It’s been four days since I stepped onto a plane and put life as I knew it on hold for three months. I did what many college students in search of themselves dream of doing – I picked up my overstuffed bags, said teary goodbyes to my loved ones and hopped onto a German jet to join 14 other students in Florence, Italy.

I can still remember sitting in the Memorial Union Commons during noon rush, taking full advantage of the free refills from Subway and reading about Innocents Abroad, wishing I were in their shoes. And now I’m one of them and the shoes seem to fit almost perfectly, except they may be just a bit uncomfortable.

Some parts of going overseas never occurred to me. The first stirrings of this theory came to me while strolling to the taxi rank. There I came to the conclusion that for a rural Iowan a cab ride in Florence should seriously be considered an Olympic event. Here’s a couple of reasons why:

Training is required months in advance.

Not only are you carrying more weight than you ever thought possible as you struggle to lug three and a half months of essentials to the taxi rank, once there you have to be on the lookout for pickpockets and gypsies. Otherwise you could end up penniless in one of the most amazing cities in the world.

Italy is not a place where you want to fit the stereotype of a poor college student. Now I’ll admit that both the lighter luggage suggestions and warnings of thieves were sound. However, at the time, the thought of not having all eight of my favorite pairs of shoes at my disposal was too much to bear. As was the thought of wearing around a money belt, so that I would have to ask to use to restroom to dig out my money every time I wanted something.

Being aggressive is the only way to advance.

If you don’t grapple for a position up front, you’ll never even get noticed by Florentine cabbies. My group waited ten minutes for our turn for a cab, only to find out there’s no such thing as a turn, or even a line.

In this game, the last man standing is definitely not the winner. He’s the biggest loser because the more aggressive people are already in their cabs and on their way to their destination while he’s still reveling in his backward victory.

As in any universally represented arena, there is the inevitable language barrier.

Choosing this trip was a big decision for me. It was a tad more expensive than ISU tuition (although I wasn’t surprised to hear that may go up again) and the only foreign language training I’ve had was in high school, where my class spent three-fourths of the time choosing and rechoosing names.

But I was assured that Florentines were incredibly versed in the English language. And true to that statement I have only had one instance where it proved false – the taxi driver. After turning down a larger group before us, two of my housemates and I made our way up to him and told him where we wished to go.

After loading two thirds of our luggage he abruptly closed the door and got behind the wheel. We stared helplessly at the rest of the luggage that need to be loaded and decided we must have to fit it in the middle seat. Big mistake. Just as we had lifted an enormous suitcase into the car, our ears were assailed with a slew of curses and random Italian phrases we didn’t understand. It didn’t take long to figure out there was only room for two of us and our luggage.

Concentration is key.

There are few sightseeing opportunities, a shame since your first vision of Florence is a mix of awe, wonder, appreciation of the beauty. Our vision was slightly clouded, however, by the need to hang on for dear life. I grasped whatever I could get a grip on and watched as our cab sped down the narrow streets of Florence, barely missing the compact autos and mopeds (which are called vespas here) that crowd the streets. The only rule to follow when driving is simple – never hesitate, you’ll end up in an accident.

Needless to say, I’ve made it through the first few days remarkably well and the best is yet to come. I am sure there will be times when I feel like a freckle-faced kid in a candy store with a whole jar of coins in my hands.

I also realize there’ll be more times when I’ll feel like that girl in line for the pop machine holding a crisp $1 bill in her hands, only to find out after waiting three minutes that the machine only accepts quarters.

Christy Steffen is a senior in journalism and mass communication from Ruthven.