It’s funny how quickly you fall in love with a place, it’s rustic characteristics and it’s unusual quirks. I feel as if my heartstrings are completely attached to Perugia, they tug with adoration and loyalty.
I met a girl at the bar last night, who said, “Perugia is the drabbest and ugliest city” she’s ever been to, with the exception of Glasgow and New York. First of all, I was clearly the wrong person to be saying these things to for I love New York and I’m Scottish, most of my family originating from Glasgow. But beyond that, obviously this girl had absolutely no idea what she was taking about, no ground for this argument (weather doesn’t count) and I’m positive New Yorkers, the fine people of Glasgow and the gracious Perugian citizens would all agree.
I feel like it’s a slight against my quaint Perugia and me when I hear harsh words used to describe this sweet little Umbrian hill city. No one talks about my wobbly, cobblestone alleyways, the gloomy and somewhat unpromising clouds that seem to have settled down atop Perugia in winter, with disdain and detest.
It isn’t that I can’t relate to the annoyance at the constant damp weather pattern. Nor am I oblivious to the increasingly frustrating lackadaisical sense of time.
But I know the grocers by their names and vice versa. I can name all of the homeless dogs that wander the streets looking for abandoned scraps of food. I know what delicacies come from Umbria and what do not. I get complimented on my Italian.
When I first arrived here I was incredibly homesick, missing the United States and it’s simplicity—I felt like I had no connection to Perugia, that if I had to pack up all my things and return to Vermont, there would be no reservations. But it seems to me, that I’ve accidentally fallen in love with Perugia. As with many things in life, time and immersion tend to cure all hesitancies. I seem to have fallen head over Prada heels in love with this city.
I love you, Maggie Dodson.
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