A Little Ditty for the UMD Statesman

Apparently I’ve roped myself into writing this “What it’s Like to Study Abroad” article. To be honest, I’m at a loss for what to say. It seems as if I’ve started this piece at least a dozen times, using a different approach on each occasion. Seriously, I have run my pen ragged scratching out every tacky opener and each insipid joke. Then, it hit me; my college education finally kicked in. I have no idea what you people want from me!

Seriously, who am I to guide you in your travels? I’ve only been in Italy for a mere month and a half, so really I know nothing. Let’s face it, I can barely order a gelato properly without taking the charm out of the original Romance language, let alone offer those stuck in the frozen tundra of Duluth a sweeping generalization summarizing my time in a foreign country. Like most of my encounters here, something would get lost in translation. Sure, sure if hard-pressed I could describe in intricate detail the charming vineyards of Tuscany and the gothic architecture that shrouds my tiny apartment in downtown Florence, but what would that achieve for you? After all, writers can only describe something like a church for so long before readers either tune out of the article or swear off religion entirely. And, to be honest, my conscience isn’t strong enough to handle either outcome. Therefore, if you’ve stumbled upon this section looking to escape into a European fantasy land, you’d be better off Netflixing Moulin Rouge because you won’t find it here. In fact, I refuse to include in this essay Michelangelo’s David, trips—that’s plural—to the Mediterranean Sea, or food so fresh that it makes me appreciate the reasoning behind Ryanair’s weight restrictions. No, if I hit you with that much gossip, I would feel as if I were cheating on Italia. Plus, I don’t want to be the loser who spoils the surprise for you, either. Really, if you think about it, I’m doing you a favor. Thank me later, kids. Instead, I have a better idea. I will let you in on something that I haven’t even Skyped my own mother about yet. Whoa.

So here’s the dealio, yo. I am currently sitting at a quaint little café in Cinque Terre. No, I’m not adopting a trendy Beatnik persona. I’m simply indulging my natural nerd by multitasking here. With midterms scheduled for tomorrow, I feel obligated to positively rep the Midwest. But you don’t care about that. This is supposed to be a break from your studies. I apologize. Anyway, for those geographically-challenged students out there, Cinque Terre is located north west of Florence and teeters on the Mediterranean Sea. I say teeters because if the houses situated in the city’s rolling hills encountered the Big Bad Wolf, it would only be too easy for him to huff and puff them into the water. Ok, forget about that dorky fairy tale analogy. Maybe my head is still clouded from the SIX HOUR hike!
Now, for those of you who don’t know me, and I’m assuming that most of you do not—I wouldn’t consider myself the A-list of UMD—I did not come to Duluth for the “easy access to nature.” Or, to put it bluntly, I. Do. Not. Hike. In fact, I feel so strongly about this that I’m not even going to apologize to those who are absolutely tickled by a brisk jaunt through Chester Park; I feel no remorse. So you can imagine my dismay when I was informed that our travel group would hike through the hills, or as I prefer to call them, mini Mt. Everests, of not one, not two, but FIVE cities. Hey, Cinque Terre didn’t get its name for nothing. (If you still don’t understand, I recommend freetranslations.com).

The hike started out innocently enough. I’ll even go out on a limb and say that it was quite leisurely. I mean come on, it was called Via Dell’ Amore (Lover’s Lane, roughly translated). How rugged could it be? If it were me, I certainly wouldn’t agree to a first date if I knew that some guy would bear witness to my panting and perspiration. Talk about remaining chronically single! Needless to say, for the first half hour, I was getting pretty cocky, If only I knew what the next five and half hours would require me to flaunt the gymnastic skills that I DO NOT possess, I would have graciously shown a bit more humility.

As I said, the trail grew increasingly more treacherous. Well, maybe not to a person with the slightest finesse, but I wear a size six shoe; sometimes it’s a wonder that I’m able to balance on such a tiny foundation. Therefore, you can imagine that a trail the size of a balance beam riddled with loose gravel, vertical stone steps, and no guard rails seemed to me more like a death march than a nature walk. The silver lining, though, and what pushed me to finish the quarter-day hike, was the idea that no matter what, I was seeing something cooler than what most of the world was seeing. This includes you, Duluthians!

That’s right. I said it! I’m feeling spicy today. My view of an ocean so clear that that I could stand miles above and practically see the fish on the bottom, is more breathtaking, if I can use such a cliché, than the gaudy décor of the Ven Den’s Brady Bunch walls.

I’m sorry, I don’t know how else to say it. As I mentioned earlier, I am at a loss. I can write about the sights that have flashed across my camera lens until there is no more ink left in the world. However, until you decide that you want to experience it for yourself, you’ll always be the kid stuck reading about it in a student-made newspaper. For this reason, I do not feel ashamed to tell you that today on my hike, a white-haired sixty seven year-old man blew past me on the trail. I’d rather, though, have a senior citizen show me up in Italy than anywhere else. Remember, it’s all about location, location, location.