The morning light filtered through my curtains, casting a pale glow over the stacks of books and half-empty coffee mugs that perpetually cluttered my desk. I rolled out of bed, pulled on a jumper against the lingering chill—Frankfurt mornings always carried that crisp, river-damp air, even in summer—and padded into the kitchen. Breakfast was simple: a sandwich with Brühwurst and a slice of Handkäse, the local cheese that smelled faintly of gym socks but tasted oddly comforting.
I ate while scrolling through my phone, half-reading headlines about yet another Deutsche Bahn delay. Outside, the trams rattled past on Berliner Straße, their bells clanging as they navigated the tracks embedded in the cobblestones. The street was already alive—bikes weaving between pedestrians, delivery vans double-parked outside bakeries, the occasional businessman in a too-tight suit power-walking toward the Hauptwache.
By mid-morning, the sun had mustered enough strength to burn through the haze, so I pulled on my shoes and stepped out. Berliner Straße was its usual chaotic self—a tangle of commuters, students, and harried mothers pushing prams. The street was a study in contrasts: ornate Wilhelmine buildings with intricate stucco work stood shoulder-to-shoulder with sleek glass facades housing investment firms. A group of teenagers loitered outside the kebab shop, their laughter cutting through the monotonous hum of traffic.
Back home, I wasted an hour on Roblox, building something that vaguely resembled the Frankfurt skyline (if the skyline were made of pixelated bricks and kept collapsing). Then, my brain, ever restless, soon nudged me toward something more substantial—my notes on the history of the Italian language. My Russian university program had drilled into me that a language isn’t just grammar and vocabulary; it’s a living thing, shaped by wars, trade, and centuries of people mumbling in market squares.I scribbled down a few lines about how Latin - that stiff, proper tongue of senators and scholars - gradually melted into regional dialects like gelato left in the Roman sun. First came the Germanic Lombards, barging into northern Italy with their guttural "ach" sounds and leaving linguistic souvenirs like "albergo" (from "heriberga") for inns and "guadagnare" (from "wadjanjan") for earning wages - practical words for practical people.
Then the French swanned in during the Middle Ages, dripping with courtly affectation. They gifted Italians "sciarpa" (from "écharpe") for scarves, "gonna" (from "goune") for skirts, and "bottiglia" (from "bouteille") for bottles - all terribly fancy until Italians started waving their hands and shouting them at double speed.
Just when Italian thought it was done with foreign meddling, English crashed the party like a stag weekend in Florence. Business terms like "marketing" and "briefing" elbowed their way in, while tech words like "cliccare" (to click) and "taggare" (to tag) set up shop. The crowning insult? Italians now say "il weekend" while rolling their eyes at their own linguistic surrender.
Yet somehow, through all these invasions and fads, Italian remains as musical as ever.
By late afternoon, the city’s soundtrack shifted. The birds in the Stadtwald were in full swing, and I wandered back out, this time toward the Main. The riverbank was dotted with people—joggers, couples sharing beers, a few brave souls. The ducks here were fat and spoiled, used to being fed leftover Brötchen by soft-hearted office workers. One eyed me with disdain.
Supper was a humble affair—a bowl of tomato soup, slightly too hot, with a hunk of brown bread to mop up the last dregs. Then, because the evening needed a dose of absurdity, I queued up Doom: The Dark Ages, or rather, someone’s fan-edit of the gameplay into a proper film. I don’t usually bother with playthroughs, but this one had a proper narrative, booming sound design, and enough demon-slaying to make a medieval bishop faint. As pixelated hell knights exploded on screen, I grinned. Not bad for a Tuesday.
