Living the Next Great Adventure, Now

In the Shoes of Giants
Very carefully walking along the stone-studded alleyways of Florence, dodging the typical tourist and revving vespa, it is still easy to lose your balance; combined with the antithetical love of high-fashion heels, a woman feels lucky to make it to the grocers in one piece. The Italians say “good luck” much like the English “break a leg,” which seems fitting (the wish In boca al lupo translates into “In the mouth of the wolf” to which the proper response is Crepi al lupo! “Death to the wolf!”) Luck, here, is a matter of bravado, and so I go on braving the streets.
In truth, I would feel lucky to take a gentle tumble and momentarily rest among the hustle and bustle of this frantic, jostling city. I would be elated to lie in the shadow of Dante's statue at Santa Croce, where some of Italy's most famous figures have their eternal resting places, and take private audience with the Father of the Italian language; I long to sit beneath the elegant and miraculous curve of Brunelleschi's Dome at the Florence Duomo and soak up the sun with the warm red terra cotta shingles.
Finding peace in this city is a hard-won task. My best bet is to abandon the many, many attractions printed in the tourist books and stop in any number of the plazas which dot the crinkled and soft-worn map in my cross-strap purse to let the pulse of the city, slow slow slow but boisterous in the Italian way, thrum under my fingertips. In the dead of night I return to the lonely Duomo when the air is biting and crisp and the green-white-red striped marble walls of the cathedral loom gray, haunting and silent over the piazza while I and my lengthy shadow quietly amble past the sleeping monolith.
My great adventure in Italy has been coming to a country in which I do not speak the language (yet) and am categorically incapable of eating all of its famous foods. One of the first things I learned to say in Italian was “I have Celiac's Disease” which more broadly translates into “I'm sorry, I can't eat any of your Nonna's famous pasta, pizza, bread or pastries...but I'm sure it is delicious!” So much of this culture is built on the succulent food you put on your tongue and the beautiful poetry that spills past your lips. Gelato is an Italian specialty I am perfectly capable of eating and every smooth, deeply rich flavor I try feels like sweet love poetry on my tongue. I could learn Italian if only in exchange for this world wonder everyday. And like so many simple things here- the sunshine through stained glass windows and the heavy, solid stone, the click-clack of a horse's shoes on those infamous cobblestones and the countless colored scarves lazing in the breeze down a street filled with vendors -that is the most persuasive incentive.