"I Love Florence in the Springtime"

Shortly after landing in Rome's Fiumicino airport, it will hit you like a ton of cobblestones: You're in Italy.

Simply being in Italy is surreal. Walking around, the images that you've seen in photos and films literally come to life. The sites and people aren't extremely extravagant, but there is an abiding sensation that you are in a different world.

Last year around this time, York Italian literature professor Elio Costa told me about the annual trip organized by the Italian department.

"But it's too expensive," I thought immediately. I had been to Italy once before and three weeks of memorable travelling left me with serious credit card debt. Professor Costa told me to look into some bursaries and I did. When I was granted $1,500 in financial support, I started to stock up on film.

You land in Rome and take a coach to Florence, where you'll spend three weeks, staying at Instituto Gould, a hostel-like place that gives proceeds to needy children and orphans.

You'll have class from 9-11:30am, Monday to Friday, but calling it "class" doesn't do it justice, since most of these "classes" are walking tours of a city. The rest of the day is leisure time, as are the weekends (during which you can take a train to nearby Siena and to many other towns that border Florence). The three weeks spent in Florence will fly by, and you can spend the following three weeks in Italy's capital - and my favourite city - Rome.

Florence differs from Rome because in Florence, everything is within walking distance.
You will walk to everywhere - restaurants, churches, nightclubs, even trendy outdoor discotheques in the north riverbank Le Cascine district (walking there was easy, butwalking home in stilettos wasn't). We learned an important lesson walking alongside the Arno one night. Just a few feet away from us, over the river, colonies of pippistrelle, (or bats, which are pretty common in Italy) decided to give us some unexpected company. The bats were bold, generally flying within a few feet of us, and in large clusters. Every once in a while a single bat would swoop down and come face-to-face with us, startling us with its bravado. There are, I noticed, some striking similarities between Italian bats and Italian men.

But even if you opt for a cab, don't expect them to be readily available. Taxis in Italy don't speed around the city looking for passengers and if you happen to find one and flag it down, consider yourself lucky. Walking back to the hotel one night, strolling arm-in-arm with some friends, we noticed a police car stopped alongside the river.

"Let's ask them for a ride home!" suggested one of the girls. (For those of you that have never been to Italy, all of the police officers are young and gorgeous.)
So we approached the car and with big smiles plastered across our faces, tapped on the window. Our faces dropped when they rolled the windows down and we spied what they were doing in the privacy of their police car: Reading Italian comic books (we did not get a ride home).

It's hard to spend six weeks in Italy and not have dozens of adventure stories to come home with. Every day is filled with adventure: For instance, finding a cold drink.
On one occasion, I was at a train station and, seeking a thirst-quencher from the sweltering Italian sun, deposited 2