Three hours after landing in Italy on a grueling overnight flight, I sacrificed a nap in favor of a walk around the city I was to call home. I was so excited to be on solid ground, smiling at every face I passed on a steamy early September afternoon. In return, I got blank stares, up-and-down looks, even a chuckle. I was wearing a three-quarter-sleeve black Madewell romper, the tag ripped off just hours before. They were wearing down jackets.
I’ve long been infatuated with all things Italian—their lyrical language, their vegetarian-friendly (but waistline-dangerous) cuisine, and their genuine hospitality, mostly free of the innate dislike of Americans that so many cultures seem to breed. I started studying Italian during my first semester at Northwestern, preparing myself to assimilate during my inevitable stint abroad. But I had more working against me than my embarrassing Italian pronunciation. My personal style, an unfussy mix of tomboy chic and equestrian prep that I thought was so unique, turned out to be so distinctly American.
But after two years of Italian language classes, months of study abroad applications, and weeks of shopping for my new life abroad (“This shirt would be great for when I visit Paris!”), I wasn’t about to give up so easily. With some new additions to my wardrobe and a few new ideas for mixing and matching, I managed to blend in without sacrificing the style I’d worked so hard to cultivate (or purchasing a new puffer coat).
Lesson one was in layering. My first few weeks in Florence saw 80-degree temperatures and high humidity, but for my Italian host mom and professors, with September came winter. “You’re going to freeze out there,” my host mom would shout as I ran out of the house in a skirt and tank. “How are you wearing sandals?” my professors would ask. Clearly after living in New York and Chicago I had a different perception of “cold” than a life-long Florentine, but luckily there were more ways to fit in than sweating through an unnecessarily heavy coat.
It started by throwing on a light chambray button-down over a white cotton dress. A few degrees colder and I’d add a navy striped scarf. Soon my sandals were swapped out for a new pair of suede desert boots and marled socks pulled up to just above the top. The chambray was replaced by a new black Sisley sweater with an asymmetrical hem—at times as long as the dress, at others as short as my hip. My cotton striped scarf was traded in for a warm infinity one. A wool coat and pair of black tights completed the transformation. Inside, a layer could be stripped off; outside, one added. Plus, I was getting less disapproving glares by little old ladies on the street.
Next came the hard part—ditching my leggings. Luckily I had the foresight to make my choice between leggings and “real pants” a little easier every morning—I only brought three pairs across the pond. On the days where I did venture out in leggings or even sweatpants, I was met with unwanted attention and hostile treatment—the less I reminded them that I was American, the better I was received. Instead, I invested in jeans that were just as easy to wear as my comfiest leggings and twice as cute, with a slightly higher waist, the perfect amount of stretch, and an ankle-skimming length for wear with my new desert boots.
Never being one for bright shades, the monochrome color palette was an easy adjustment. At home I’ll layer an olive green vest over a cream sweater and dark jeans, topping the look off with a pair of brown riding boots. In Europe, even that small variation of color isn’t necessary. A long black sweater over black riding pants with black moto boots isn’t boring but chic. A light chambray button-down is meant to be paired with medium-wash jeans. Top off a monochromatic look with barely-there makeup and a bold, red lip and suddenly you’ll fit right in.
Back home in New York, a new two-tone wool coat hangs in my closet, an easy complement to my favorite outfits. A black romper from London was the perfect New Year’s Eve piece when paired with suede booties and a smoky eye. As I struggled to readjust to six p.m. dinners and frigid temperatures, my new purchases transitioned easily into my wardrobe, bringing with them the comfort, familiarity, and memories of the four life-changing months I spent abroad.