I recently began taking a Creative Writing class online through my community college. One of my first assignments was to write a 1,000-word story that had to start by mentioning the first time you heard a song and where you were and what you were doing.
I wrote a true story about the first time I heard the song “Somebody I Used to Know” which happened to be while I was in Italy. I thought 1,000 words would be difficult, but I ended up with 1,100 in about an hour. After I was done writing, I downloaded the song. Listening to it really did take me back to my first shopping experience in Florence. It’s amazing how music can take you to a different place.
Here’s the story if you’re interested.
The first time I heard “Someone That I Used to Know” by Goethe, I was over in Florence, Italy doing some much-needed grocery shopping. The funny thing is I had been hearing about the song for ages, everyone back home either loathes or loves it, but had never actually laid ears on it myself until I left the continent. I stood in a little store, the Magi Mart it was called, listening when I came to the conclusion that I was in the select few who didn’t care about the song one way or the other.
I had come to Italy to study in Florence, or Firenze as the Italians call it, for three weeks. My fellow American students and I were given a surprisingly spacious apartment to share while we took various different classes through FUA, Florence University of the Arts. After a whirlwind day of school orientation, a walking tour of the city, and a quick guided spin through the Uffizi Gallery, we were finally able to get into the apartment. We had not been privy to many details about the place we would call home so we were anxious to discover what sort of living conditions awaited us.
When we finally got into the apartment, the building door was clearly designed to keep medieval marauders out, we were shocked how big it was. I had heard everything in Europe was small compared to America. This would turn out to be the very last thing that was bigger than I expected.
There were seven of us girls in the apartment which was equipped with nine beds dispersed unevenly among six rooms. There was an awkward moment, not unlike the first episode of a new Real World season, while we decided where to sleep. We had not been assigned roommates and there was the one “loud girl” that everyone naturally avoided. I ended up with Lauren, 19, as my roommate. Though I was 11 years her senior, I had sat next to her during the transatlantic flight and figured we’d get along fine. Our room must have been the main living room at some point because it was large and contained an oval table that could easily seat six. Loud girl ended up in a triple room all by her lonesome but she didn’t seem to mind. There were two bathrooms, much to the relief of us all, and no towels. That had been one piece of information that actually had been given to us so we were prepared with our own bath towels, but quickly came to miss hand towels. Drying your hands on toilet paper isn’t the easiest.
As everyone ran around the apartment using Facetime and Skype to show off the place to friends and family back home, I began to get hungry, as I am often want to do.
“I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry.”
This would become a frequent exchange between the girls and I.
I decided to venture to the store literally right below our apartment. This was the first time I had gone anywhere without the group, but given the fact that it was mere yards, I should say meters, away I wasn’t too worried.
I assembled a mental shopping list: snacks, drinks, paper towels, and a box of tissues (so I didn’t have to use up the three travel packs I had bought expressly for use during rides in planes, trains, and autobuses). The apartment floors were 100% dusty tile so I also wanted a pair of slippers to wear while kicking around the place at night, but I knew I wasn’t going to Target so I gave up the thought of finding those during this particular shopping trip.
Inside the Magi Mart there was a small produce section. I picked up an apple to offset the three candy bars I picked up next. In my defense, the chocolate bars were all different than those in the States and isn’t the point of travel to try new things?
Next I wandered farther into the long, narrow store. There was a small section of jams and Nutella. Where’s the peanut butter, I wondered. (Later I would discover the answer to that question: North America.) I picked up strawberry jam and a loaf of sliced bread, just like we have at home. Then I found what basically were granola bars made into a cookie shape. I picked up a bottle of frizzante water, my favorite discovery since landing in the country.
I felt pretty good about myself. I was making good progress through my list. All I needed now was the paper product section. I passed a case of individual sodas and beer. I could see that the store continued down a narrow passage, but there was a sign written in Italian and printed on A7 paper which I assumed said, “employees only past this point.”
I gave up on the paper products. I assumed those are must be sold at a separate store from food products in this country. I went up to the register and put my food on the short conveyor belt. The cashier informed me, in decent English, that I needed to weigh the apple. I apologized and, since there was no one behind me in line, ran over to the produce section to find the scale. Sure enough there was a sign above the bins of apples and bananas, written in perfect English, saying you needed to weigh the fruit before buying it. I’ve probable felt dumber before, but not by much. I returned to the register and paid for my items. The cashier grumbled and reluctantly gave me a bag when I asked. Whether they were trying to save money or the environment by making you feel guilty for needed one was unclear to me.
Back to my apartment I went, praying that I could push open the heavy door despite my purchases. I succeeded, but only after a struggle. I wrote my name on the jam and bread and water and put them in the kitchen. I stuffed my face with the granola “cookies” and a candy bar. After all, dinner wouldn’t be for hours yet, since we were in Europe where eating ridiculously late is all the rage.
This wouldn’t be the only time during my three weeks in Florence that I would hit up the Magi Mart in search of snacks to last me from lunch to dinner. I would even discover that there were, in fact, paper products and the sign did not say “employees only” but something to the effect of “more items sold in the next room.”
Much later, after I had returned home to the states, I would hear “Someone that I used to know” again and think of the apartment and little store I used know in Florence. I’m sure the cashiers don’t miss the random American girl who couldn’t read the signs.
Michele's Miscellaneous Musings 