A PPE Degree in Venice (With a Minor in Babysitting & Existential Panic) by Hanya Kotb

There’s something deeply comforting about telling yourself that every generation thought it was the end of the world; war, colonisation, and millennial pink. The usual suspects. And yes, I know I'm lucky to be alive in a time where I can own property, walk down the street without male accompaniment, and the ability to Google "how to fix a toilet flush in a pre-war Venetian apartment" in peace. 

But also, has anyone actually tried being Gen Z lately? Life has been endless unfulfilled TikTok promises, and studying abroad really isn’t a spiritual rebirth. 

Let me walk you through it. It’s 2020, I sit my A-Levels in my Cairo bedroom, a stack of pillows propping up my phone camera like some pixelated guardian of academic integrity. I never took the exams, they just... sort of predicted my way out of high school. Which, in theory, sounds fabulous, but in practice, it meant I arrived in Italy with my lifelong dream of studying abroad— and absolutely no idea how to be a student, or a person. Blame it on months of quarantine and nationwide curfews. 

Venice is beautiful, by the way (once you arrive). Magical, really, a city like no other. You can step outside, lose yourself in an alleyway, and find your will to live again between two 14th-century bricks. But if you actually live here? If you’re trying to find a long-term rental that doesn’t cost more than your soul, battling waves of selfie-stick tourists and the rising Adriatic while your bank account reads like the back of a tragic haiku? Good luck. 

I found refuge. Actually, let me correct that, I thought I found refuge when I became flatmates with this girl I met here. It felt like perfect luck, two peas in a pod— familiarity. I guess it was comforting to be able to lean on the only shoulder I found so soon, so I mistook that for love, friendship, or a contractual agreement not to psychologically destabilise each other. People aren’t always who they claim to be, though; sometimes they live off your back whilst making you think you’re lucky to carry them. Anyway, onto better things, I’m fine now, and I hope everyone’s happy as long as it’s far away from my couch. 

Money? Hilarious. When I arrived, 1 Euro was 18 EG,P and now it’s 60. I used to transfer my allowance through official routes until Egypt also shut those down— financial trauma is my love language now. And you see, the promise also changes when the conditions of it change; another route had to be found. 

To survive, I babysit. It started as a gig, became a lifeline, and now I have a complicated emotional attachment to a six-year-old Italian who once told me, “You look like a tired jellyfish” She’s not wrong. The thing is, babysitting in a language you barely speak while trying to revise philosophical history does things to a person. 

Still, that kid showed me parts of Italy I never would’ve seen: the bus stops, the playgrounds, the karate center. The life behind the life. 

I used to be vegan. That identity dissolved sometime between the 19th week of lentils and the first bite of emergency shawarma. Now I eat chicken with the kind of reverence people usually reserve for sacred texts— hunger humbles you. So does choice, or the lack of it. I realised that when you’re broke, tired, and on your third existential spiral of the day, you don’t crave moral superiority. You crave protein.

Dating? Complicated. I refused to commit to anyone for years, between the fear of losing myself and the fear of staying still. I wanted love, but I also wanted freedom. I now have a boyfriend who is moving on to greater opportunities. I also got a chance to do that, but I’m just too young to afford a 12-hour flight. I applied to Geneva, but didn't get in. So now I oscillate daily between “follow him” and “never compromise for a man, babe.” It’s exhausting, being a feminist with feelings— opportunity cost at its finest. 

Then there’s the moral compass. Mine came pre-installed, Middle Eastern edition, thick with shame and contradictions. Italy pokes at it constantly. I’m forever dancing between guilt and liberation, between what I was taught and what I want. People call, “how are you?” I lie, they know, and we both move on pretending like everything’s fine. 

Also, why is no one talking anymore? People here socialise on the conditions of being Italian and growing up within a 50-kilometre radius. Everyone’s got an Aperol in hand, running on that constant buzz and zero eyes on you. I’ve never felt so visible and invisible at the same time. 

University? Yeah, that. I remembered halfway through year two that I actually came here to study. It’s hard to get back into the rhythm of exams when your last academic memory is a glitchy Zoom call and a multiple-choice quiz marked by a robot. But I’m trying, I really am. 

If nothing else, I now know how to cook pasta properly and scream “mamma mia” when needed. I also know how to cry in public without anyone noticing, how to survive on €20 a week, and how to walk alone at night with fake confidence and real keys between my fingers. 

There are moments of beauty, though. Like when you catch the light on the canal just right, it sparkles. Or when a stranger helps you with your suitcase without asking. Or when the little girl you babysit hugs you before bed and says, “you’re family.” 

Venice is gorgeous, truly, the epitome of la dolce vita and slow walks. It’s just hard to ignore the saying, “Venezia è bella ma non ci vivrei.” Venice is beautiful, but I wouldn’t live there. As a 21-year-old betting on myself, trying to part the sea and make waves, I need an environment that reflects me and a city that runs on a dysfunctional sleep schedule. 

I don’t know where I’m going next. I just know I’ve come far. And maybe that’s enough for now.