Ch-ch-ch-changes

It's easy to compare Buenos Aires to Italy for a lot of reasons--there are a lot of architectural similarities, though Buenos Aires is on a much grander scale. While BA is known for its wide avenidas and Florence is known for its dark and winding streets, some of which still sport architectural features left from the 13th century, both have sidewalks absolutely TEEMING with dog crap. Italian culture permeates Buenos Aires--it's tradition here, on the 29th of each month, to eat gnocchi with a little bit of money under the plate for good luck (hat tip to the Washington Post and my cab driver from the airport for that little cultural insight). Sometimes I actually forget that I am in a South American city and think that I must be somewhere in Spain.

Last night, as I was walking home from the train at about 6:30 or 7--by that time, it's already dark here, because it's almost winter--I started thinking about the differences between how I felt in Italy and how I feel here. It made me feel pretty good to think about how much more comfortable I am in my own skin now compared to then. Then, I was terrified of being outside alone in the dark. At that point, the only city I had ever lived in was Portland, and the part where I lived was about as citylike as where I grew up in Illinois. I was sure that if I stepped out of doors alone at night, unshaven and uncouth men would appear and rob, rape, and/or murder me where I stood. I remember running five well-lit and well-trafficked blocks from my apartment to a restaurant in sheer terror.

Fast forward six years, and I am a seasoned veteran of city living. I know what to expect, how to protect myself, and how not to be stupid. Walking down the street at 7pm is no longer something that terrifies me. I feel safe and capable.

More than that, though, I feel better about myself and life in general now. I was in Florence a little more than a year after my dad died, and to say that the wounds were still fresh is a bit of an understatement--I think that at that point, the wounds were still developing and making themselves known. On top of that, making friends was difficult (What do you mean, your school doesn't have sororities? What to you do?), and I isolated myself purposefully, spending most of my time reading the great works of English literature while sitting on cold cathedral steps and eating large blocks of cheese til I actually made myself ill.

Here, despite the fact that I think that a large proportion of the people in my program are total idiots (repeated chant to self: you were an idiot when you were 19 too. You were an idiot when you were 19 too...), I've managed to find some people I really like to spend time with, and we've been having a lot of fun. I'll write a post about the ballet that we went to later, as well as about our upcoming trip to Iguazu Falls.

The point is that I feel really good--really independent, really self-reliant, and really happy to be here. It's nice to suddenly realize that after almost eight years of trying to rebuild my sense of self since my dad died, it seems that I've finally managed to do it.

Go me!