When the crisp of cobblestone threatens to fossilize my bones and my soul is itching to see moving water, I gather everyone for gelato over the bridge. As an international student, I am somewhere in between tourist and local, and have befriended the hectic streets. Pedestrians force us off the narrow sidewalks (“scusa!”) into the road with beeping taxis and buses whooshing not quite two inches past my feet. Step over questionable puddles—cross the street when you see an opening . . . don’t step on the art lying on the ground (scam!), and don’t take pictures of the street art unless you’re ready to pay. Don’t expect to walk fast—this is not New York—but learn the art of weaving (“preggo!”). Pause on the street corner, steal a glance at the Duomo from an angle you somehow have never seen before. Allow yourself to be serenaded in every piazza you pass; watch the setting sun convert faded yellow buildings to gold. Stroll along the river, inhaling the fresh stench of shopkeepers’ cigarettes, glowing in growing dusk. If you squint hard enough, the glowing ashes almost look like campfires floating in the air. Closing my eyes, I swear I can smell smoke wafting across the ocean from the bonfire pit in Mom and Dad’s backyard.