From Bra to Bristol

 The sun was golden, reflecting off the buildings as the airport bus wound its way through the streets of Milan.  Not quite the same blazing light as last May, but a similar warm, uniquely Italian summer feel.  Having flown in and out of Milan's three airports these past 10 months more than I'd like to admit given the ensuing hideous carbon footprint, there was a strong sense of deja vu. 

But this was different.  It suddenly hit me that it's over.  Sure, I'll be returning to Italy in May to defend my thesis and graduate.  But school is done.  Some of my classmates are flying home, not to return for graduation.  Others are jetting off to a pizzeria in Naples, a design studio in Florence, a winery in Umbria, free-lance food and travel writing in Berlin, to hug pigs and hairy coos in the Scottish highlands, to work in an organic vegetarian restaurant in Seville.  After months of sardine-like social conditions, we will no longer be privy to everyone's daily moods or share common frustrations over impromptu gourmet potlucks and 4 euro bottles of good Nebbiolo.  It's a little unsettling.

As for me, my jet plane was bound for Bristol in the UK to an unseen flat, an unknown flatmate (albeit a friend of a friend) and an "internship" of undetermined tasks at The Cookery School at Bordeaux Quay.  You never know what will happen when inviting a favourite instructor for dinner, but that meal back in September paid off in spades.

A short verbal tussle with the young customs officer ("no sir, it's more a research project than an internship"), a bus ride through rolling green hills dotted with thatched cottages and a village called "Downside", a rapid cab ride through steep streets lined with brightly-doored row houses, and I was lugging my suitcases up 4 flights of stairs to the top floor flat.




Toasting my new adventure tonight with wine and spicy curry prepared by my new flatmate, Italy already seems like a distant memory.