How did I eat so much on Erasmus?!

Everyone knows that going on Erasmus means you will put on weight. I didn't know that.

Not everyone sees this physical milestone as a problem. In my case it was a real drama. But let's start at the beginning.

September 2012: I leave for Erasmus in France. In my total ignorance I pack skimpy dresses, size 38 skinny jeans, tight-fitting tops and I don't ever consider the possibility that my body could change over the next ten months. Not even for a moment! My Erasmus starts rather dramatically with me trying to mend a broken heart, living alongside cultures who don't even know the meaning of 'financial crisis', people speaking enviable English with plenty of money and new furniture for their new bedroom abroad, who left their own country ready to criticise their new host country. All the while, I, an Italian coming from the heart of unemployment, leaving behind a tragic love story and an infinite desire to forget (especially to forget English so I can dedicate myself to French) drown my sorrows in Nutella with squirty cream for breakfast AND lunch. Any guesses as to my dinner for all of September? Pizza, Coca Cola and ice cream, the latter bought for me by my admirer (who is currently ignorant of the fact that my heart belongs to someone else, and will remain that way for the next ten months). In very little time I begin to widen, my tummy grows while I blend in with the locals, eating brioche every hour of the day, drinking chocolate, sandwiches with myriad fillings... I am trying to drown myself in buttery, fatty, greasy badness.

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My admirer, who has been sharing my bed over the previous months, starts asking awkward questions about why I don't want to enter into a proper relationship with him. In the eyes of some he may be quite the catch; the son of rich parents and a rich country and full of ideas - but the fact remains that I am pining for an unemployed poor man a thousand miles away and who doesn't even know that I'm in love with him. In the meantime, my circle of acquaintances is slowly growing and I start going out with friends from my French course, all of them on Erasmus. The only flaw: my new friends know how to cook. And so begins the infernal cycle of tasting foreign food. Everyone cooks, everyone wants to offer a homecooked dish representative of their country. How can I refuse to celebrate birthdays, name days and exams passed with my friends?

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Soon Erasmus reveals itself as a one-way street with no way out for my physique. By now, tested by the first few months away and by my unrequited love who stays in Italy determinedly ignoring me, my body begins to rebel. It wants to fit into the clothes I bought for it in Italy, but it is no longer possible! The jeans don't even get past my thighs, the tops seem like they are stretched over a four-month-pregnant belly. I am no longer an skinny little anchovy like I used to be... My mind invents excuses - it's the tumble drier's fault that my jeans have shrunk, it must be the water’s fault that my tops are deformed...

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All of this is just an excuse to hide the truth; my body has changed, I am changing. I am trying to get used to it, to offload the weight I have been carrying with me from Italy. I want to be someone else.

I keep eating, and I go out to restaurants more and more frequently. Sushi becomes my brother, ethnic restaurants jump out at me, I try dishes from Russia and India and after I've eaten, what else is there to do but have tea and biscuits? Afterwards, I sit up chatting with friends until three in the morning, talking about who we like or don't like, who wants to be there and who doesn't, who blackmails us from afar. And still we eat; Arabic food, eastern European dishes. The only country not represented is Italy because I can't cook.

I start to acquire a new wardrobe. My black leggings are becoming my second skin and are the only way to avoid confronting the painful truth about my changing size. I combine them with comfortable, baggy jerseys to hide my expanding stomach and exploding chest.

I finally gather my courage and stand in front of the mirror. As I look at myself I understand that being with someone who I don't care for in order to try and forget someone else isn't the solution for me. I break up with my foreign companion, conscious that I am still in love with another who doesn't love me.

Winter passes in a blur of snow, snow, wind, snow and rain and in March it's still snowing. My culinary knowledge is now first class and I know all the possible flavours of tea, unimaginable in a southern European country where people certainly don't live with a teacup in their hands at all hours of the day and night. I should put myself on a diet before going back to Italy in June; it's my only hope. But the concept of home seems so far away, and now that my stomach is used to being fed so often, it becomes more and more unfeasible - no, impossible - to start the dreaded diet.

I finally return to Italy, full as a hot air balloon after ten months solid eating, curing myself lovingly with friends, food, travel, study and many, many tears. I face my fears and walk into a shop to buy a pair of shorts for the summer. The assistant looks at me and says calmly, obviously: "Size 42?"

Yes, you read that right! Size 42! I couldn't believe it, but it was true. It took many months, lots of exercise, a big change in my habits and diet to finally return to a size 38. I am there now, but I can say that it was painful. All of it. To forget the person I loved, to change my body, to eat everything in sight and then to put myself on a strict diet, to get used to living in a country that ignored feelings and which saw me as an immigrant who should be left in the corner with her excessive emotions - far too excessive for northern Europe. To put on weight is easy. To lose weight is a whole other story.

What did I win? Knowledge. I passed my exams. I moved house (and country). Strength from endlessly defending the indefensible nature of the political situation in Italy. The understanding of how much I actually have in my own country, despite the difficult things. I tested myself. And last but not least, I left my unrequited love in France; it was only when I returned to Italy that I truly understood. Things have run their course. It is all in the past. I have changed.

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Conclusion: Living abroad isn't always easy. Italians are no longer seen as an example; we are now Europe's joke. Get ready to defend yourself, prepare for a thousand questions. Be aware of the situation you are leaving behind in your country. And be ready to change. Erasmus will put you to the test; physically and emotionally. Don't underestimate it!

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