The Long Trip Home: Archives

When stargazed travelers dream of love in Europe, Paris and Venice are the typical settings. Noted for their lovers' lanes and rose-colored lamp lights, Paris and Venice are the key European destinations for honeymooners, and these two cities know it. However, when I visited these places, I found them already claimed and unavailable for the less traditional traveler. Sure, Paris and Venice are romantic. They are the lovebirds' theme parks of Europe. But it was in Florence, a city cascading with art and busy streets, where I felt finally sure that love reigns.

I didn't meet some tall, handsome Italian in Florence. In fact, my boyfriend of almost a year was back home in the United States, busily communicating with me via email--not necessarily the makings of a steamy romance novel. The first time I visited Florence I went for a weekend excursion with my study abroad group. The city was vibrant in early February, and throughout the street scores of students and workers and tourists mingled and then departed. Florence thrives on beauty, yet I didn't go there to fall in love. But to hold onto your heart too tightly in Florence is to lose out on the obvious love affair--an affair with the city.

The first night in Florence we were walking back to our hotel after dinner, and we all stopped on one of the bridges crossing the Arno river. The river looked so large beneath us, flowing with years and years of life. We were inspired. All at once, three of my friends and I had the idea of a message in a bottle. "We could all put messages in it," we told each other, "and put it in the Arno River." We all had someone we were in love with—mine was my boyfriend back home. My friends, Erin, Cassie, and Corrie, all had their loves too—and to write about them here in Florence seemed so magical. The idea was that maybe this bottle would take our messages close to our loved ones. We estimated that the river might move the bottle to the gulf of Mexico, and that was at least near our home! It wasn't just about someone getting the messages, though. It was a chance to take all of the things in our hearts, write them down, and place them somewhere certain.

The next night, after a day of museums and strolling through the city, the four of us went out to dinner at a nice Pizzeria right beside the Arno river. It was called "Dante," and it was bright and bustling with people on this clear Saturday night. We ordered pizzas and made sure to buy a bottle of wine that we could put the messages inside. We had pens and paper to write on; Erin had bought some of the famous Florentine marbled paper and shared it with us. So after a good dinner of salads, pizzas, and, of course, wine, we set out to write our letters.

I remember this night as if it were something I could pick up, polish, and hold onto. I have an entry in my journal that demands I remember precisely the events that occurred because they are the details of an event that will only happen once. I have the date memorized, and I always will, that Saturday evening, February 6th. I can clearly remember sitting in that loud pizzeria, leaning over my sheet of paper, and writing in my best cursive as I poured out my words of great love into that bottle. We all wrote like this--quiet, personal notes to our loves, stamping our hearts into a bottle and sealing it.

After we paid for our dinner, we hurried out of the restaurant. Erin held the bottle, and each of us grasped our individual messages excitedly. Since we were already right beside the Arno River, we found one of the smaller, quieter bridges that was not crowded with late night strollers. There we began to put our messages in the bottle. Each of us rolled our letters thinly, and we carefully slid them inside the sturdy green glass. After we had placed our messages inside, each of us blew into the bottle for good luck, like making a wish when blowing out candles on a birthday cake.

We tossed the bottle into the river. We watched it splash into the water below us and begin meandering lazily down the Arno. It was dark, and following the glint of the bottle in the light was hard, but we were silent as we watched it begin its journey. Four messages to different people placed in one bottle, headed toward home. This was significant, we knew, and I will never forget it.

We stood there for quite a while, just watching, wondering about the bottle's future, and our own. It took us some time before we were finally ready to leave, to take our eyes off the bottle and head back to our hotel rooms for the night. Cassie moved away from the bridge's wall first, looking up at me and smiling. Corrie followed, then Erin and me. We stayed quiet on the walk back, slowly making our way through Florence's darkened streets by memory, not needing to pull out a map or consult each other about the way. Puddles from an earlier rain now glistened underneath the lamplights lining the streets. The night was clean and young, and mine.

A year later, I hear about messages in bottles on the news, people finding them on sea shores while fishing or uncovering them while searching for shells on a touristy beach, and I wonder about ours. No matter where it is—at the bottom of the Arno or on its way to shore in Florida—I know that I will always hold fond memories of that bottle of wine and its contents. I will always be in love with Florence.