It is a privilege in this age to know personally the human whose hands molded, cut, forged and fired the items that we hold dear to us. Mass-made objects hold no meaning but their function. The more hands it takes to assemble them, the less consequential these hands are to the end user. As I’ve become more aware of the detriments of most of humankind’s capitalist, consumerist habits, I’ve found more joy in seeking out objects that serve as a material connection between myself and the maker. When an artisan puts intentful thought and care into their craft, each piece is a part of their story and a gift unto the receiver. I received such a gift from such an artisan during my time abroad in Florence.
Venice, despite being quite completely consumed by tourism, is one of the most magical places in Italy. I’ve always loved the pairing of city and sea, and Venice is just that, with none of the beach in between. Some narrow streets lead you directly onto the water, the shadow of the buildings cut by a sudden bright openness. Gondolas drift lazily, but the gondolier is anything but lazy, perched on the stern, skillfully cutting and dragging the water with his oar. What I savored most was not my own visit to Venice, but instead how it lured my imagination towards Venice-past, a time when the city was untouched by hoards of foreigners and Venetians simply went about their lives, sailing to and fro with family, friends, and lovers.
late night thoughts
will globalization affect Italy in the same way that it’s affected the United States? with products being produced all over the world becoming taken for granted? here everything is so rooted in Italianness, it’s such a young country, the development of Italy as a nation only really starting with the end of WWII
facetiming my friends really has been such a game changer, i can’t believe i never really thought to do it until now. it makes me so elated to just spend an hour or two catching up with them and hearing about what’s going on in their lives.
I’m not usually a fan of the hours before a flight, especially since I’m the kind of person who doesn’t usually feel much excitement about the upcoming trip until I have literally landed at the destination. Sitting on my bed at home, going through my mental packing list over and over even though I’ve packed for trips so many times, always feeling like I’m missing something. I suppose that’s the anxiety of being in between. Even though this time around, I’m leaving for a trip that I know will change my life, in a city that I’ve only heard wonderful things about, I still feel apprehensive, not quite sure what do with myself … so I hope that my mood starting off this trip isn’t indicative of how my study abroad experience will turn out. I hope that the beauty of Florence will shoo away my sadness over leaving home and entering into a long distance relationship
If fineness of sand is any indication of the age of a beach, then she was a young one, speckled blush and beige, waiting for the waves to smooth out her edges. She was a beach that never saw the sunset in all of its glory, only able to catch its muted afterglow. We sat, sand seeping into the pockets of our denim shorts. The tide came steadily over bare feet, unsurprisingly cool at first touch, then warmer at each arrival.