Emanuele Restivo
Chapter 1 – The scholarship
The classroom glowed with that golden autumn light, suspended in a hush only broken by pencils scratching at mathematics worksheets. I was up at the blackboard—nervous, focused, trying to solve a function that seemed determined to resist my efforts—when a knock sounded. Three measured raps that made every head turn in unison.
Everyone glanced toward the old oak door, where my English teacher’s silhouette appeared, her posture hinting at news too urgent to wait for the lesson’s end. There was something different in the way she stood—shoulders squared, chin lifted slightly, like someone carrying momentous news.
“Emanuele,” she called, voice steady yet bright with barely contained excitement, “please come with me.”
My classmates’ stares followed me into the corridor, their curiosity palpable as whispers began before the door even closed behind us. The hallway smelled of floor polish and something more intangible—hope, nerves, the particular scent of institutional learning mixed with teenage dreams waiting to unfold.
She turned to face me, her eyes burning with that peculiar mix of pride and excitement that teachers reserve for their most treasured moments. “Your academic transcripts,” she began, then paused, as if savoring the weight of what came next. “They’re the highest in the entire institute, Emanuele. Every subject, every year—exceptional.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. I’d worked relentlessly, yes, but hearing it confirmed felt surreal—like watching someone else’s life unfold in front of me.
“Because of these results,” she continued, her voice gaining momentum, “you’ve been selected as our school’s candidate for something extraordinary. The Monte San Martino Trust is offering a scholarship—four weeks in Britain to transform your English. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you’ve earned it.”
The words seemed to echo off the tiled walls. Britain—a name that felt as distant and dazzling as the legends my grandparents shared around the Christmas table. I’d heard whispers of this trust before, but only in fragments, like pieces of a puzzle I’d never thought to assemble.
“What exactly is this trust?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Research it,” she smiled knowingly. “Discover what connects you to this opportunity. It’s more than just academic excellence—there’s history here, Emanuele. Your history.”
That evening, hunched over my computer in the kitchen while my mother prepared dinner, I dove into research that would reshape my understanding of the world. The Monte San Martino Trust’s website unveiled stories that seemed lifted from heroic fiction: Italian families who had risked everything during World War II to shelter Allied prisoners of war who’d escaped German camps.
I read about mountain villages not unlike my own Opi—places where strangers became family over shared bread and whispered prayers. Families who hid British, American, and Commonwealth soldiers in barns, attics, root cellars, knowing discovery meant death. The gratitude of those saved soldiers had transcended generations, and their descendants are now funding scholarships for young Italians like me.
My hands trembled as I scrolled through testimonials, photographs of weathered faces both Italian and British, stories of courage that bridged decades. Somewhere in these mountains, perhaps in valleys I’d hiked as a child, my own ancestors might have shared bread with frightened young soldiers far from home. The connection felt both mystical and inevitable—as if those long-ago acts of kindness were reaching forward through time to lift me toward possibilities I’d never dared imagine.
“London or Oxford,” my teacher had mentioned casually the next morning. “You can choose your destination.”
London beckoned with metropolitan energy and endless opportunities, but something about that choice felt wrong—too vast, too overwhelming for someone whose entire world had been measured in village squares and mountain paths.
When I discovered Oxford everything clicked into place. Here was a city that felt manageable yet magnificent—dreaming spires rising from cobblestones that had witnessed centuries of scholars, a place where history and new ideas danced together in perfect harmony. The photographs showed honey-colored colleges floating like benevolent fortresses along medieval streets, libraries that promised to cradle my love for learning and help it finally take root.
This is where I belong, I thought, staring at images of students cycling past ancient walls, their faces bright with the particular joy of discovery. Oxford offered everything London promised but wrapped in the intimate scale that wouldn’t swallow a mountain boy whole. Here was a place where transformation could happen gently, naturally—where I could grow without losing the essence of who I was.
The decision crystallized with startling clarity. Oxford wasn’t just a destination—it was a calling, a perfect marriage of ambition and belonging that would honor both the scared boy from Opi and the scholar he was meant to become. This is impossible, I still remember thinking as I filled out the application forms. This happens to other people, not to farm boys like me. But the Monte San Martino Trust had already proven that impossible connections span generations, that courage and kindness create ripples that reach across decades to touch lives in ways their original heroes could never have imagined.
Chapter 2 – Getting to Oxford and my student experience
The decision to choose Oxford over London marked the beginning of a transformation, but reality soon tempered the glow of opportunity.
Getting ready was the first reality check. The scholarship, generous in spirit and purpose, didn’t cover the full cost of ambition—flights, lunches, train tickets were my own burden to bear. I took a job in the kitchen of a nearby hotel, hands wrung raw by endless stacks of dishes, earning a humble four euros an hour. The work was plain and unforgiving, the kitchen ablaze in fluorescent glare, steam billowing around my face and arms, but every coin pocketed was another brick laid on the path to something bigger. Sacrifice now, transformation later: these words became the rhythm of those humid evenings, their promise echoing through the clatter of plates.
Weeks sped by, and soon I stood inside Rome’s airport, suitcase by my side, heart pounding with the persistent beat of excitement and nerves. My mind hummed with wonder—England was a name that promised the unknown. Who would I become there? What doors might open that were still invisible to me here at home? I let the questions spiral, barely registering the announcements that flickered overhead in English and Italian.
Arriving at Gatwick, I fumbled my way through the first lesson the Trust never taught: English isn’t just words, but places, lives, surprises. Directions from the Monte San Martino Trust had landed in my inbox, promising a journey toward “Reading”—only my tired brain kept seeking a verb, not a town, and that small confusion told me how much of the world I yet had to learn. It made me smile, eventually, at the beautiful uncertainty of a life lived in translation.
The bus from Oxford to Wheatley painted my senses in new colors. Double-decker buses zipped past the limestone buildings, gothic spires clawed at a sky streaked with clouds, and rainbow windows lit up storefronts with promises of hidden worlds. The sound of wheels on pavement, calls of laughter from passing students, even the gentle hum of British life—it settled over me like a dream I’d finally stepped into. Everything was new, but somehow familiar, as if the world had bent to fit the contours of my hope.
Then came another trial: my suitcase battling Wheatley’s ancient cobblestones, the wheels shrieking in protest, sweat stinging my brow as each stubborn step stretched the short journey into an odyssey. Two kilometers—has anything ever felt so endless? No tourist brochure could have prepared me for the brutal physics of dragging thirty kilograms of my life across surfaces designed for horses, not modern luggage. Clunk-scrape-clunk. My wheels surrendered after the first hundred meters, grinding to stubborn stops every few steps. The sound ricocheted off narrow lane walls, announcing my arrival with all the subtlety of a medieval siege engine. Sweat beaded on my forehead despite early June’s chill, my palms growing slippery against the plastic handle. These cobblestones that tortured my luggage had witnessed centuries of arrivals and departures, dreams carried on determined shoulders just like mine.
By the time I reached my host family’s little cottage, muscles aching and shirt damp, I knew I’d earned something no taxi or train ticket could buy: resilience, the kind that sinks roots deep enough to weather any storm. In the exhaustion, clarity bloomed—I was ready, however I must adapt.
The first day at the Centre of English Studies remains vivid in my memory. I turned the handle, pushed the heavy blue door with golden inserts, and stepped into the hall with its azure carpet. The CES logo stood proudly on the wall. An open door beckoned to my left—the main office.
Three faces greeted me with solar warmth: Peter Williams, Jules Beresford-Green, and Mihai Leca. The principal, accommodation manager, and social activity manager radiated such genuine joy that I felt immediately welcomed. Their expressions lit up even brighter when they learned I was sponsored by the Monte San Martino Trust—they held their scholarship recipients in the highest regard.
My English was decent, but my pronunciation remained thickly Italian, my intonation scattered. Hearing about the Monte San Martino Trust brought another round of smiles, and for a moment, I felt the weight of my Italian rhythms and accent lighten. Little smirks and gentle laughter followed my attempts, but never cruel—always encouraging. Here, I realized, I could let go and grow.
With that atmosphere around me, it was really easy to hurl myself into every activity—Perhaps Mihai grew weary of me—I was often the sole participant, forcing him to leave his office to conduct activities for an audience of one. But something magical happened during those early days. Day by day, I grew more confident in my English-speaking identity, engaging in meaningful conversations with fascinating students from every corner of the world.
I threw myself into every social activity the school offered. Cross-cultural understanding unfolded before me like a blossoming flower revealing lifetime treasures. I joined people, and people joined me. The transformation startled me—I arrived still carrying the weight of uncertainty, but at CES, that weight began to shift. Surrounded by new friends and endless conversations, I shed the shy village boy persona. Here, I wasn’t invisible—I belonged. And slowly, that feeling grew from fragile acceptance into something like home.
The school made me feel accepted, then loved. I was free to be myself without second-guessing every word, knowing my actions came from genuine affection and a hunger for connection across borders. Here, I began understanding the true power of English—what I would later make my mission to share with others.
The CES classroom buzzed with morning energy, a dozen desks arranged in a horseshoe facing our IELTS instructor. I found myself between Ahmed from Oman and Turki from Saudi Arabia—uniformed air force officers whose presence commanded natural respect. Their English was functional but deliberate, each word chosen with military precision.
“Today we practise speaking” Mr. Kimber announced, distributing conversation cards. “Discuss your hometown with your partner.”
Ahmed turned to me, dark eyes curious. “You are from Italy, yes? Tell me about your city.”
“Opi,” I said, catching his confusion. “Very small—maybe three hundred people. In the National Park of Abruzzo, lots of mountains, with snow in winter.”
“Ah, mountains!” Hassan leaned in, face brightening. “In Oman, we have mountains too. Jebel Akhdar—the Green Mountain. Very beautiful, very peaceful.”
Something clicked. Despite different languages, uniforms, and continents, we shared the mountain dweller’s understanding of space and silence, of communities where everyone knows your story.
“Do you miss the quiet?” I asked, gesturing toward Oxford’s busy streets beyond the window.
Ahmed’s laugh carried surprising warmth. “Every day, my friend. In Muscat, I wake to call to prayer. Here, in Headington, I wake to traffic and construction.”
Over the following weeks, our morning conversations became cultural exchange sessions. They taught me Arabic phrases while I helped with English pronunciation. When Ahmed struggled with ‘th’ sounds, I’d place my hand on my throat, demonstrating the vibration. When Hassan couldn’t grasp past perfect tense, I’d act out scenarios with exaggerated gestures that made the entire class laugh. Their generosity revealed itself in countless small kindnesses. Ahmed shared dates from home during breaks. Hassan insisted on buying coffee for our study group, waving away protests with regal dismissal: “You are guest in our classroom family.”
On their final day, they presented me with a gift that brought tears to my eyes—a small perfume bottle wrapped in cloth, scented with frankincense and foreign adventures.
“This is for you, brother,” Mohammed said, his English suddenly formal with emotion. “So you remember us! And please come visit us in Oman!”
Chapter 3 – Dalle Stalle Alle Stelle (from barns to stars)
By week three, my £250 had dwindled to alarming thinness. Each morning brought the ritual of counting crumpled notes, calculating meals against remaining days. The scholarship covered accommodation, breakfast and dinner but I was left hungry by the afternoon.
Oxford’s streets became a maze of rejection. I clutched my hastily printed CV—twenty copies on paper that felt too thin, too desperate—and visited every shop, café, and office that might employ a temporary Italian student. The responses blurred together: sympathetic smiles followed by gentle dismissals.
“We’d love to help, but without proper work authorization…”
“Brexit has made things complicated…”
Even my newfound confidence frayed at the seams.
In the end, I returned to Mihai at CES, confidence worn thin, hope barely visible. “I need work…” I said, half ashamed—a mountain boy grown accustomed to asking nothing but giving what he could. He didn’t hesitate. “I mean, we need to clean up the school’s garden… Will it help?” Relief flooded through me like warm water. “Yes. Absolutely yes.”
That afternoon, pulling weeds in the school’s back garden, dirt under my fingernails and sweat on my brow, I felt more hopeful than I had in weeks. Sometimes salvation comes not through grand gestures but through willingness to start wherever opportunity appears.
But the universe had grander plans. My engagement in classes, enthusiasm for activities, and genuine care for fellow students hadn’t gone unnoticed. Within days, Mihai approached me with an offer that would transform my entire experience: to become a social activity leader.
The role felt like discovering I had wings. Every morning, I’d step into Oxford’s ancient heart, leading international students through guided tours of colleges and museums, organizing sports in university parks, coordinating movie nights and restaurant outings. What others might call work felt like living inside pure joy. I was being paid to explore Oxford with fascinating people from every corner of the globe.
More than entertainment, though, I became a bridge-builder. I recognized the insecurities flickering in shy students’ eyes—the same fears that had once paralyzed me. During our first week together, I’d watch nervous teenagers hover at the edges of group activities, homesickness and language barriers creating invisible walls around their hearts.
“Come dance with us!” I’d call out during our weekly disco parties, extending my hand to the most reluctant wallflowers. “Nobody’s watching your feet—we’re watching your courage!”
Week by week, I watched transformations unfold. The quiet Turkish girl who’d barely whispered her name would be leading conversations by week three. The shy Chinese boy who’d refused to join group activities would become the life of our punting expeditions down the Thames. My energy amplified theirs because it came from genuine love—for the job, for these brave young people, for the second chance I’d been given.
Gratitude was the fuel for every step. CES noticed, and Peter extended the opportunity—“Come back next summer. You have done incredibly and we would love to have you back. Here you will always have a home.” Only three months after that sweaty arrival with a battered suitcase, I belonged. Not just to a school, but to a family. A community. A new home.
And in that belonging, the profound connection between my history and my future revealed itself—proof that courage lasts longer than fear, that kindness outlives loneliness, and that every journey, no matter how uncertain, is illuminated by the bridges we choose to build along the way.
Chapter 4 – Moving first steps into teaching: The Celta
Recognition didn’t swell in a celebratory moment—it grew, quietly, through weeks of homecoming in Castel di Sangro. The rhythms of my mountain village, so familiar I used to slip through them unnoticed, began to chafe against a new restlessness: a hunger planted by my months with CES, by laughter in Wheatley’s gardens, by the warm friction of difference and challenge.
Winter nights found me staring out at the snow-muffled rooftops, the hush broken only by the clatter of my brothers returning from the barn. There was comfort in those routines—but also, the unmistakable itch to stretch beyond them.
I remembered one afternoon when I found myself in Peter Williams’s office, fidgeting with my backpack, seeking for his guidance once again on how I could find out whom I’d have been next. Peter Williams’s office had become my confessional towards the end of the summer. Behind his desk, surrounded by certificates and photographs of decades of international students, he listened as I poured out dreams that felt simultaneously audacious and inevitable.
“I want to become a real teacher, Peter,” I blurted, voice low but urgent. “Not just activities or garden tours—I want to know this work from the ground up.”
He regarded me with the soft wisdom of mentors, sunlight glancing off his reading glasses. “Take the CELTA,” he said. “You’re ready for more than games—you’re ready to lead lessons, to shape minds. But it’s not easy, Emanuele. Four weeks that will stretch you, maybe break you. It will remake who you think you are. And even if you don’t end up teaching, it will open your perspective on many things…”
He was right. St. Clare’s Oxford, once just a dot on my English class maps, became the crucible of my ambition. Seven-hour input days, burning the midnight oil planning lessons by the moon’s light, trainers whose feedback could leave you feeling alternately invincible and completely exposed.
I still relive the burning embarrassment of my third-week fiasco: standing in front of practice students as a lesson unraveled quicker than a loose thread. Instructions muddled, objectives blurred—I watched confusion ripple across those faces, my confidence fracturing. The feedback afterward was merciless, delivered in the polite but surgical way Oxford trainers preferred: “Your instructions were unclear.” “You lost the thread.” “You failed to check the students’ understanding.”
That night, I wandered Oxford’s cobbled streets, a solitary figure against the hush of ancient facades. I thought about my village—about winter milking, about feeling small, and how disappointment had always felt inescapable. Am I deluding myself? I wondered. Is this dream too big for a hilltop boy like me?
At sunrise, Lizzie from Oxford found me in the common room, crammed behind a fortress of coffee cups and lesson plans. She unfurled herself next to me, her voice a sharp tether to reality.
“You know your problem?” She grinned, not unkindly. “You’re trying to be someone else. Students loved Emanuele—the real you. Please, don’t lose him chasing after someone’s idea of perfection.”
Her words sank deep. The next lesson, something shifted. My nerves—always latent, always humming—didn’t vanish but they became part of the rhythm. Jokes landed, hands shot up, laughter filled the gaps where anxiety once lived. Natural, purposeful, joyful. When the final grades arrived, and that ‘A’ stood bright on the page, it felt less like a trophy and more like a door opening onto the person I was always meant to become.
Chapter 5 – Coming back as a teacher
Yet, as one door opened, a new set of challenges quietly awaited. Success, I learned, often breeds fresh anxieties. Returning to Oxford in summer 2025 as an actual teacher felt like stepping onto a stage where everyone expected performances I wasn’t certain I could deliver. My colleagues possessed decades of experience—weathered professionals navigating any classroom crisis with elegant efficiency. What was I but an overeager newbie with theoretical knowledge and mountain-village enthusiasm?
The first morning, I stood outside Classroom G1.04 clutching my lesson plan like a shield, palms damp with nervous sweat. Through the window, I glimpsed thirteen expectant faces—students who deserved expertise I feared I didn’t possess.
The door handle felt cool as I entered, transforming instantly from anxious newcomer to confident teacher—or at least someone performing confidence convincingly enough to fool both students and himself.
“Good morning, everyone,” I began, voice carrying better than expected. “I’m Frank, and I’m absolutely thrilled to be your teacher this week.”
I’d chosen ‘Frank’ as my teaching name early on—a small trick to keep my Italian identity quiet and encourage my students, especially the Italians, to speak only English with me. It helped me create a space where language was the focus, and where I could step fully into my role as their teacher.
Magic happened in those moments between lessons. Anxiety dissolved the instant I focused on students rather than fears. Twelve-year-old Makoto from Japan, initially too shy for eye contact, began raising her hand eagerly after I complimented her careful pronunciation. Kaan from Turkey lit up when I asked about his hometown, stories painting vivid pictures that made geography spring to life.
They started requesting photos together—arms thrown around my shoulders as they grinned at cameras, treating me less like authority than beloved older brother. In corridors between classes, they’d call out greetings that brightened whatever shadows lingered.
“Frank! Frank!” echoed through hallways as students rushed to share weekend adventures or display homework completed with particular pride. Each encounter became an opportunity to offer encouragement, share genuine compliments, plant confidence seeds that would bloom long after summer ended.
The realization struck during week two with startling clarity: I was teaching in the very classroom where just two years earlier I had sat, my own heart pounding with fear and uncertainty. The weight of that circle’s completion settled over me—not as a burden, but as a profound honor. Pride swelled quietly, mingled with a fierce sense of responsibility to honor every opportunity I’d been given. From that moment on, every lesson became more than curriculum; it was gratitude expressed through care and excellence.
This experience unveiled a truth that no exam or certificate could capture: beyond titles or career milestones, nothing matters more than genuine human connection—the alchemy of shared growth that transforms strangers into family, students into teachers, and trembling uncertainty into bold confidence.
“Today,” I announced, my voice steadier than I felt, “we’re going to practice presentations about hidden gems from your countries.”
This lesson was more than words on a plan; it was my heartfelt rebellion against rote repetition. I hated the idea of students becoming parrots, mindlessly repeating phrases without meaning or passion. I wanted them to connect deeply with what they said—to become explorers, ambassadors, and storytellers of their own cultures. So I created a lesson on “Hidden Gems”: undiscovered places and authentic beauty in their home countries that tourists often miss, overshadowed by well-trodden capitals and clichés. This wasn’t just language practice. It was a celebration of identity and curiosity woven through architecture, food, customs—each student bringing to class a treasure map of their heritage.
The classroom became a sanctuary for even the shyest students, who, knowing they alone held the key to their stories, stepped up with quiet pride. Fear flashed less brightly under the spotlight when you speak not just to be heard, but to share what matters most to you. Respect among peers was foundational, creating a safe space where voices could rise without hesitation or judgment.
Among all presentations, one memory remains vivid: Nina, a thirteen-year-old from Georgia, spoke not of an ancient town but of her country’s most ambitious project—an artificial island, still under construction, symbolizing hope and progress. Her precision was surgical, her passion palpable; her pride streamed from her posture, excitement vibrating through every word. The room was captivated. When the class voted, Nina won decisively, her oratory skill and heartfelt delivery undeniable. Watching her glow with confidence, I felt a surge of pride—pride that I’d helped empower a young girl from an often-overlooked country to own her voice and share her future openly.
This, I thought, as Nina returned to her seat with newfound grace—this is why I became a teacher.
In that moment, Nina’s shy breakthrough reemerged in my memory, becoming my own: the perfect closing of a circle I’d unknowingly been drawing since my first exhausted, uncertain steps dragging a suitcase through Wheatley’s cobblestones.
Every student who finds their voice validates the journey of a mountain boy who once fought silence and fear. In their triumphs, I rediscovered my own transformation—learning, finally, that the greatest gift is not just knowledge, but the ability to unlock it in others.
Chapter 6 – When one door shuts, another opens
As these days in the classroom filled with small, luminous triumphs, there remained a different kind of homecoming waiting for me along the river outside Oxford—a gathering that, in its own gentle way, bowed the journey’s arc into a perfect, golden circle.
It was a Friday in August, high summer, when we gathered at the Victoria Arms in Old Marston: a proper English pub perched right on the banks of the river Isis, sunlight dancing on the slow, green water. The air smelled of hops, mown grass, and the muddy sweetness of the river. Laughter spilled from wooden benches onto the patio. Inside, it was all low beams, aged brick, chatter and warmth.
Eight of us students, fresh with midsummer hopes, wound our way through: those beginning their adventure, and me—returning, changed. Around the table were faces both familiar and newly-met: David Kettle, whose encouragement had threaded my path from the very first bursary; Anne Copley and her husband, David, who years earlier had welcomed me with my very first poached eggs on the Thames and tales of Italy, their adopted second home. There was Letitia Blake, whose love for Italian literature set my heart racing with the thrill of recognition, as we lost ourselves together in talk of Dante and Calvino—why do so few see the worlds we Italians harbor in our books? My mentors from CES—Peter Williams, Jules Beresford-Green—accompanied me, along with a handful of hopeful young Italians, bearers of their own unique stories.
Rarely in life are past, present, and future allowed to sit at the same table. That afternoon, under the whimsical English sky where sunlight glanced off pints of ale, I felt it—a mysterious sense of universality, of being strung bead-like on a thread with every life sharing that riverside moment. Stories poured forth in a mix of English and Italian regional dialects; the food vanished (hard to please Italians, but the chef succeeded!), but what filled us most was community, gratitude, and a sense that the journey we had started was shared and sacred.
I cherished the simple pleasure of finally meeting those who, for years, had encouraged me only through digitised words—David’s lively conversation on art and performance, Anne and her boundless affection for the hills of Le Marche, Letitia’s literary passion. Likewise, the students whom I’d begun teaching in Oxford were now fast friends, their courage at the threshold of new possibilities. Hearing David Kettle and Peter Williams speak kind words of pride over my progress was something I never knew I needed—a quiet knighting, a benediction. I left that day carrying not just satisfaction, but a solemn joy: to have honored those who had once given so much without ever seeing my face.
Walking back upriver, the bright sun on my back, it struck me how utterly impossible, how dreamlike, this all would have seemed to the boy who first stepped off the train in Oxford rattling over foreign stones. And yet, in so many ways, I was still carrying that same hope: a yearning to answer kindness with effort, to give as much as I had received, to keep building.
Standing on the cusp of the next chapter—my university studies in Paris, with three more years of exploration ahead—I carry every one of those riverside moments tucked into my suitcase. Paris calls with its own ancient stones, its own promise of discovery, and I am filled not with fear but with the depth of what I have learned here: that the real journey, always, is a circle—of gratitude, courage, and connections passed from hand to hand.
No matter where I go, the honor bestowed by this community remains my compass. I carry with me the memory of sunlit laughter by the Isis, the blessing of teachers and friends, and the hope to be, in some small measure, for others what the Trust and everyone around that table has been for me—a light at the crossing, a bridge to tomorrow…
I settled into my new life in Paris, in a cozy corner of the 17th arrondissement—an intimate crossroads of dreams and daily bustle. My days begin with the scent of fresh baguettes and the earthy twine of cigarettes curling through the cafés, where tables spill onto the pavement in a perpetual chorus, each filled with voices, laughter, the unmistakable hum of a city that never truly pauses. Around me, glass towers mingle with classic gray rooftops; ponds and parks catch the blush of sunsets that stain the sky orange and pink, ushering in evenings when history feels almost thick enough to taste—a legacy of thinkers and artists who, like me, hoped to shape something new out of what was given.
Here, I am pursuing the new Bachelor’s of Science in Artificial Intelligence, part of France’s audacious “FRANCE 2030” project, designed to cultivate tomorrow’s AI leaders. I am one of just twenty-seven, chosen from over five hundred fifty aspiring minds from every corner of the globe. At every step of the selection, I recognized echoes of the path MSMT had helped me carve: not only the thirst for mathematical puzzles and innovation, but the resilience forged along Wheatley’s lanes, the international spirit kindled in Oxford, the fluency and adaptability grown through all those lessons in language and life. More than anything, it is a hunger for connection—fueled by my years among students from all walks of life—that now inspires my research into AI, natural language, and technologies that can bridge divides, making it possible for more voices to join in the world’s great conversation.
In that spirit, I am eager to give back to the Trust, to support the next wave of dreamers and teachers in whatever way I can.
There are days—walking home beneath those painted Parisian sunsets—when excitement and uncertainty tangle together, but I welcome both. For every threshold crossed, a new adventure awaits. I look forward to the day I can bring back what Paris gives me, just as I have tried to do with every place that shaped me before. And I hope, with all my heart, that the circle of gratitude, learning, and connection set in motion by the Monte San Martino Trust will continue to widen—embracing new voices, new stories, and still more bright tomorrows.