It’s getting cold in Bologna, and the signs of winter are evident. Chestnut roasters have set up their carts on the street corners, shop windows have changed from flowy dresses to heavy coats, and faces on the street are disappearing beneath layers of scarves and low hats. As a Californian, the blatant changing of seasons is a novelty that sets a tangible atmosphere, and has marked the passing of time more powerfully than any of my calendars. Walking through the Giardini Margherita, where only a while ago I lounged in the shade to hide from the heat, I’m now forced to don gloves and keep at a brisk pace. Have I been here this long?

Going on my third month, I’m still very much at the beginning of my stay, but the coming of winter is a necessary shock to my system to remind me to take full advantage of where I am. As a student, it’s easy to keep your nose in a book and your head in the classroom, hoping only to get from one exam to the next. This goes directly against my traveler’s instinct, which tells me to savor each moment and live life as I can only in this particular country at this particular moment. Is it "Italian" enough to get pizza as a study snack? Drink 100% genuine Italian espresso so that I can stay up half the night reading? Schoolwork is an inherent part of my time here, but the realization that summer changed so quickly to winter is a good reminder that I should be doing more than ogling the inside of a library.

So this weekend, massive upcoming exam notwithstanding, I took the train to Florence (only 50 minutes) and wandered around the city where I had once loved, twice lived. Went by my old daily bar where I was thrilled to find the same two men behind the counter. They greeted me with a boisterous "Ciao Sarah! Sei ritornata! (You’re back!)" I noticed the new shops that had opened, the ones that were absent. I walked by my old apartment and let the memories flood in. I paid my respects to the Duomo which had, even in my most jaded days, served as a reminder that Florence is one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I saw a fascinating photo exhibit commemorating the 40th anniversary of the great flood that doused most of the city’s sacred treasures in mud.

On the train back to Bologna I felt, more than anything, reminded that time passes quickly and inevitably. But if I can keep alert, keep at least part of my mind on the changes as they are changing, then I’m not oblivious to the time that goes by. Now I’ve just got to focus on getting my Californian self through the winter. It’ll be spring before I know it…