I noticed Vittorio, standing with a glass in his hand, watching her from across the room. He had not been missing me! He was jealous, although this was stupid. Then there was another professor and his wife—a professor of art history, we were told, and it was highly recommended that we take his course.

He nodded in agreement. “It is imperative to know the past before one can be free to paint in the present.”

Prosecco was poured and served. I didn’t like the taste of this one as much. It had a harsh metallic overtone. Possibly a cheaper vintage! I found the bad taste lingered in my mouth, and I was glad when we sat down to eat tomato salad. Then came a risotto alle seppie. The dish was an alarming shiny black colour, and we were informed it was made with the ink of the cuttlefish. It was a very traditional local dish. I took a tentative mouthful. It wasn’t bad—salty and fresh-tasting—but suddenly I realized, to my horror, that I was about to vomit. I jumped up from the table, my napkin pressed to my mouth as I rushed for a toilet, where I deposited everything I had eaten so far.

The professor’s wife was standing outside the door, looking concerned.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “There must be something in that dish that doesn’t agree with me. I’ve never eaten it before.”

“Don’t worry, my dear. Maybe it was just the sight of such unfamiliar cuisine. It does look a little off-putting the first time.”

“Perhaps I should just go home,” I said. “Please make my apologies.”

I made a hurried exit. Out in the fresh air, I felt better, but still a little queasy. Back with my landlady I drank some chamomile tea and ate crackers before going to bed. In the morning I felt right as rain. Obviously cuttlefish and I were not going to be the best of friends, I decided. I ate breakfast and went off to my morning classes.

By lunchtime I was feeling almost sick with hunger. My classmates were going to their favourite pasta place on Fondamenta Priuli, a tiny eatery beside a narrow canal, where the prices were good and the portions generous. But I couldn’t seem to stomach the thought of pasta. Instead I opted for the sandwich shop that served the tramezzini and chose my favourites, including tuna with olives. I had taken only a couple of bites when I realized I was going to throw up again. I rushed outside and was sick in the gutter.