New Everything

DAY 1: NEW EVERYTHING

Breathe in, breathe out.

That advice never seemed to work for me. All this thinking about breathing only seems to make me more nervous and distracted. This anxious anticipation was similar to how I felt walking into my first college class two years ago or even walking into high school for the first time. The bottom of my shoe rapidly tapped the cobblestone below.

I stood at my host mother’s door, suitcase in hand, attempting to quell any sense of anxiety. A quaint little Florentine dwelling she had. Bicycles lined the wall aside from me, leaning on the house’s bright yellow plaster. I found them quite complementary to the home’s composition. This would be my first time meeting my host mother in person. We’d exchanged over email, but I was nervous nonetheless. I still knew very little about her. My knuckles hovered just in front of the door’s surface, ready to knock. With my eyes squinted and my clenched hand raised, the door suddenly opened without any knuckle-on-wood contact. There stood my host mother. My new host mother, Ms. Maria, smiled at me and welcomed me into her home.

“Massimo, it is so nice to meet you,” she greeted enthusiastically, “how was your flight?”

Ms. Maria, to my reassurance, was just as friendly in person as she was through email. She was a middle-aged woman with a very friendly visage. You could tell by the wrinkles around her eyes that she smiled often.

"You must be hungry! Sit down. Have something to eat," offered Ms. Maria.

As I finished my salutations and recounted my trip, I noticed behind her stood a girl with short, curled black hair and dark brown eyes. In one of her hands was a detailed sketch of some kind of alleyway and in the other was a pencil. I do not recall hearing that I would be living with anyone besides my host mother, so who could this girl have been? She had prominent black eyebrows, a rounder face, and a thin neck. She had to have been around my age. Her posture was meek and uncertain. I was immediately at a loss for words, awestruck by her beauty. Additionally, her drawing was impressive, its perspective on-point. At the very least, she had to be one of the top five most beautiful people I've seen with my own eyes (that being said, I have no idea what that top five list would look like). She did not say a word, timidly glancing back at me. She then turned around and swiftly walked upstairs as I opened my mouth to speak to her. I wanted to complement her drawing.

"Oh that's Rosa, don't mind her," said my host mother, "she's a little shy when it comes to new people."

"Your daughter, I presume?"

"Yes, yes. In time I'm sure you'll get to know her. Anyway, let me show you to your room.”

As we strolled through the house, I carefully observed its layout and decor. This was my first time being inside an Italian residence. My only expectations came from movies. We walked up the stairs. There sat a hall with three doorways. On the left, the door was labeled, “Rosa.” On the right, the door was labeled, “guest.” We're across the hall from each other!

“If you need any help setting up, let me know,” assured my host mother.

The room was completely different from my own in America. In front of the entranceway was a balcony window overlooking the sidewalk below. Opposite the balcony was the bed. Its color was off-white and it looked relatively clean. It was no hotel bed, but this was no hotel. I can therefore excuse a differing degree of cleanliness. These observations, however, were secondary to a more important realization: There are only a mere two doors between me and one of the most beautiful people I have laid my eyes on. I feel as though I am unworthy of such incredible luck, as though an opportunity such as this will hop away if I fail to snatch it—but that's not entirely true. She'll be my floormate for a whole year. Thinking about this blessing was overwhelming. How should I even try to approach this situation? That being said, I have yet to meet her. It's not worth dreaming too much about someone based on how they look if the way they behave is totally unknown. What if her behavior is appallingly poor? I shouldn't get ahead of myself and develop an interest in a girl I have yet to have a conversation with. I began to unpack my bags.

Food. People can't seem to live without it these days. Food is a feature exhibited by all living things. We, humans, are among the more picky consumers of food. We tend to judge food and compare it. We even have entertainment based around judging food and enjoy watching chefs scold cooks for their improper crafting of food. I love food. I love its many varieties. I tend to be less picky than many, even if I hold an extreme distaste for seafood and coleslaw. My days tend to center around the food I eat. It is no coincidence, therefore, that I am studying in Italy, the world capital of food. I was ecstatic to try peak cuisine in its most authentic form. My host mother, to celebrate my arrival, had told me that she would bring me and Rosa out to dinner that night. If a local is recommending a restaurant, I'll trust their choice. In a city with as many tourists as Florence, it is often difficult for newcomers to differentiate the cheap tourist traps from the quality restaurants.

Ms. Maria called up, "Rosa! Mas! It's time to get dinner."

Rosa went down the stairs before I did. Walking behind her, I noticed that she wore a simple dress sewn from ornately detailed fabric. We still had yet to exchange any words. On the car ride to the restaurant, Ms. Maria struck up a conversation, but Rosa remained mostly silent, opting to look out her window.

As we pulled up to the restaurant, I noticed that the text outside of the building read in large letters, "John's." Perhaps I'm the first to admit it, but "John" isn't exactly the name that comes to mind when I try to imagine an Italian restaurant. Not only because “j” is not really used in native Italian words, but because the Italian version of "John" already exists, and well, it's not John. It's Giovanni. But, it's not too unreasonable to believe that someone in Italy may have an atypical name with atypical letters. Perhaps the owner was born in America and moved at a young age. Who knows?

The interior looked normal enough—dark wooding, dim lighting, circular tables. Old music was playing overhead.

"Hopefully this place makes you feel at home," said Ms. Maria.

What did she mean by that?

"Don't worry about looking at the menu. I'll order for everyone," she added.

That was okay. I trusted her culinary decisions as a native Italian. I'm sure she'll know what universally-loved food to choose for us.

Often is the case that I wish to talk to someone, but I have no clue what to say. Rosa sat to my right, her gaze diverted from the table, her eyes meandering about. If only I could find something substantial to stir conversation with. “How is everyone” won’t cut it this time. That’s a dead end for people who are already apprehensive to speak. Unfortunately, most other avenues for conversation require some foreknowledge of those to whom you are speaking, whether it be their interests or daily ongoings. I knew almost nothing about these people.

“I hear you and Mas share a similar interest, Rosa,” began Ms. Maria.

Yes! Yes! Thank you, Ms. Maria! That is the perfect way to start the conversation!

“Oh, really?” Rosa softly replied.

“Oh yes. You should tell Mas what you do!”

“Well… I do some drawing and painting.”

The way she spoke was not timid, but it was most certainly reserved. She was at least attempting to be friendly, but simultaneously demonstrating little interest in the conversation. Perhaps she was uncertain about me, and understandably so. If I had a stranger walk into my house to live there for a year, I would want to make sure they are safe and friendly.

“That’s great!” I replied, “I do some drawing and painting as well. What kind of stuff do you usually make?”

“Locations, mainly. Sometimes I draw faces.”

“Mas, tell Rosa about that stuff you do on the computer,” Ms. Maria chimed in.

“I recreate places in 3D. It’s a pretty time-consuming hobby.”

“Th-that’s interesting,” answered Rosa.

Yeah, she doesn’t seem to care. Not that she’s required to, but this is incredibly awkward.

I could not wait for that food. Not just because I needed something to cut through this awkward tension, but because I was starving. I had barely eaten that day in anticipation of this meal. I kept eyeing the waiters in the back as they carried out trays of delicious-looking food, wondering which order would be ours. I then saw a waiter pass through the open kitchen with dishes of fish and coleslaw. Can you believe it? Fish and coleslaw. I began to giggle.

"Heh. Who would order coleslaw and fish?" I joked.

I looked back at Ms. Maria. Her head was facing away from me, avoiding eye contact. Rosa's hands were over her face, elbows on the table, in a deep expression of shame. No. No no no. There's no way. Fish and coleslaw? In Italy? It can't be. She ordered fish and coleslaw!?

It was as though everything else froze. I felt the breeze of the waiter's brisk walk. His hand reached out, placing a dish in front of me. The ceramic plate lightly clanged onto the table as the waiter released his hand. The corpse of a fish lay out on the left of the plate. To its right was a hill of coleslaw. It was as though the fish was making eye contact with me. A subtle gagging began to announce its presence deep within my throat. I nearly vomited.

Laying in my new bed, I stared at my hand held high, reflecting on the day. I'm going to be living here for a while. I know I'll get used to it, probably quickly, but at the moment it's all so overwhelming. A different country. A different language. A different family. A different bed. Even with all those differences taken into account, the difference that is taking the longest to process is how differently everybody behaves. I may as well be an alien with how little I understand this new set of societal norms. But thankfully, I can still hold onto one bit of familiarity, as I still have my phone to contact friends and family with.

NEXT CHAPTER: ROSA BROKE MY PHONE