I have made it safely to Rome, which means that the month and a half of the slightly-schizo world tour is actually over. I can’t believe I’ll be home in just three months. I also can’t believe that I’ve gotten to the point where three months away from home doesn’t even feel like much.
Well, this is going to be a shock to all of you, but I love Rome. It’s so nice to be able to speak Italian again; it’s the closest thing I have to a second language. And even though my northern Italian friends all warned me that the Romans supposedly speak in a laughably relaxed and inarticulate manner, I have found the good ole Romans completely understandable.
I’m in a program now, which feels quite different than my first semester of relative independence. I still feel very untethered, but it’s certainly a bit strange to suddenly be part of an automatic group. I’ve gotten so used to exploring on my own and hanging out with only Europeans that I’m still adjusting to actually being able to talk to people about home and be thoroughly understood.
When I arrived here in Rome, I settled in immediately: slippers on my feet, books arranged artfully along my desk, clothes unpacked in record time. One of my roommates commented on how quickly I made this place “home”. I hadn’t thought about it, but I guess I’ve become a sort of master home-maker, as a traveling nomad for the last month and a half. I am ever-ready to settle in to wherever I next deem “home”. It feels nice and warm and cozy and reassuring to know that what really makes me at home is actually within me. I know this is starting to get all Gap-Year-existential-crisis-profundity. I guess I just like this new feeling of self-sufficiency and comfort.