I’m from Rome, having arrived in the United States in January as an exchange student for the spring semester. Four months: on paper, a short time. In reality, a small universe. I’m also almost twenty-four years old and a Gemini, which probably explains why, over these four months, I felt simultaneously like a tourist and a resident, a spectator and a protagonist.
This isn’t my first time abroad, nor my first time in the United States. Maybe that’s why I never felt that well-known “new beginning” anxiety. When I opened the door to my dorm room in Lenape A, one of the Townhouses, I didn’t think, “where do I even start?” but rather, “okay, where do I put my stuff?” My parents taught me early on to travel and not to treat differences as obstacles, but as invitations. So that room, which wasn’t my room and definitely wasn’t my bed (the real emotional loss of this experience), quickly became livable.
The first few weeks were freezing. Not just because of the cold, a kind of cold that in Rome only exists in exaggerated stories, but because of the silence. The campus was almost empty, as if someone had pressed pause. It was just me and my boyfriend, he’s here for the same program, but although his presence made everything easier, this story is mainly mine. And at the beginning, it felt like a two-character story set on a stage that was far too big.
Then classes started, and with them, people. Making friends became natural, even if every new introduction came with a small age shock: I was always the oldest. It’s a strange, almost comical feeling. You expect to be the “new one,” not the “veteran.” And yet, in this suspended kind of environment, friendships form quickly and feel incredibly deep, as if time compresses and everything happens more intensely. There were nights spent laughing for no real reason, endless conversations in my dorm kitchen, karaoke nights and board game nights fought until the very end.
Classes, on the other hand, were a return to the past. A past called high school. Weekly assignments, quizzes, exams scattered like landmines throughout the semester and mandatory attendance. Coming from the Italian system, with few exam sessions, one final exam, often oral, I found myself studying every day. Seriously, every day. It was a very real, almost physical kind of effort, but also a test: of discipline, adaptation, and resilience.
I didn’t travel as much as I had hoped. The plan was to explore, to check cities off a list. Reality was more selective. I did manage to go back to New York, though, and this time it was different. At thirteen, you look at it with your head tilted up; at twenty-three, you move through it. You understand the subway, recognize the stops, get lost and then find your way again. You don’t feel like a tourist anymore, you feel temporarily part of the system. It’s a subtle but powerful feeling: belonging, even if just for a moment.
And then there was baseball. One of those experiences that, from the outside, seems like an American cliché, but from the inside feels like a ritual. We went to the stadium as a group, wearing last-minute baseball caps and carrying the enthusiasm of people who don’t fully understand the rules but are determined to cheer anyway.
The field was perfect, geometric, almost unreal. The national anthem before the game, hands on hearts, the noise fading and then rising again, everything felt staged, yes, but incredibly engaging. We ate oversized hot dogs, laughed during the “slow” moments that in baseball are never really empty, and applauded plays we only half understood. And yet, in that moment, we were completely there.
On and off campus, I started to navigate as if I had always been there. I knew where the dorms were, the sororities, the fraternities, the academic buildings. I had my routes, my schedule, even my habits. And then the question came, inevitably: what is home?
Is it where you grew up? Is it where you were born? Or is it any place, any place at all, where you feel comfortable, where you recognize the streets and don’t have to think too hard about where you’re going? For me, home stopped being a fixed point and became a condition. Going back to Italy, at this point, isn’t just “going home.” It’s going back to my family. It’s different.
Being an international student, especially an Italian one, also meant answering some … creative questions. “Do you have dishwashers in Italy?” “What about air conditioning?” “So do you know songs in English, or do you translate them?” “Do you know what chicken tenders are?” And the classic: “What country are you from? Oh, I thought Europe was a country.”
As for cultural adaptation, I can say I did a good job. I changed rhythms, habits and expectations. Food, however, is where I drew a firm line: pasta with “Italian sauces” in the U.S. is a territory I chose not to explore. Everyone has their limits.
My friends, scattered across Paris, Strasbourg, Amiens, Malaga, Barcelona, Tokyo, Shanghai, had similar experiences in different places. And there’s something interesting: none of us spent these months counting down the days to go home. We miss our families, of course. Our friends, yes. Food, especially food. But not enough to wish we were somewhere else.
When people ask me, “Are you happy to go back home?” I never really know how to answer. I’m happy to go back to something, but not to leave this behind.
And then, as if the American social calendar had decided never to leave me completely unprepared, there was also a sorority formal, not mine, but a friend’s, which at that point is basically the same. Getting ready was already part of the experience: a dress bought at the last minute because, obviously, I hadn’t planned for my Italian suitcase to include space for a campus-movie kind of night, and the fairly concrete realization that I didn’t even own a pair of heels.
We took a shuttle to get to the bar, and once inside, the evening unfolded with almost ritual precision. Music, dancing, photos as proof of temporary elegance, and then a moment that struck me more than I expected: the awards given to the sorority sisters. Categories, roles, recognitions, a perfectly organized micro-society celebrating itself with seriousness and a hint of self-irony.
I was watching, clapping, trying to understand the internal dynamics as if they were a system of their own, and at the same time dancing, laughing, taking part. And then, on the way out, they walk back together: some girls holding their heels in their hands, others completely barefoot on the night asphalt, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. It was probably the realest moment of the night, less staged, more spontaneous, that shift from the slightly fake elegance of the formal to walking home together, tired but still wrapped in the same atmosphere.
Maybe that’s the point of an exchange program: not choosing between two lives, but learning how to live more than one. Not becoming someone else, but discovering how many versions of yourself can exist, depending on where you are. And accepting that, in the end, home isn’t a single place, but a map that keeps expanding.
And among all the things I didn’t expect, there’s also the way certain celebrations are experienced: for example, Saint Patrick’s Day on campus becomes almost a collective event, everything tinted green, with music, people dressed up and an energy that pulls you in even if you don’t really know what you’re celebrating.
And maybe that’s the most surprising part: at some point, you stop feeling like you’re “just passing through.” You start to have habits, familiar faces and small points of reference. And what was supposed to be just a temporary experience becomes a real possibility, a version of your life you had never even considered before.
In the end, more than learning how to live in the United States, I learned that I can live almost anywhere. With a few breakdowns, a lot of laughter, new habits, and without ever ordering pasta. And maybe that’s what I’ll carry with me when I go back to Italy: not just the memories, but the awareness that stepping outside your routine, even just for four months, can change the way you see the world, and especially the way you see yourself. And sometimes, that’s enough to make you want to leave again.
