@Carnevale di Venezia - A fitting way to begin a year of becoming
When I moved to Italy to do this master, I kind of had a plan.
Not a manifesto. Just a plan.
The job I wanted after.
The life I thought I was working toward.
Something I could explain without having to overthink it.
According to what I knew at the time, it seemed like a good plan.
Then two years passed.
They passed in the messy way things usually do when you’re actually involved in them. With excitement and doubt, with exhaustion and pride, with moments where everything felt aligned and others where I wondered what I was even doing.
This education taught me a lot. Not just technical things. It taught me how much uncertainty I can tolerate without panicking. How often I can start over without losing trust in myself. How many times I can feel broken-hearted, confused, or behind — and still keep moving.
It did prepare me. That’s true.
But I’ve been thinking lately that it was also preparing me for something else, quietly, in the background. Something I didn’t have words for when I started.
My universe opened in pieces. I fell more than once. I got back up more than once. I rebuilt myself in versions that didn’t look like the previous ones. I learned new ways of loving, of leaving, of staying longer than what feels comfortable.
Somewhere in there, I didn’t just become more capable.
I became freer.
And yes, I’m grateful to the Politecnico. And I’m grateful to Italy.
Italy doesn’t let you stay detached. It asks you to participate. It overwhelms you with beauty, noise, history, contradiction. It throws things at you until you learn you can carry more than you thought.
Looking back, I can see that the plans I had when I arrived were small. Not wrong — just small. Built from what I knew then.
Living in Italy still feels unreal sometimes. Not in a fairytale way, but in a how is this my actual life way. The coffee that forces you to slow down. The way meals are taken seriously. The way beauty is everywhere and no one explains it or apologizes for it.
And then there’s Venice.
I woke up in Venice.
Yes, it’s a cliché.
But clichés usually earn their reputation.
Before that, there was a morning in Milan where I couldn’t write at all. My head was full, my hands useless. I wasn’t blocked — I was overloaded. And the longer I didn’t write, the more annoyed I became with myself.
That morning, still in bed, before coffee, before logic kicked in, I saw that the masked Carnival was coming to Venice.
I bought the ticket immediately.
Two weeks later — now — I left Milan at six in the morning.
The train left at 6 a.m., and I was half asleep, wrapped in my coat, watching the darkness change through the window. There’s something honest about traveling that early. No performance. Just movement.
In Verona, I changed trains and caught the sunrise. The light came in slowly, quietly. It didn’t feel spectacular — it felt right.
The next train was louder. People talking, smiling, already energized. Everyone was heading to Venice. Carnival was being said out loud, passed between strangers. You could feel it before you could see it.
A couple of hours later, we arrived.
The night before, I’d had a fever and almost didn’t go. But the second I stepped out at Santa Lucia, something shifted. I felt awake in my body. Excited in that very physical way that doesn’t need a reason.
I dropped my luggage and went straight back out.
Venice immediately pulls you in. You get lost, you follow people, you turn left and right and somehow end up where everyone else is going. Masks started appearing everywhere — elaborate ones, simple ones, some barely covering anything at all.
Eventually, we reached the Grand Canal.
There were so many people. Much more than I expected. Pressed together, waiting. At first I couldn’t see much — just movement, sound, bodies leaning forward. But I could feel it starting. The crowd changed before the event began. People became louder, more alert, more alive.
Then someone shifted. I stepped forward. And suddenly I could see.
The main boat stopped right in front of us. The countdown started. And when the confetti exploded, the Carnival officially began.
I was filming and crying at the same time. Not in a dramatic way — just overwhelmed. I felt happy, relieved, strangely grounded. I was there. In Venice. At the masked Carnival. Living this life. And I felt proud.
The masks made sense to me in that moment.
Not as hiding — but as permission.
As trying things on.
As letting yourself be someone else for a moment.
As realizing how many versions of yourself you’ve already worn — especially over the last two years.
This year feels like a transition year. And standing there, surrounded by masks, I understood something very clearly: changing masks isn’t failure. It’s movement. It can be liberating.
After that, I sat down for lunch.
Ravioli.
An Aperol.
The sun reflecting on the water behind the table.
And I realized how rare it is to sit somewhere without thinking about what comes next.
Sono a Venezia.
Ho appena finito il mio pranzo con ravioli e ora sto bevendo un Aperol su una terrazza sul Canal Grande.
Guarda.
Non avrei mai pensato di essere così fortunata da vivere in Italia.
Italia.
Un regalo degli dei.
Dai — scrivo in italiano, ormai.
Questa città è incredibile.
Il sole, l’Aperol, il carnevale — tutto insieme.
Sono innamorata di te, Italia. Sempre.
In the evening, everything slowed down.
I went back to the hotel for a nap. I left the window open on purpose so I could fall asleep hearing people outside — voices, laughter, footsteps. I wanted the city to stay present even while I rested.
I fell asleep instantly.
Later, I got ready for dinner. Slowly. No rush.
Dinner was seppia al nero con polenta. Dark, intense, very Venetian. One of those meals that makes you stop talking for a second.
After that, there was an event about masks and double identity. Which, honestly, felt perfectly timed.
And then — one last unexpected moment.
A spontaneous meeting. Wine. One glass, then another. She sat across from me, looking at me with that kind of attention that feels intentional. Warm. Curious. Easy.
She smiled while I talked — not politely, but because she wanted to listen. The conversation flowed naturally: art, culture, stories, small observations that somehow mattered. We leaned in without noticing. Time felt less structured.
At some point, our knees touched under the table. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to notice. Just enough to stay aware.
When she casually referred to me as a writer, something in me softened. It felt natural, like it had always been there.
I remember smiling the entire time and thinking, very clearly:
this is my life.
Not something I’m working toward.
Not a preview.
This.
Before going to sleep, I wrote a note in my notebook that still doesn’t fully make sense:
“I don’t worry so much about towels.”
Venice — wine — masks
I think we had been talking about traveling. About moving lightly. About how some things really don’t matter as much as we pretend they do. Towels, for example. It felt like a small sentence trying to hold a playful conversation, a shared laugh, a way of saying: I’m not worried. About logistics. About perfection. About having it all figured out.
I fell asleep later than planned, my mind still warm from the night, already thinking about the morning.
The next day, I knew.
I’ll come back.
Again and again.
To taste you more, Venice.
Some places—and some moments—don’t ask to be understood. They ask to be returned to, gently. With curiosity. With openness.
This year feels like a year of transition. A year of shifting identities. Of realizing how many masks I’ve worn to survive, to belong, to become—and how not all of them need to be put down. Some deserve to be celebrated.
And right now, the thing I feel most grateful for is this:
Waking up on a Monday morning in Venice.
Drinking coffee slowly.
Letting my mind wander without guilt.
Daydreaming, freely.
Not arriving anywhere.
Not finishing anything.
Just living.
Maybe that’s what Carnival is really about.
Not hiding—but allowing.
Not choosing one version of yourself—but embracing all of them.
Wearing your masks with pride.
Letting yourself change.
And finally saying yes.
Let the Carnival begin.
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