates from across the U.S. and Australia. We came from all different walks of life…a few older than me, others navigating their very first trip abroad alone. Our most valuable times spent together weren’t always the last-minute weekend trips or shared meals, but the simple conversations where we opened up and shared pieces of our individual stories. There were times when I realized how much of my own life I’ve taken for granted, or received advice from a unique perspective I have not heard previously.

However, one of the most unexpected and memorable interactions happened when I was completely alone.

After finishing a long day working a community event, I treated myself to dinner at Sgrano, a fully gluten-free restaurant in the city. I sat at a table for one and ordered a sandwich followed by a slice of gluten-free chocolate cake. As I was enjoying my dessert, I suddenly heard a voice from the table next to me say, “You know, chocolate cake isn’t really eaten at this hour.”

I looked over and laughed, lightheartedly replying, “Oh well, I guess it’s exposed I’m a tourist.”

To my surprise, my response opened the door to a long, meaningful conversation with the couple seated beside me. What started as small talk of where we’re from turned into an hour-long discussion about life. They shared how they met, talked about their children (who were around my age), their constant travels, hobbies, and asked about my studies and experience abroad.

Before we left, they unexpectedly paid for my entire meal and said, “Thank you. This felt like we were talking to our kids again.”

While studying abroad, you quickly learn that people will respond to you in all kinds of ways. Some welcome you with open arms, some are simply curious, and others may not understand you right away. Whether it’s a five-minute chat with a roommate in passing or a shared meal with strangers who feel like a touch of family by the end, every interaction holds the potential to teach you something. If you listen more and assume less, you’ll find stories worth hearing; and you’ll begin to recognize that your own story is worth sharing, too.

3. Gratitude Deepens With Distance

Perhaps the most profound lesson of all: travel is a privilege and I do not take that lightly. Not everyone gets the opportunity to live in a foreign country, to immerse themselves in a new culture, or to step outside their familiar world long enough to see it differently. That constant awareness has grounded me throughout the whole experience.

It’s funny how being far away can actually bring you closer to what matters most. With every breathtaking view and every delicious meal, there was also a small part of me that was growing a deeper appreciation for home. The gift of distance doesn’t just create space, it creates clarity too.

This experience also gave me a new appreciation for myself. I’m proud of the courage it took to get on that plane, to navigate unfamiliar places, to build friendships with strangers, and to stay open to every lesson. The version of me who returns home is definitely not the same as the one who left. And that’s something I’ll be forever grateful for.

—

Recently, I stumbled upon a writing assignment from my senior year of high school, where I had to create a bucket list of dreams to accomplish over the next ten years. On that list were the names of European countries scribbled more as wishes than actual plans. At the time, the thought of visiting these places felt distant, like fantasies reserved for “someday.”

Now, having lived those dreams, It has reminded me that what once felt out of reach can become reality when you stay open, curious, and brave enough to say yes.

So here’s what I’ve learned: always show up. And never forget to look up; whether at the architecture, the people, the unfamiliar streets, and everything in between. Life has an interesting way of leading you exactly where you’re meant to go.

In a Galaxy Far, Far Away: My First Two Weeks Abroad

written by Charlotte Cicero for SPEL: Journalism

Ciao a tutti, my name is Charlotte Cicero. I’m a junior at the University of Missouri in Columbia, Missouri, and am studying abroad at Florence University of the Arts (FUA) this semester. I’m a Broadcast Journalism major with a minor in Hospitality Management, and this semester, I’ll be writing for this website you’re currently reading, as well as the Blending Magazine.

I’ve lived in Florence for a little over two weeks now. The adjustment has not been easy, and I think I’m still shocked that I’m finally living this dream that has just felt like some faraway plan for many, many years.

When I was only 16 years old, I set a plan in motion to study abroad during the spring semester of my junior year. I was sitting in 10th grade English class with my friend Zoe, who said she wanted to go to Spain. We’re 21 now, and I’m going to visit her in Spain in a few weeks. I said I wasn’t sure where I wanted to go yet. After all, I had 4 years… 4 years that flew by incredibly fast.

When I was applying to colleges, I wanted an experience that was going to feel brand new. Living in California my whole life, Missouri was nothing short of new. I didn’t totally notice it at first, but people live differently in Missouri than in California. Life moves at a different pace, driven by different forces and values.

This transition to Florence, however, feels nothing like my transition to college. I’m still trying to decide if that’s a good thing, and I’m hoping it is. I feel these changes in a much different way from how everything felt when I got to Missouri. This transition feels almost unreal, like I am still in the process of, well, processing.

I walk the same streets every day. I can get to the store, the city center, and all my classes without Google Maps. I feel lucky that these streets feel so safe and familiar, but sadly, not like home. Not yet, at least.

I get this sense that many people see studying abroad as this competition – to see as many places as possible, take as many weekend trips as you can, and always be going somewhere other than your host city. Yes, realistically speaking, you are spending the majority of your time in your host city during the week, so it makes sense to book that weekend getaway. How can you say no when RyanAir is going viral on TikTok and SMARTTRIP EUROPE has a 10% off code for every trip they offer?

For me, I want to get to know Florence. Of course, I want to see as much of Europe as my schedule (and wallet) will allow. But there’s something special about talking to the same employee at the coffee shop on your street every morning, sipping your espresso (that you’re still getting used to) as you muster up the courage to practice the new word you learned on Duolingo the previous night. Going to see all the museums that Florence has to offer. Spend as many days as you can in the Boboli Gardens and watch all the sunsets you can watch from Piazzalle Michelangelo. Watching old couples walk down the streets of Florence together, hand-in-hand. Telling random people not to buy from the heaping mounds of gelato because it’s a tourist trap. Helping a family take their Christmas card photo in front of the Duomo. Sitting in a crowded coffee shop full of study-abroad kids who are trying to navigate this crazy adventure. Study abroad kids are going through all the same emotions as you, who need a hug from their mom, who are trying to juggle finding normalcy, independence, and friendship in a place they’ve probably never been.

I think what we all need to remember is to stop moving for a second. Breathe. Look at the Duomo and just breathe. Look at the dark green window panes on the top floor of every street and breathe. Before going out with your friends on ‘Space Wednesday,’ breathe. Staying present is the only way to appreciate what a gift this moment is, right? Because we don’t even have any idea just how good this is all going to get.

I’ll see you at the end of the semester.

Uniendo Culturas

The Beauty of Finding Home in Another Country

written by Paula Simon Borja for SPEL: Journalism

Han pasado cuatro meses desde que llegué a Florencia, una ciudad que parece suspendida entre el arte de su pasado y el desorden vibrante de su presente. Vivir aquí era un sueño que me había acompañado desde hace años, un anhelo casi romántico que por fin se hizo realidad. Nunca antes había vivido fuera de México, y mi llegada estuvo llena de asombro y pequeños descubrimientos: las cúpulas imponentes que recortan el cielo, los aromas embriagadores de la comida que escapan de las trattorias y la música de la calle que parece marcar el pulso de la ciudad. Desde el primer momento, algo en Florencia resonó en mi interior. La calidez de la gente, el ritmo intenso de las conversaciones y la devoción por la comida me resultan extrañamente familiares, como si en este rincón de Italia estuviera redescubriendo pedazos de mi propio país.

It has been four months since I arrived in Florence, a city that seems suspended between the grandeur of its artistic past and the vibrant chaos of its present. Living here was a dream that had accompanied me for years, an almost romantic longing that finally came true. I had never lived outside of Mexico before, and my arrival was filled with wonder and small discoveries: the imposing domes cutting across the sky, the intoxicating aromas wafting from trattorias, and the street music that seems to set the city’s rhythm. From the very first moment, something about Florence resonated within me. The warmth of its people, the lively cadence of conversations, and the devotion to food felt strangely familiar, as if in this corner of Italy, I were rediscovering pieces of my own country.

Entre todas las similitudes, la conexión con la comida es quizá la más entrañable. En Florencia, cada comida es un ritual, un acto que trasciende lo cotidiano para convertirse en una celebración. Recuerdo una tarde en el mercado central, donde los colores y aromas de los ingredientes frescos parecían cobrar vida: quesos curados, panes recién horneados, frutas maduras y embutidos artesanales. Me transportó a los mercados en México, donde los puestos de chiles secos, especias y tortillas recién hechas vibran con la misma energía. Mientras saboreaba un panino relleno de porchetta, pensé en los vendedores y cocineras que, tanto en México como aquí, son los custodios de un saber ancestral, portadores de tradiciones que se comparten a través de sabores y texturas. Visitar el mercado, aquí y allá, es un acto casi mágico que conecta a las personas con sus raíces y da forma a la memoria colectiva.

Among all the similarities, the connection to food is perhaps the most heartwarming. In Florence, every meal is a ritual, an act that transcends the ordinary to become a celebration. I remember an afternoon at the central market, where the colors and aromas of fresh ingredients seemed to come alive: aged cheeses, freshly baked bread, ripe fruit, and artisanal cured meats. It transported me to the markets in Mexico, where stalls of dried chiles, spices, and freshly made tortillas hum with the same energy. As I savored a Schiacciata, I thought of the vendors and cooks who, both in Mexico and here, are the custodians of ancestral knowledge, carriers of traditions shared through flavors and textures. Visiting the market, here and there, is a near-magical act that connects people to their roots and shapes the collective memory.

Pero no todo son coincidencias agradables. En una de mis primeras semanas, fui a registrar mi residencia temporal. Llegué temprano, con todos mis documentos en orden, solo para descubrir que las filas eran interminables y los procesos, laberínticos. Fue una experiencia que me llevó de vuelta a las oficinas gubernamentales de Ciudad de México, donde la paciencia es indispensable para navegar la burocracia. En ambas culturas, la burocracia tiene ese peculiar talento para recordarte que, aunque todo avance, hay cosas que parecen resistirse al cambio.

But not everything is a pleasant coincidence. During my first few weeks, I went to register for my temporary residency. I arrived early, with all my documents in order, only to find endless lines and labyrinthine processes. It was an experience that took me back to government offices in Mexico City, where patience is neccesary for navigating bureaucracy. In both cultures, bureaucracy has that peculiar talent for reminding you that, while everything else moves forward, some things seem stubbornly resistant to change.

El caos también se manifiesta en las calles. Las motos y camionetas manejan con una audacia que raya en lo temerario, los peatones desafían las leyes del tráfico con una despreocupación admirable, y los autos parecen fluir más por instinto que por reglas. Este desorden me resulta, curiosamente, reconfortante. Me recuerda al bullicio de las calles mexicanas, al ir y venir caótico pero lleno de vida que define nuestras ciudades. Incluso la suciedad en las esquinas, los restos de una noche animada, tienen ese aire familiar que habla de la humanidad que late en cada rincón.

Chaos also manifests in the streets. Bikes and vans drive with an audacity that borders on recklessness, pedestrians defy traffic laws with admirable nonchalance, and cars seem to flow more by instinct than by rules. This disorder feels, oddly enough, comforting. It reminds me of the bustle of Mexican streets, the chaotic yet vibrant movement that defines our cities. Even the litter in the corners, remnants of a lively night, has that familiar air that speaks of humanity pulsing through every corner.

Hay, sin embargo, aspectos más oscuros que conectan a Italia y México. Al poco tiempo de estar aquí, comencé a notar cómo ciertas dinámicas de poder impregnan la vida cotidiana de manera sutil pero innegable, como un murmullo constante que todos escuchan pero pocos mencionan abiertamente. Pensé inevitablemente en las redes de crimen organizado en México, en cómo sus historias se entrelazan con la realidad diaria, moldeando una parte del carácter colectivo. En ambos países, estas sombras son reconocidas pero no permitidas a definir la identidad por completo. Hay una resistencia a ceder el alma de la cultura a estas fuerzas, un esfuerzo por preservar lo mejor de cada lugar.

There are, however, darker aspects that connect Italy and Mexico. Soon after arriving, I began to notice how certain power dynamics subtly but undeniably permeate daily life, like a constant murmur everyone hears but few openly acknowledge. I inevitably thought about Mexico’s organized crime and how their stories intertwine with daily reality, shaping part of the collective character. In both countries, these shadows are acknowledged but never allowed to fully define identity. There is a resistance to surrender the soul of the culture to these forces, a determination to preserve the best of each place.

El machismo es otro terreno común, aunque aquí se manifiesta de formas distintas. Las historias de las mujeres italianas que luchan por sus derechos me recordaron las marchas multitudinarias de México, los cantos y los gritos de justicia que llenan las calles cada 8 de marzo. En ambas culturas, la lucha por la igualdad y la dignidad es un movimiento imparable, un eco que atraviesa fronteras y conecta a quienes se niegan a aceptar la desigualdad como destino.

Patriarchy is another shared terrain, though it manifests differently here. The stories of Italian women fighting for their rights reminded me of the massive protests in Mexico, the chants and cries for justice that fill the streets every March 8. In both cultures, the fight for equality and dignity is an unstoppable movement, an echo that crosses borders and connects those who refuse to accept inequality as destiny.

Y luego está el nacionalismo, ese orgullo ferviente que tanto italianos como mexicanos llevan en la sangre. Aquí, como en México, hay una devoción por proteger la lengua, las tradiciones, la historia. Pero también hay una solidaridad implícita, una lealtad silenciosa que parece decir: “En las buenas y en las malas, los tuyos siempre serán los tuyos.” Es algo que siento en los pequeños gestos, en la manera en que se cuidan entre sí, en cómo defienden lo suyo con pasión y amor.

And then there is the undeniable nationalism, that fervent pride that both Italians and Mexicans carry in their veins. Here, as in Mexico, there is a devotion to protecting language, traditions, and history. But there is also an implicit solidarity, a quiet loyalty that seems to say: “Through thick and thin, your people will always be your people.” It’s something I sense in the small gestures, in the way they care for one another, in how they defend what is theirs with passion and love.

Ahora, mientras miro por la ventana de mi pequeño departamento florentino, las campanas de una iglesia cercana resuenan con una melodía que ya me resulta familiar. El aroma de una trattoria invade el aire, mezclados con el eco de pasos sobre los adoquines. Pienso en los sonidos vibrantes de México, en el calor del sol que abraza incluso en invierno, en los volcanes que custodian el horizonte de mi país. Las diferencias entre estas dos culturas son apenas un matiz. En el amor por la vida, la comida, la familia y la resistencia ante la adversidad, somos, al final, mucho más parecidos de lo que jamás imaginé.

Now, as I look out the window of my small Florentine apartment, the bells of a nearby church ring with a melody that has already become familiar. The aroma of a trattoria fills the air, mingling with the echo of footsteps on cobblestones. I think of the vibrant sounds of Mexico, the warmth of the sun that embraces even in winter, the volcanoes that guard the horizon of my homeland. The differences between these two cultures are few. In their love of life, food, family, and resilience in the face of adversity, we are, in the end, far more alike than I ever imagined.

La última parada

Florence & the moment that changed everything

written by Paula Simon Borja for SPEL: Journalism

En el verano de 2022, tuve el privilegio de viajar 45 días por Europa. Comencé en Madrid, luego recorrí Barcelona, Viena, Budapest, Praga, Berlín, Ámsterdam, París, Roma, Venecia y, finalmente, Florencia. Aunque en ese momento no era plenamente consciente de ello, esa última parada marcaría el cierre perfecto para un viaje que terminó superando todas mis expectativas. Al final de aquel mes, me encontraba exhausta: había subido y bajado de cientos de trenes, me había alojado en hoteles baratos, arrastrado maletas de 20 kilos y me había alimentado principalmente de comida rápida de puestos callejeros. Ya no sentía el impulso de seguir explorando, aunque era absurdo quejarse. Durante esas semanas, tuve la fortuna de admirar algunos de los lugares más hermosos del mundo, de escuchar las canciones más alegres, de reír hasta sentir dolor de estómago y, a su vez, sentir una necesidad profunda de llorar. Florencia, de todos los lugares que visité, fue el que más me conmovió.

In the summer of 2022, I had the privilege of spending 45 days traveling around Europe. I landed in Madrid, then made my way to Barcelona, Vienna, Budapest, Prague, Berlin, Amsterdam, Paris, Rome, Venice, and finally, Florence. What I didn’t know at the time was that I would end the trip with a truly unforgettable experience. By the end of that month, I was utterly exhausted: hopping on and off trains, staying in budget hotels, hauling 44-pound suitcases, and surviving mostly on street food. Honestly, I was running out of steam. It felt almost ridiculous to complain, given how fortunate I was. I had seen some of the world’s most beautiful places, heard the happiest music, laughed until my stomach hurt, and, at times, cried from overwhelming emotions. It was Florence that moved me the most.

Llegué a Florencia sin demasiadas expectativas. Después de haber estado en lugares como París o Roma, pensaba que la ciudad no podía competir con la magnitud histórica y cultural de esos destinos. Mi hermano, un apasionado de la historia, siempre me había hablado de Italia con una devoción casi reverencial. Su fascinación por el Imperio Romano, por los mapas antiguos y por las ciudades históricas es casi obsesiva. Vivió un año en Turín, y su lugar favorito en el mundo es la Plaza de San Marcos, en Venecia. Ese verano, tuve el privilegio de recorrer Italia a través de su ojos, de sus relatos, de sus sentimientos.

I arrived in Florence with little to no expectation. After seeing amazing places like Paris and Rome, I thought, perhaps wrongly, that Florence couldn’t compare in terms of history, culture, or beauty. My brother, however, has an almost obsessive passion for history. He spends hours watching documentaries, drawing ancient cities from old photos, and knows everything there is to know about the Roman Empire. He is utterly obsessed with old maps, especially of ancient cities. He lived in Turin for a year, and his favorite place in the world is Piazza San Marco in Venice. That summer, I had the privilege of seeing Italy through his eyes.

Fuimos al Coliseo en dos ocasiones, exploramos el Vaticano, pasamos casi tres horas bajo el sol abrasante del Foro Romano y contemplamos el atardecer desde el Castillo Sant’Angelo. Fueron experiencias inolvidables. Al día siguiente, llegamos a Florencia. Visitamos el Duomo, recorrimos el museo Uffizi, comimos pizzas y focaccias, nos impresionamos ante el David y volvimos a caminar bajo el sol abrasante ahora en Santo Spirito. En nuestro último día de recorrido, y de viaje en general, mi hermano nos llevó a la Plaza Michelangelo.

We visited the Colosseum twice, explored the Vatican, spent nearly three hours under the scorching sun at the Roman Forum, and watched the sunset from Castel Sant’Angelo. Those were unforgettable experiences. The next day, we arrived in Florence. We toured the Duomo, walked through the Uffizi Gallery, ate pizza and focaccia, were awestruck by the statue of David, and then walked under the hot sun again, this time in Santo Spirito. On our last day in the city, and the last day of the trip, my brother took us to Piazzale Michelangelo.

La subida no fue fácil, pero cada paso valió la pena. Opté por lo que hoy sé que es “el lado correcto”: el que ofrece una vista completa de la ciudad, mientras que el otro, más corto, evita el espectáculo que se despliega frente a ti. Ese día, me encontré en primera fila. La plaza no estaba no estaba demasiado, estaba en su punto justo: un ambiente vibrante, festivo, pero con espacio para sentarse en las famosas escaleras y dejarse envolver por la magia del lugar. En la cima, una banda comenzó a tocar música, canciones populares, algunas de ellas de épocas pasadas. Una de esas canciones, en particular, me dejó sin aliento. No era de mi gusto ni pertenecía a mi estilo musical habitual, pero en ese instante, en ese preciso contexto, la sentí profundamente, hasta lo más íntimo. No pude evitarlo: lloré con una intensidad inesperada, como si ese momento estuviera sanando algo dentro de mí, como si fuera la pieza que me faltaba para sentirme completamente realizada y feliz.

The climb wasn’t easy, but every step was worth it. I took what I now know is “the right path”, the one that offers a full view of the city, while the other, shorter route, turns its back on the spectacle ahead. That day, I was front and center. The square wasn’t too crowded; it was just the right amount of people: lively, festive, but still with space to sit on the famous stairs and let yourself be wrapped up in the magic of the place. At the top, a band started playing music—popular songs, some from past eras. One of those songs, in particular, took my breath away. It wasn’t my usual taste, nor the kind of music I’d typically choose, but in that moment, in that exact place, it moved me deeply. I couldn’t help it: I cried, unexpectedly and intensely, as if that moment was healing something inside me, like it was the missing piece I needed to feel completely whole and happy.

Estaba acompañada de mis hermanos y dos mujeres rumanas que habíamos conocido unos destinos atrás y que decidieron acompañarnos en la última parte del viaje. Compartí esa experiencia con personas que, aunque tal vez por razones distintas, estaban viviendo algo igualmente significativo. En ese momento, todos compartimos una misma emoción, un mismo sentimiento. Es una acción tan común entre los seres humanos que parece casi involuntaria, pero es un privilegio sentir. Es un privilegio llorar, reír, admirar, asombrarse.

I was with my siblings and two Romanian women we had met a few stops earlier, who decided to join us for the last part of the trip. I shared that experience with people who, although for different reasons, were feeling something just as meaningful. In that moment, we all shared the same emotion, the same feeling. It’s such a common thing among humans that it almost feels automatic, but it’s a privilege to feel. It’s a privilege to cry, to laugh, to appreciate, to be amazed.

Esa escena, esa canción, ese atardecer en la Plaza Michelangelo, fue el cierre perfecto para un viaje que ya había sido extraordinario. Ese momento encapsuló todo lo que había vivido en los 45 días anteriores: los lugares, las personas, los sentimientos, los recuerdos. Fue como si la vida hubiese tomado todo eso y lo hubiera condensado en ese instante, en ese lugar, con esas personas. Ese día comprendí, de manera profunda, que Florencia poseía una magia única. Fue entonces cuando supe que debía regresar, que había vivido algo irrepetible. En diciembre de 2024, cuando decidí buscar la oportunidad de hacer un intercambio académico, no hubo duda de que Florencia sería mi destino. Ahora, todos los días, voy a esa plaza a ver el atardecer, a escuchar música y a compartir un sentimiento de libertad. Abrazo con fuerza el privilegio de revivirlo a diario.

That moment, that song, that sunset in Piazzale Michelangelo, was the perfect ending to a trip that had already been extraordinary. It captured everything I had experienced in the past 45 days: the places, the people, the emotions, the memories. It felt like life had taken all of that and condensed it into one instant, in one place, with those specific people. That day, I deeply understood that Florence had a unique magic. It was then that I knew I had to return, that I had experienced something unforgettable. In December 2024, when I decided to look for a chance to study abroad, there was no question: Florence would be my destination. Now, every day, I go to that place to watch the sunset, listen to music, and share a sense of freedom. It’s a gift I cherish, being able to relive it each day.

Parts of You

written by Valerie Tiscareno for SPEL: Journalism

A bag, the clothes on my back, the shoes on my feet, that is all I need to leave — something you and I talked so heavily about. Our dreams of being nomads, going from here to there with no ties. Here I am, 6,191 miles away from home, walking the normally-crowded streets of Florence at 6 in the morning with nothing more than a side quest in mind to get outside of Florence. Meeting up with my friend Kyla at the C1 bus station to get to Fiesole, We waited, groggy and tired.

I thought of you.

How you left home and moved from place to place. When you were unsatisfied, you disappeared in the mountains, canyons, somewhere quieter. Here I am doing the same thing, moving from the coastal ocean of California to the grassroots of Missouri then the cobblestone streets of Italy. The excitement and struggles of moving somewhere new; a rush we both divinely understood.

Florence has been nothing more but eye opening. Even so, I feel the need to leave to go somewhere quieter. So, Kyla and I hopped on the bus and left. Up to the windy, narrow roads away from Florence. With every stop, the roads got greener and the world got softer. Until we stopped and went off near the hill tops in Fiesole.

With no agenda, others had a mission to find coffee. We set off together. The town center was lonely, everything facing each other. It took us no more than about 500 feet to find coffee. We were happily greeted by the barista as we ordered two cappuccinos and two croissants. We sat outside and discussed our friendships and our lives, something so dear to the both of us.

And I thought of you again.

How much you deeply cared for every person you met. The smile you were able to put on someone’s face, even if it was the first time you met them. How you dropped everything for a friend in need.

As we paid for our coffee, we walked around the sleepy town and sat still. We wandered up the hills and discovered a playground. One swing set, one slide, one rocking horse. I had never been so excited for something so simple. I ran to the swing and Kyla took the rocking horse. Giggling, swinging back and forth, I was no longer grieving my home, my family, my friends, or girlhood. I hopped off and traded Kyla for the rocking horse. Then, eager to see more, we ran off to the other side of town.

Leaving Florence with Kyla was the only thing I needed. Kyla was the first person I met before coming to Italy. We took on the long 12 hour flight together, and she was a hidden treasure in my life that Italy brought to me. As we walked together, we saw hidden pieces of art scattered around the town. We walked up the stairs of a church and we were greeted by a butterfly — another hidden surprise. Butterflies for me have always meant that someone who has passed was visiting. Insert sentence-long association. Sitting on the ground, spreading its beautiful orange spotted wings to the sun, it was the first time I had seen a butterfly in Tuscany.

And I thought of you again.

How I met you by chance. Out of all the colleges I got into, I chose Mizzou. Out of the thousands of people to meet that first week, I met your friends. By chance I bumped into them before they were to throw their first college party. How you were not supposed to go, but decided to go about 30 minutes before they were leaving KC.

For a second, in Tuscany, I got to see you again. Before I could say goodbye, you fluttered your wings and flew away.

Home Away From Home

written by anonymous

To be an immigrant’s daughter, there is a certain weight that sits with you. From the day you are born, you’re split in two. To be taught two languages, two cultures, two homelands. In the United States, to be an immigrant is to be lower. To be a Mexican immigrant is to be scum. As I grew up, I was taught to hide my identity. I spoke in English in public and Spanish in private, to favor American pop culture over Mexican. My golden skin was something to be ashamed of, to stay inside more. My locks of curls to be burned and tamed into straightened hair. My heart has always been torn into two.

At home, my family was proud of the life they worked so hard to make for my brothers and I. Now, it is our job to show that we are educated, organized, and hard working; that university is the goal to change the narrative for my family. My mom attended high school in the U.S. and graduated, but it wasn’t until 18 years later when she was 32 years old that she got her bachelor’s degree. She was the first in my family to ever receive a degree in higher education. My mom set the example that anything was possible, that my brothers and I had our futures handed to us; we were supposed to be nothing more than exceptional. In my parent’s eyes, that meant to hide our culture that America saw as less-than.

My brothers and I knew how to play the part; after all, we experienced the everlasting backlashes of America. Our whole lives, we have been told we didn’t belong where generations of my family worked for us to be. I was told to go back where I came from, and countless times I was picked on. Kids would throw my pencil case to the floor, leaving my things scattered, and tell me to pick it up “cleaning lady.” My brother was told to “mow the grass gardener” by a player of the opposite team on the soccer field. My little brother is a clean slate, doesn’t know any Spanish, and has yet to come to understand his culture.

The aggressions are something I’ve realized is my price to pay for living in the United States. Something I’m not sure I’m equipped to take anymore. Since going to university, I’ve been faced with micro aggressions, and it’s now supposed to be my job as the minority to educate my classmates. It’s aggravating, and parts of me wished I had never stepped foot in Missouri. Countless phone calls to my mom asking if I am overreacting or if they are being racist. It’s hard to be in a place that I have worked to be, and yet, in many ways said or unsaid, that I shouldn’t be in. Despite this, I continue my academic career in hopes of raising the percentage of 19% of Latino that have a bachelor’s degree, joining my mom and my older brother and showing my dad that his countless days of sacrifice have amounted to something.

Now, I stand here, not in the U.S. or Mexico, but in Italy, a country that my grandparents would have never imagined one of their grandkids would be in. I’m here interning for a food publication, where I had the opportunity to cover an event dedicated to Latino food. For once, I saw my culture being celebrated on a bigger stage instead of being shamed or transformed into something others could easily grasp. For once, speaking Spanish isn’t alien-like, but a bridge for me to communicate with others. Being Mexican doesn’t mean I’m associated with drugs, gangs, or the lower class. I was told by one of the chefs that, “It’s so wonderful that you’re Mexican. Your culture, your people are so bright, giving, and happy. Thank you for everything you have brought here.”

For once, I was seen for who I am, who my family is, and for how my people are. Parts of me never want to leave Italy with my little time spent here. The problem is, if I stay here, what was all that my family struggled for? To be an immigrant’s daughter is to be split in two.

Unpacking Self-Discovery: How Florence Painted My Journey of Growth

written by Kylyn Maxwell for SPEL: Public Relations

Packing is always daunting for me. Whether it is an overnight stay at a friend’s house or a three month endeavor in a foreign country, both scenarios instill the same amount of panic within me. How do I temporarily abandon the things that mean so much to me? I would never wish my most prized possessions to collect a layer of dust, leaving them neglected.

My bag can only weigh fifty pounds. Even my youngest sister weighs more than that.

I had finally come to terms with entering a new country. I prepared myself to become consumed with a deep feeling of discomfort. I was willing to let things go. After all, how do you grow if nothing is changing? I let my petals flourish and my roots grow deep into unfamiliar soil.

My suitcase held business casual loafers and slacks instead of my cherished paint brushes and 16×20 canvases. I had been decorating canvases with the thoughts that entered my mind since I was 16.

I could refrain from zipping my sister up in my suitcase, but I had no choice but to let go of the things that have been grounding me for so many summers.

The plane engulfed my thoughts. The amount of rows on the aircraft put me in a trance, I had never been overseas. The flight was filled with contemplation. I decided I would welcome the unfamiliar with open arms, in hope that it would do the same to me.

A different scene appears through the narrow gape of the plane window. Mediterranean cypresses and warm-colored buildings caught my attention. They were quite different from the oak trees and neutral-colored houses I had been surrounded with my whole life. I had no idea what I was doing, and perhaps that was the best remedy for an intense desire for personal growth and expansion.

I wandered the uneven, cobblestone streets of Florence. Not a single step I took was steady and secure, similar to my placement in the city. I couldn’t find anything reminiscent of the things that typically brought me comfort.

I had four keys. Two small ones, one medium sized one, and one that looked like it was out of a storybook. I put the key in the lock of the large, decadent door, struggling to enter.

Noticing my struggle, a man next door asks if I need help. He grasps the key in his hand, easily unlocking the door. I notice his hand is covered in swatches of paint; blues, yellows, and red-orange. I noticed his shop next door, decorated in canvases with thick strokes of paint and thoughtful color choices. I feel a sense of comfort knowing that my apartment is next to someone who shares the same love for painting as me. It was in that moment, that I knew I could make home in a place that was unconnected from the rest of my life.

As my time in Florence dwindled, the sun gleamed brighter and my connection with the painter grew stronger. I used his acrylic paint and palette knives. I showed him paintings from the previous summers that I had left behind. Our styles of painting were so different, yet we could both appreciate each other’s talent. We made an exchange. I sketched citrus fruits along the canvas he lent me. I had painted oranges, lemons, and grapefruits before, but the painter insisted I try to paint in his style; a style that was reminiscent of Post-Impressionist artworks.

As time is fleeting, my suitcase reappears in front of me. I stare at the canvas that hangs on the wall of my bedroom that I grew to love. How do I rip my roots from the ground that I had become so familiar with? I place my canvas in my suitcase, remembering how I came here lacking canvases, paints, and brushes.

My suitcase is more full than it was in May, along with my heart and my brain. I had flourished, all because of Florence.

Connections can be forged no matter the location and there are always exchanges to be made that leave you fulfilled. Sometimes the best fertilizer for growth can be one you’re unfamiliar with.

My Family in Florence: Bringing One Home to Another

written by Lily Carroll for Special Project: Experiential Learning in Journalism

When I chose to study abroad in Florence for the entire summer, I took a giant leap out of my comfort zone. Back home in Minnesota, my family is my whole life. As the sixth of seven children, my siblings and parents are my absolute best friends. My few experiences traveling have always been with at least one family member, with the exception of going to and from my campus in Missouri. Being someone who experiences lots of anxiety surrounding separation and travel, I knew that this opportunity would challenge me in the areas that have always restricted me.

Going to school outside of my home state was my initial step toward overcoming my struggles, fostering strength through vulnerability. I grew my independence a tremendous amount and became accustomed to the environment at school. I had gotten so comfortable with my friends, my boyfriend, and my apartment, that the mundane became almost irritating. However, the idea of adventure seemed exhausting. The decision to spend the summer in Italy came with the hopes that some of my loved ones could share in this experience, and I was elated to hear of my family’s plans to visit.

The distance and time change caused me to miss my family very much upon arrival, but in the back of my mind I was already working towards seeing them again, showing them all I’ve learned since being here. Knowing that in a few short weeks I would be able to give my mom a hug and show her my new home would be what I looked forward to most. What I didn’t know was how quickly it would come — in all of the excitement of meeting new people, discovering a whole new culture, and falling in love with my internships and courses, the time flew by.

Comfort washed over me when I saw my mom’s sweet smile, and I was so relieved to see a familiar face in a place I’m still getting to know. My mom and brother arrived, and I was home again. Together, we ventured to Venice, where we prioritized quality time, relaxation, and taking in the beauty of the water surrounding us. We came back to Florence, and I got to play tour guide for a few days, exploring the things I’ve seen and the things I still had yet to discover.

We toured the Duomo and Galleria dell’Accademia, bringing life to the landmarks I’ve been passing by for over a month. My family got so excited over things I have gotten so used to. This gave me a newfound appreciation for the city around me and served as a good reminder of how lucky I am to have the opportunity to call this place home for a short period of time. While I am sad to see them go, I feel so lucky to have been able to show them around and combine my two homes for a week of love and appreciation. I will forever cherish our time together, and I can associate this place I love with the people I’ve missed so much.

Lived Moments

written by Valerie Tiscareno for Special Project: Experiential Learning in Journalism

This is a collection of photos showcasing places, things, and experiences that I would have liked to share with my dear friend who passed away in January. He passed away pursuing what he loved: photography. He was 19 years old when the accident happened, 4 months away from his 20th birthday.

We had always talked about the adventures we would go on as photographers. Our aspirations of working for National Geographic, traveling the world and seeing what it had to offer. I had told him my story of giving up my Quinceanera in order to travel in Europe.

I remember one of my last calls with him. I had told him I was finally going to Europe. I remember seeing his smile for one last time. The way his mouth curled up and the indents on his cheeks. That call felt like we were both going towards the path we had both talked about.

Here now, I am filled with memories of him, of things I wished to tell him. This collection of photos are my last adventure with him.

These photos were shot either how I think he would have taken them, or as photos I would have been excited to share with him. These all have been shot on the camera I met him with.

I remember him meeting me and the first thing we bonded about was photography. The next weekend he drove 4 hours to be able to take photos with me. I remember he thought my camera was a film camera and the disappointment on his face when I told him it was a digital camera.

This project is a reflection on the experiences we take for granted as living, but even more so, as lived moments. I challenge viewers not to think about the personal stylization or the absence of people; rather, look closer at how we as people decide to live our lives.

How Gratitude Shapes Culture Shock: Navigating Overwhelming Unfamiliarity

By Makenna Sowards

Studying abroad is no easy feat. You are dropped into a brand-new world with different etiquette, standards, expectations, and languages. It’s an overwhelming feeling, to say the least. My first week here, I think I saw every one of my new friends cry at some point.