November 18, 2007
Today marks my three-week anniversary on the farm. Exactly a year ago, I was on a Frontier Airlines flight from Denver to NYC, hiding behind big sunglasses, ridiculously hungover from the closing night party at the Denver Film Festival. This morning I fertilized olive trees. Here’s to life’s fluid evolution…
I am hosting a Thanksgiving fest at the farm on Thursday. Barbara called the butcher last night and he is on a mad search for a Turkey. He’ll let us know what he comes up with on Monday morning. We’ve invited a mix of Toscana friends new and old… guests so far include Team Olive, Alberto & Anna, and Robert & Elizabeth. I have yet to meet Robert, husband of Elizabeth (artist & children’s book author) but he runs a hot air balloon company, and word is that he eats and drinks like a true Englishman. I have put an urgent request into my mother and sister to email me very, very explicitly detailed recipes, as I am now completely in charge of this dinner. I have, however, successfully recruited Team Olive as my sous chefs.
It’s been an interesting shift in dynamic since the boys arrived. Or perhaps, better said, an interesting shift in my own personal experience. When I was here alone with Barbara & Ugo, every observation, every perception, every conversation, and every new, silly, tense, or intimate moment, somehow belonged to me. And now I’m going back to kindergarten to learn how to share. I am not quite sure how to describe the five-some that is Max, Adam, Barbara, Ugo, and myself, though I know that I find it as natural and comfortable as I do odd. Sometimes I want to slam my head against the wall (very hard stone) because no one seems to fit any role in my Tuscan fairytale. But more often, I thank and embrace them for enabling a alternate version ( read: black comedy) of my fairytale to exist. Life is made up of all kinds. And sometimes it’s hard to let anything resembling a cloud move into a clear and perfect setting. As ideal and romantic of a niche as I may have found here, the more it becomes my own niche, the more it becomes real life. And with that shift, people’s complexities, secrets, insecurities, and fears begin to color the landscape. Making for a different, though richer, more truthful landscape.
A Three Week Retrospective: Addendum
I have come to the big city for a quick visit to the internet café. Only have a few moments, but must briefly attempt to detail the past 24 hours. I think they may sum up the fabulously bizarre reality that has become my life here.
10:30am: I help Adam clean and roll up the olive nets. Back in the box they go until next year when a new helper takes on my previous role of olive net seamstress.
11am: Armed with book, journal, wallet, and my feet, I depart Podere Trove. I am taking the morning off to stroll into town and spend a little alone time without the fellow campers and head counselors. I am also in need of some slight retail therapy. Previously, I have spotted a shop in Petroio (the only one) filled with all handknit sweaters, linens, etc. I am at the farm without gloves, and am hoping to satisfy my desire for something new while solving my need to warm the ol’ olive picking hands.
11:02am: I bump into Anna, Alberto, and their two friends who are visiting from Milan. They are out walking the dogs and we meet on the path just down the hill from the farm. They invite me to come over whenever I am done having “Katie” time, and we decide that I will come by for lunch.
11:30am: The knit shop is closed.
11:31am: I enter Palazzo Brandano. The four-star hotel and restaurant that happens to be in Petroio. I have come here a few days before with Adam, and we meet the managers, Osmond and Jorgen, who give us free drinks and, since it’s off season, welcome and encourage our company. During this initial visit, I notice that the bathrooms are equipped with heat lights, and I make a mental note to utilize Palazzo Brandano as often as possible. And so, I am back. Jorgen makes me a cappuccino and I sit in the sun on the terrace with my book, and it is like looking at a painting, except it’s all real. When I ask Jorgen what I can pay him for the cappuccino, he responds, how about a dinner invitation? So, I invite Jorgen to the farm for the Thanksgiving fest, but he cannot come, and becomes incredibly red and embarrassed that he has actually asked me to dinner. I also learn that the knit shop is never actually open. You have to call one of the old ladies on the phone or physically knock on their door if you want them to open the shop for you to browse.
12:15pm: I walk to Alberto & Anna’s with my red riding hood on. I only take one wrong turn on the path, and get barked at by one dog.
12:30pm: Anna and her friend, Antionella are in the kitchen preparing lunch. Alberto takes Phillipo (Antionella’s husband) and me downstairs to the test cellar. Now I am tasting the wines of 7 different grape barrells for breakfast. Anna and Alberto have coined me “The Wine Spectator” (they actually introduced me in a restaurant the other night as “The Wine Spectator from New York City” and we received a second bottle of wine), all of which I find ridiculously amusing and really quite flattering.
12:45pm We have tasted the wines and discussed their changes and current stages. I am sufficiently giggly.
1pm: We sit down to a delicious lunch of pasta and frittata with truffles.
3pm: With a full stomach and quite a few glasses of vino in my system, I call Barbara & Ugo to tell them I will not be of much use to work on the farm in the afternoon. Especially if it involves driving a tractor. They are also taking the afternoon off to visit a neighboring town, so all works out perfectly.
Between 3pm and 8pm:
Alberto takes out the guitar and our concerto begins. Phillippo (who speaks no English) and I sing Pink Floyd and an entire array of Eric Clapton songs. I am once again translating the meaning of “Wish You Were Here” and “Stairway to Heaven.” I have somehow been deemed lead singer. Anna comes downstairs with her hair in foils. Antoinella is a hairstylist in Milan, and has just put fresh highlights in her hair. There is more singing. I am told to stay for dinner and am offered a shower. My hair could be used to make olive oil, so I accept without much in the way of hesitation. Somehow we all find ourselves back in the kitchen talking, cooking, and opening more wine.
8pm: A light pasta dinner. More vino.
9:30pm: My hip hop moves have made their debut at my first Tuscan dance party. Anna’s ipod has us dancing to the likes of Ricky Martin, Madonna, and Jennifer Lopez.
10pm: I am choreographing a routine to “Thriller” while translating the meaning behind Michael Jackson’s lyrics. Where is the camera?
Fast forward to 8:30am this morning.
I wake up and think maybe I am still inebriated. The wine and grappa fest continued well past midnight. (At 2am however, I did manage to find my way to the clothesline and locate my sweatpants, which thankfully were dry, or I would have been sleeping in jeans that tend to be a bit restricting these days)
10am: Group field trip to the Tuesday morning market in town.
10:30 am: Ugo and I simultaneously feel the magnetic pull to the porchetta sandwich stand. I think either I have had one too many porchetta’s, or am slightly losing my mind (or both) because I am certain that I recognize the man behind the counter. I mention this to Ugo and he says, of course, that is the waiter from the restaurant we went two weeks back. He and his mother also own the porchetta stand. Ugo orders us each a glass of vino with our sandwich, and whaddayaknow, I seem to be drinking wine for breakfast again. For 5 Euro, Ugo and I each have a panino and 2 plastic cups of wine (as he felt the need for a refill). We do the vegetable shopping for the Thanksgiving dinner feast, and I buy a pair of fleece gloves. Minor retail therapy accomplished and major happiness for my hands.
Noon: I am at the supermarket, walking the aisles with Ugo and my blackberry, scanning my Thanksgiving ingredient list courtesy of my mother and sister. I actually find pearl onions in Italy! And have bought so many sacks of potatoes, we may be eating them through December.
Now am finishing up at the internet café and then back to the casa. The guest list for Thursday has increased to 11, and I have two days to learn how to cook…
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Olio, Olio, Olio
I am no longer a virgin olive picker. The first crate of Podere Trove 2007 olives was successfully picked by yours truly November 9, 2007.
Five days and a finely trained pair of picker’s hands later…it is a very rainy and cold Toscana Wednesday. No picking today. We were planning to finish the harvest by days end and to take the olives to the press tomorrow, but the skies have told us otherwise. Instead, we spent the morning bottling wine, and the afternoon zoning out in front of the fire. I’m still in my pajamas. The weather gods are threatening snow tomorrow, so we may be in store for another day of greasy hair and comfort food here at Camp Olive.
The crop is actually a bit disappointing this year. Very few olives. Mostly climate and drought related, but also due in part to the lack of pruning and maintenance to the trees after last year’s harvest. With under 5 crates picked, we will be lucky to get 20 kilos of oil, in comparison to the 120 kilos they got last year. In other words, don’t wait by your door for a FedEx bottle of Olio to arrive.
Team Olive ’07 is quite a laugh. Adam, Max, Ugo, and the lone lady, moi. Adam is a 27 year old Aussie, easy-going, patient, good guy. He has been living and working in London for the past year, and just completed the Camino, the 800K, 37 day walk across northern Spain before arriving here. In reference to the title of this blog, I will also note that Adam has a long-term girlfriend.
Max is a charming, intriguing character. He is 67 (single & looking) and has lived and traveled all over the world. He drove his caravan here from Bulgaria. I am still having trouble grasping the road maps for that. He is one of the most even–tempered, tolerant men I’ve ever come across. A strict vegetarian (and computer software consultant), Max runs 10K every other day, and today, took the day off to go in search of Muesili somewhere in Southern Tuscany. What a nut. I don’t think that Max or Adam have one ounce of body fat between them, so I, being the team player that I am, am storing their allotted amount on me.
And, of course, there’s Ugo. The Olive Boss Man. Ugo spends the majority of the day on a ladder in a tree, cursing at the branches. Ugo is a thorough, passionate (and stubborn) soul, but I am not sure that Ugo is synonymous with efficient. Enter Katie. I have felt a bit like the olive picker production coordinator, location scout, cheerleader, director, producer & supervisor of attempted efficiency. Go figure. But note, when trying to accomplish a time sensitive task, sometimes it is inefficient to load a surplus tractor with a few light-weight items to drive said tractor less than 50 feet. Especially when everyone has to walk to the same place as the tractor’s intended destination. Just pick up the equipment and go. And with 4 people and nearly 200 trees, I thought it wise to reduce the level of haphazard picking and doubling of efforts, and to develop some sort of strategic picking roles and order. Ha! That’s when I learned to keep my mouth shut and go to the kitchen where a woman belongs. Just kidding. (Though Barbara did teach me how to make her pesto the other day and I am still practicing Tuscan domestic goddess-ism).
Team Olive shared some good laughs, and exquisitely beautiful sunny days. A few where I had to stop and remind myself that my entire goal for the day was to pick as many olives off of the tree in front of me as possible. To take a deep breath, appreciate the infinite rolling hills on the horizon, and all of the characters surrounding me. And at that point, who gives a shit about methodical picking?
Italian farmers may beg to differ, but I think that we have given these trees so much to smile about, we have essentially guaranteed them health and abundance in the year to come.
Allora.
In case you pass a tree on Fifth Avenue, some techniques for your picking pleasure:
____________________________________________________________________
An Anecdote
At 11:33 this morning, I received an email with the subject line:
“Ciao baby, I hope to see you in N.Y.C on Nov 23rd”
The email continued:
I hope you remember me, Michaelangeloleather.it Florence, Italy?
Aha! Alberto the Florence leather store owner. The note went on to ask me out for dinner during his 2 day trip to New York. Let us remember that Alberto is somewhere in his 50’s and wears some sort of eyeliner. Most unfortunately, I will still be in Toscana.
In other male news:
I was also asked out by Marco, the train conductor. On my way home from a day trip to Arezzo, Marco, instead of collecting my ticket, sat in the seat across from me and started to chat. As tends to happen when I engage in these conversations because I think of them as harmless, fun Italian practice, this conversation resulted in my declining interest in a “date.” Marco resembled Chris Farley, with a little more teddy bear in his face. And when Marco put his hand on my leg, I thought, hmmm, wait a minute, I would not tolerate this on an Amtrak train. And that is when I told Marco enough. Marco was a bit over the top in his heartbroken reaction to my lack of desire to see him again, and this is when another woman on the train, a daily commuter, told me that, yes, indeed, Marco is just a little bit crazy.
To top it off, the animals, though all male, have decided to slumber party in my bedroom. I woke up at 4am the other night, surprisingly warm (positive effect of excess carbohydrates?) and upon reaching down to remove my ski socks, found my legs wedged between two cats. While Billy the dog was snoring on the floor.
_____________________________________________________________________
A Second Anecdote
It’s 8:30pm and its fucken cold. I’m wrapped in more fleece than I would ski in, and yet, there seems to be no snow or slopes. There is, however, an abundance of bare olive trees!
We finished the harvest and picked up our oil from the press this evening. I think everyone was a bit tired and disappointed with the small amount of oil, but I think it was quite a celebration to eat dinner tonight with our own bottle of oil adorning the table. At least for me, it was pretty special to soak a slab of bread in the oil that comes from the olives that we hand –picked. (Or bamboo-bashed). Not exactly an every day affair.
And now, quite full on too much bread and oil, a Tuscan facial is in order. This is when I boil a huge pot of water over the stove and stick my face in the steam. A perfect way to feel clean, yet remain fully clothed through out the process.
Minor confession: I cheated and took a real shower last week. Alberto & Anna practically forced me into one of their four exquisitely beautiful marble showers. And I didn’t do much in the way of resisting. Tiles, jets, excellent water pressure, and Anna has an exceptional array of products.
Five days and a finely trained pair of picker’s hands later…it is a very rainy and cold Toscana Wednesday. No picking today. We were planning to finish the harvest by days end and to take the olives to the press tomorrow, but the skies have told us otherwise. Instead, we spent the morning bottling wine, and the afternoon zoning out in front of the fire. I’m still in my pajamas. The weather gods are threatening snow tomorrow, so we may be in store for another day of greasy hair and comfort food here at Camp Olive.
The crop is actually a bit disappointing this year. Very few olives. Mostly climate and drought related, but also due in part to the lack of pruning and maintenance to the trees after last year’s harvest. With under 5 crates picked, we will be lucky to get 20 kilos of oil, in comparison to the 120 kilos they got last year. In other words, don’t wait by your door for a FedEx bottle of Olio to arrive.
Team Olive ’07 is quite a laugh. Adam, Max, Ugo, and the lone lady, moi. Adam is a 27 year old Aussie, easy-going, patient, good guy. He has been living and working in London for the past year, and just completed the Camino, the 800K, 37 day walk across northern Spain before arriving here. In reference to the title of this blog, I will also note that Adam has a long-term girlfriend.
Max is a charming, intriguing character. He is 67 (single & looking) and has lived and traveled all over the world. He drove his caravan here from Bulgaria. I am still having trouble grasping the road maps for that. He is one of the most even–tempered, tolerant men I’ve ever come across. A strict vegetarian (and computer software consultant), Max runs 10K every other day, and today, took the day off to go in search of Muesili somewhere in Southern Tuscany. What a nut. I don’t think that Max or Adam have one ounce of body fat between them, so I, being the team player that I am, am storing their allotted amount on me.
And, of course, there’s Ugo. The Olive Boss Man. Ugo spends the majority of the day on a ladder in a tree, cursing at the branches. Ugo is a thorough, passionate (and stubborn) soul, but I am not sure that Ugo is synonymous with efficient. Enter Katie. I have felt a bit like the olive picker production coordinator, location scout, cheerleader, director, producer & supervisor of attempted efficiency. Go figure. But note, when trying to accomplish a time sensitive task, sometimes it is inefficient to load a surplus tractor with a few light-weight items to drive said tractor less than 50 feet. Especially when everyone has to walk to the same place as the tractor’s intended destination. Just pick up the equipment and go. And with 4 people and nearly 200 trees, I thought it wise to reduce the level of haphazard picking and doubling of efforts, and to develop some sort of strategic picking roles and order. Ha! That’s when I learned to keep my mouth shut and go to the kitchen where a woman belongs. Just kidding. (Though Barbara did teach me how to make her pesto the other day and I am still practicing Tuscan domestic goddess-ism).
Team Olive shared some good laughs, and exquisitely beautiful sunny days. A few where I had to stop and remind myself that my entire goal for the day was to pick as many olives off of the tree in front of me as possible. To take a deep breath, appreciate the infinite rolling hills on the horizon, and all of the characters surrounding me. And at that point, who gives a shit about methodical picking?
Italian farmers may beg to differ, but I think that we have given these trees so much to smile about, we have essentially guaranteed them health and abundance in the year to come.
Allora.
In case you pass a tree on Fifth Avenue, some techniques for your picking pleasure:
The Basic Grab
This is olive picking in its purest, simplest form. All you need are your hands. Clean or dirty. Think of picking a raspberry off of a bush, or a single grape off of a vine. This is an excellent technique for the lower branches of a tall tree, or for the totality of a smaller sized tree. Merely pick the olive and drop directly into your crate or basket.
Note: The utilization of this technique often results in random olives stored, and hopefully later found, in pant, shirt, and coat pockets.
The Milk The Cow
This technique utilizes the Olive Picker’s Glove. The OPG is a form fitting cotton glove, adorned with little rubber nubbies on the surface of the palm. Think “tote” socks, but for the hands. This technique also utilizes the Olive Net. The Olive Net is a huge mesh net that surrounds the base of the tree and prevents the olives from falling to the ground. It is really like one big tree bib. With a periphery of sticks hammered into the ground, the edge of the net is raised and rested over the sticks, providing a lip that allows for the falling olives to land on the net instead of scattering across the ground. When performing the “Milk The Cow” (Note: these are not yet universal picking terms, but merely, Katie’s terms) place one hand over the other and smoothly move down the branch, letting all olives fall to the net beneath you.
The Bamboo Bash
A favorite of mine. Though I’m not sure it is totally kosher with the more hard-core pickers. This technique involves a long bamboo cane that you beat & shake the branches with until the olives fall to the net. Very similar to a birthday party game of piñata. You can work up a good sweat with this technique, and it is incredibly satisfying when a strategically placed whack frees a very stubborn olive.
The Ladder Techniques: A Subset
All of the above techniques can also be performed while on a ladder in the tree. Additional techniques used with the ladder include the sawing off of and pruning of branches. Often I supervise the ladder techniques from my home base on the ground, as I am not always keen on climbing the “sturdy” ladder that is resting against the “sturdy” branches. Especially after a lunch with Vino Rosso and a shot of Bulgarian Vodka.
____________________________________________________________________
An Anecdote
At 11:33 this morning, I received an email with the subject line:
“Ciao baby, I hope to see you in N.Y.C on Nov 23rd”
The email continued:
I hope you remember me, Michaelangeloleather.it Florence, Italy?
Aha! Alberto the Florence leather store owner. The note went on to ask me out for dinner during his 2 day trip to New York. Let us remember that Alberto is somewhere in his 50’s and wears some sort of eyeliner. Most unfortunately, I will still be in Toscana.
In other male news:
I was also asked out by Marco, the train conductor. On my way home from a day trip to Arezzo, Marco, instead of collecting my ticket, sat in the seat across from me and started to chat. As tends to happen when I engage in these conversations because I think of them as harmless, fun Italian practice, this conversation resulted in my declining interest in a “date.” Marco resembled Chris Farley, with a little more teddy bear in his face. And when Marco put his hand on my leg, I thought, hmmm, wait a minute, I would not tolerate this on an Amtrak train. And that is when I told Marco enough. Marco was a bit over the top in his heartbroken reaction to my lack of desire to see him again, and this is when another woman on the train, a daily commuter, told me that, yes, indeed, Marco is just a little bit crazy.
To top it off, the animals, though all male, have decided to slumber party in my bedroom. I woke up at 4am the other night, surprisingly warm (positive effect of excess carbohydrates?) and upon reaching down to remove my ski socks, found my legs wedged between two cats. While Billy the dog was snoring on the floor.
_____________________________________________________________________
A Second Anecdote
It’s 8:30pm and its fucken cold. I’m wrapped in more fleece than I would ski in, and yet, there seems to be no snow or slopes. There is, however, an abundance of bare olive trees!
We finished the harvest and picked up our oil from the press this evening. I think everyone was a bit tired and disappointed with the small amount of oil, but I think it was quite a celebration to eat dinner tonight with our own bottle of oil adorning the table. At least for me, it was pretty special to soak a slab of bread in the oil that comes from the olives that we hand –picked. (Or bamboo-bashed). Not exactly an every day affair.
And now, quite full on too much bread and oil, a Tuscan facial is in order. This is when I boil a huge pot of water over the stove and stick my face in the steam. A perfect way to feel clean, yet remain fully clothed through out the process.
Minor confession: I cheated and took a real shower last week. Alberto & Anna practically forced me into one of their four exquisitely beautiful marble showers. And I didn’t do much in the way of resisting. Tiles, jets, excellent water pressure, and Anna has an exceptional array of products.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Podere Trove 10/28 - 11/7/07
Saturday, October 28
I am in awe. My head is dancing with speechless overwhelmment and a rampant inner monologue. If at any one moment it is possible to be in your present, past, and future, then this is where you’ll find my mind. An antique mirror adorns the desk I am typing on, and every time I look up and see my reflection, it is like I am pinching myself. Yes, Katie, it is really you. One glance later, and yup, still me.
It is not easy to write. Sensational overload, to say the least. I have just entered a whole new world, and am at a slight loss for how to describe the day’s actions and its emotional counterparts. I need a magic download button that could patiently transcribe the inner workings of my mind. Alas. Tonight is the only time that it will ever be my first night living in a primitive Tuscan farmhouse, and so, it is my self-imposed duty to attempt to preserve my first day impressions.
Let me begin with a few hard facts.
I just washed my face with hot water that I boiled over the stove. Earlier today, there was a lizard napping in my bed. Twice. The wood burning stove that heats the entire house has decided to take a non-working holiday. And I’m not fully confident on the ins and outs of the whole “pit” bathroom thing…
And yet.
I have never set foot in a warmer, more serene, enchanting home. There is so much character and good spirit in this home, you can’t help but feel it take you over.
And my Jack Purcell’s have touched the soil from which the olives grow.
Podere Trove is set between two villages, Petroio and Castelmuzio. Petroio, the home of terracotta - is open on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Castelmuzio - on Monday, Wednesday, & Friday. I think they have a combined population of 300.
Barbara is pure loveliness. Very sharp and easy going with a great sense of humor. And so much knowledge to share. Ugo is out of town, so we will meet tomorrow. Billy - the dog - and I bonded, taking a long walk on winding dirt roads, getting barked at by another dog, who sat at the foot of an olive tree while its owners furiously picked.
A single Australian male was scheduled to arrive this week as a second helper, but had a last minute change of plans. There may be an American couple joining instead. No word yet on the son.
The scenery is beyond words.
Peaceful silence and happy noise. Only good to come…
November 2, 2007
I have now started, stopped, deleted, and re-started this sentence over 12 times. I think this is the gist: In life, we (or at least I) have expectations. Expectations from people, places, jobs, events, changes in the weather. Expectations that, dependent on context, we are constantly raising and lowering. Expectations that live in our heads, motivate us, and are most often met with a certain level of disappointment.
I am sitting in front of a wood burning stove, typing my way through the final moments of siesta, thinking that I must have won the expectation lottery. Since July, I have been creating my fantasy “Tuscan experience.” My image of the Mariotti’s, of their home, of how I would fit in, and how I would feel. For lack of a better two words, holy shit. It’s like I hit the “on” button, and have now arrived in my own Tuscan fairytale. (Though the sequel may have plumbing).
There is no cohesive way to go about the past few days, so please indulge my schizophrenic rambling:
My Tuscan domestic goddess is in full effect. Barbara & I are cleaning and preparing the house for winter.
Visual: Kate on ladder, broom in hand, de-cobwebbing and dusting the ceiling (which dates back to the early 1400’s) with every sort of dust particle and insect part flying every which way.
Visual: Katie fixing a smoking chimney.
Visual: Katie waxing antique furniture.
Visual: Katie with multiple dusters.
Savor these, because they are unlikely to ever be seen in the states.
The house has electricity and running cold water, but no plumbing. Hence, the “shit pit.” This week, we are “spring cleaning,” for winter. Storing all the summer furniture, tools, laying down heavy rugs, re-potting plants, etc. I’m June Cleaver in 1410. There is a local girl, Stefania, who has been coming in the mornings to help with the cleaning, and together, we are the American/Aussie/Italian housewife version of the three stooges.
At 12:30 precisely, Barbara opens a bottle of vino. (Podere Trove, 2004. It’s not particularly good, but is a unanimously agreed upon substitution for water). Then we have a lovely lunch, siesta, and finish our tasks in the late afternoon. Next week we relinquish our housewife duties and the olive harvest begins.
Ugo & Barbara are a wealth of knowledge with a model-worthy work ethic. If I can retain half of the information that I am picking their brain about, I may be able to start the first West Village olive grove, vineyard, cheese factory, and artichoke patch.
Ugo & Barbara’s tour company, Tuscany Under the Skin, has officially ended for the season, so I will also be helping them explore new walks and conduct research for next season’s tours groups. Since they are now without any tour clients, and I am the only current “helper” at the farm, we’ve had a unique opportunity to bond as a threesome. I get the impression that this dynamic is a really rare occurrence, and it’s felt truly special to have the chance to enjoy an organic “get to know you” period. They are the filmmakers turned farmers, crazy, bickering, Italian/Australian parents that I have on temporary loan. The other night we were driving to a dinner gathering, and I was sitting in the back seat of the car. In between their fighting, they were prepping me on all the people we were on our way to meet. I felt like a shy, curious 11 year old girl. An oddly surreal and perfect moment.
Ugo is a mix between Santa Claus and the Buddha. The other afternoon I jumped on the back of the tractor with him and we went off to gather walnuts. He has a story for everything, and is as down to earth as they come. He also decided that the birthmark that is in the center of my forehead (my Bindhi, or “dot” as some like to refer to it) will now be officially coined my “third eye.” Everyone I have met here thinks I am Indian, and once I correct them, Ugo chimes in with a proper Italian introduction to the third eye.
The first Monday I was here - excuse the vulgarity - but it took all the balls I have to walk into Castelmuzio alone. (Town of 150-ish). If you come across 5 people when you walk through the town, it’s a busy day. Needless to say, I somewhat stand out. And no one has any problem glaring at the stranger on their home turf. I walked into the Coop Supermarket and introduced myself to Carla, the shopkeeper, and then I went to the bar for cappuccino. No one speaks a word of English. The bar owner, who randomly decides what hours he will be open, asked if I was here with my sposito, and, though endearing, had a little trouble believing that I was here alone and unmarried. I have since been told to say I’m engaged…
Barbara & Ugo have truly treated me as one of their own. Introducing me to their friends, to the community, and enabling an utter sense of belonging. We’ve hosted dinner parties, gone to a Contrada dinner and lazed in front of the fire reading. My glass and plate are never empty, genuine conversation flows. Silence is welcome and encouraged.
And only one button on one pair of pants has popped.
There are pages to be written about the appreciation of time, the nature of respect, and defining individuals by what one enjoys instead of by what one does. There’s also a whole lot of talk here about the work that needs to get done, followed by a whole lot more “domani, domani”… “we’ll do that tomorrow”… Yet, somehow, everything gets accomplished, stress & anxiety free.
The Roman-Born Architect Son is Married. With Baby. Living in Australia.
Next week two new helpers will arrive. Adam (a young Aussie gent) and Max (an old Irish gent). Poor guys have no idea that we’ve been sitting around the dinner table speculating about them all week. Since there are no couples coming, I moved out of a single room in the main house and into the downstairs guest house - with double bed, sitting area & kitchenette. It’s a studio version of a wine cellar. The stone is a wee bit chilly on the feet during a 4am “bathroom” wake-up, but this is why I am strategically drinking more wine than water.
November 5, 2007
Let me being by saying that tonight, for dessert, Barbara put a huge jar of cherries soaked in ???? on the table. I opened the jar to serve them, and thought I was going to pass out from the smell of alcohol. Then I tasted one and could hardly keep it down. Ugo and I decided that he had soaked them in Grappa, and hence, the rather strong stench. Then, as Ugo was making his way through an entire bowl of “cherries”, a light bulb went off…He had soaked them in pure alcohol. At least 5 years ago. Aha! While he suddenly found himself drunk, I opted for a piece of store bought dark chocolate instead.
I have a Tuscan social life!
And my future wine bar dreams taking form... Let me properly introduce Alberto & Anna Abliano…
Alberto & Anna are neighbors of Barbara & Ugo’s (Translation: their villa is set hilltop in a direct line of sight from the farm). I first met them briefly one night last week when I went with Ugo to their home, bringing wine in exchange for carrots that Barbara found herself without, and in desperate need of, while home cooking Osso Bucco for the next evening’s dinner party). They have an absolutely stunning home. A farmhouse from the 1300’s that underwent a four year restoration beginning in 2000. It’s beautiful. Simple. Elegant. Modern without feeling the least bit done up. I walked in and thought, okay, keep the sublet going on 93 Bedford, I’m ready to bring over a suitcase and call this home. During the following evening’s Osso Bucco festivities, we talked a bit about getting together for Italian-English language exchange lessons. And then I learned about their vineyard…
I was sitting next to Alberto - who maybe uttered something in English 1 out of every 25 words – but I had had enough wine, ( and at this point we were talking about wine) that the conversation seemed to move flawlessly. Essentially, I expressed my interest in wine/ a wine bar/ the wine business/ their vineyard, and they expressed their interest in my involvement. The rest is a work-in-progress script that I can’t believe I’m living.
The next afternoon they called to invite me over for our first language lesson. I made plans with them for Sunday. Then they called back and invited us all for dinner that evening. Anna cooked the most delicious meal – homemade four-cheese foccacio, a pesto, potato, & cheese pasta, rabbit (yes, I ate rabbit and it tastes like chicken), mushrooms, polenta, and a fruit tart. All accompanied by really, truly, insanely good Prosecco, Vino, Moscato & Grappa. I finally had to stop when the whiskey came out. The best part was the feeling that comes with such an elaborate, festive dinner that is actually a very casual, last minute affair.
There was very little English spoken at the table. I followed the conversation in bits and pieces, until they all got very heated talking about the neighbors and local politics. Then I completely lost it and stared a bit, while Alberto just kept filling my glass.
Sunday was like Part 2 of my Grimm Brother’s role playing lifestyle. While last week, with broom in hand, I felt a bit like Cinderella (without Wicked Step Sisters, and not yet with Prince), Sunday I had a taste of Little Red Riding Hood.
In the morning I went for a run. (This is a story in and of itself – as I took Billy the dog with me, who subsequently got attacked by an olive picker’s dog, I screamed, the owner came and grabbed the attacking dog, Billy was fine, and we both kept running ). Then I bathed (bum to wood burning stove, hair rinsed with various size pitchers) and headed to Alberto & Anna’s. Ugo offered to walk me part of the way so that he could show me a hidden road that leads to their home. Enter Little Red Riding Hood. When Ugo left me amidst thorns of blackberry bushes, I was carrying my basket of goodies (plastic bag with gift of cheese and jam) and skipping (in hiking boots) through the forest, trying to locate the house. I wound up going way past their house and circling acres and acres of their grape vines, before cutting through tomato plants, scaling a stone wall, and finally arriving upon their back door. Substitute the sounds of wild boar being hunted for the big bad wolf.
I intended to visit with Alberto & Anna for a couple of hours since Barbara & Ugo had invited me to attend their friend’s book launch for a new children’s book that same afternoon. (Okay, so I a little bit loved being double booked on a Sunday afternoon in Tuscany). Alas, 9 hours later, Alberto & Anna brought me back to the farm. It’s truly amazing how, within one day’s time, you can feel the influence that someone will have on your life. It’s almost palpable, yet completely indefinable. It was that jumpy good feeling you get in your stomach when you connect with new friends and feel all sorts of new doors opening.
We spent the day speaking English. Then Italian. Then English and Italian. Then the dictionaries would come out, the hand gestures would increase, and we’d have more wine, cheese, and homemade foccacio (with olives). Pretty amazing the subjects that you can cover when you think you are restricted by a language barrier. Music, religion, books, work, family. I saw photos of the villa pre-renovation. I looked at blue prints for the “cantina” – in essence, the vineyard’s complete operation - with plans for the fermentation through bottling process. I tested the sugar levels of the grapes, and tasted and shared opinions on all the wines in their test barrels. I even translated the meaning of Pink Floyd's "I Wish You Were Here" for Alberto.
Alberto & Anna will be ready to go commercial and distribute their wines internationally for the first time in 2009. They invited me to join them next spring at the biggest wine expedition in the world to help them find buyers. They offered me a down comforter for the farm, the use of their shower (a real one) and a bedroom anytime I may need a break from the “wine cellar”. They took me out for dinner and proposed an array of day trips and Tuscan evenings out. The leather seats in their jeep are equipped with seat warmers.
And Anna's hoping that one of the helpers arriving this week will look like Brad Pitt, the other, George Clooney…
November 6, 2007
I thought it necessary to share this snapshot moment of life. Something about this very moment’s mixture of irony, oddity, and natural comfort has just made me burst out laughing. To myself.
It’s 1pm. Barbara & I decided to do lunch on our own since she is knee deep in tax returns for the company, and I have finished mending the olive nets. Yes, my Tuscan domestic goddess-ness also includes olive net seamstress. And - if I did a job well done - no olives will fall to the ground when yours truly is picking them off the tress later this week.
I am sitting at the table in my wine cellar/studio/guestroom cave of coziness that I call home. It’s not exactly warm here today. I am in long underwear and sweater, putting more logs on my fire. I am trying to get the cat off of my bed and out of my room without having to keep the door open very long. I am drinking hot tea and eating bread with fresh pecorino cheese, olive oil and pesto that Barbara made. I did a load of laundry this morning, and now all of my clothes are dangling on drying racks next to the stove. There is a CD of Rod Stewart’s “Stardust…The Great American Songbook Volume III” playing in the portable player. A previous “helper” must have had stellar taste. My blackberry gets a full signal, and yet, I am debating how to wash my hair today without having to get any other parts of my body wet. The thought of taking off layers of clothing make an itchy scalp seem frighteningly more appealing.
November 7, 2007
Everything about today has seemed completely surreal. All of the new elements that constitute my life here struck me today as one big out of body experience.
Alberto & Anna invited me to go the Frantoio with them this morning. AKA – the olive press. At 8:30am, I Red Riding Hooded myself through the woods to their house (only barked at by 6 dogs who were, thankfully, with owner, searching for truffles). We loaded the back of their truck with 12 barrels of olives and then went to the press in Castelmuzio. They had a 9am appointment, but everything was on Italian time today, so their olives did not get started until about 12:30pm. We took a few mini excursions while we were waiting…We wound down back country roads to a mini town (of 5) with a mini restaurant, and picnic tables overlooking a landscape that no photograph could do justice. It is about 10am. Anna has tea, I have cappuccino. Alberto has a glass of wine. We head back to the press, but still have longer to wait. They take me to a church. They share midevil history, and present day agricultural wisdom. We return to the press. Still not olive time. So, we run an “errand” in Pienza. AKA – Alberto needs to get some wine from L’Enoteca di Ghino (Ghino showed me his spread in a Italian wine publication). This results in Alberto & I tasting numerous glasses of wine, Alberto walking out with a few new cases, and all of us heading back to the press.
Mind you, all of this is happening with the three of us sharing equal frustration at “language.” They want to speak English well. I want to speak Italian. Thankfully, laughter can easily be spoken in both.
The press is amazing. I cannot wait to return with the olives that Barbara, Ugo and I have picked ourselves. In less than one hour, the olives go from a crate off the back of the truck to 100% pure, delicious, ready to bottle olive oil. And you can watch the entire process. I will let pictures do the talking…(it they do not upload, it is because I did not want to spend the entire day in the internet café troubleshooting, so stay tuned…)
If only there was a way to display photos on the computer with a scratch and sniff. The aroma in an olive press is one of the more delicious smells to ever be encountered. Alberto & Anna left with 45 kilos of oil, and I am on my way back to their house right now to cook dinner with the nuovo olio tonight…
Friday, October 26, 2007
La Scuola e Finito (my very own Italian graduazione)
This morning I completed my last day of school. This means I survived 60 hours of humiliation, also known as, three weeks of brain hurtiness easily numbed by vino.
Mass confusion, daily stuttering, and verb conjugation nightmares aside, I was sad to bid farewell to my Scuola Leonardo da Vinci slice of life. The bizarreness of my classmates became endearing, and I was becoming accustomed to the simultaneous action of my eyes popping out of my head and my heart racing every time the teacher called on me with any spontaneity.
I learned an enormous amount of information. The experience was humbling, enlightening, challenging, and most of all, incredibly satisfying and enjoyable. I probably only wanted to bang my head against the wall for 30 out of the 60 total classroom hours.
Today also marked the successful completion of my father & Kim's first week of school. When I'd meet them outside of their classroom during our morning caffe breaks, my dad's eyes were glazed over and he'd express an urgent need for vodka over brioche. I think his per hour head banging ratio was nearing 100%.
Allora.
Strange, sad, and exciting that it is my last day in Firenze. It's been a perfect 3-week package. A veritable pu-pu platter of life. Ups, downs, the unexpected, and the routine. An opportunity to carve out an everyday role amidst exquisite beauty and sheer indulgence. Most importantly, a new take on the same 24 hours that make up all of our days.
Tonight is a full moon, and the reflection in the Arno has created a true illusion. All of the buildings that parallel the Arno are reflected in the water so clearly that you can not tell that they don't actually exist in double. None of it seems real. Alas. I took a series of photos. Then came home and dropped my camera on a very hard concrete floor. The camera erased all of its memory, and wa-la, the photos are gone. And so, I leave it to your imagination.
I have attached a few other pictures instead. Some that I took from climbing to the top of the Duomo tower (400 steps, but I still need to look into buying maternity clothes) and a few additional attempts at capturing the vast beauty that is Firenze.
I could share stories galore, but I think we should do that over vino instead. Tomorrow I am headed to Montalcino, then to the farm on Sunday. Hopefully I will have picked my first batch of olives by Monday.
More to come...
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
A letter from "Podere Trove"
Tonight, as I was beginning to prepare my head (and the excess clothes I will be shipping home) for the farm, I revisited the Help Exchange website where I originally discovered Barbara & Ugo's listing for Podere Trove, as well as the site for Barbara and Ugo's walking tour company, Tuscany Under The Skin.
Barbara & Ugo maintain an archive of letters on their site -- personally written stories about the farm & their own varied seasonal experiences. I came across the below, from 2004, and have deemed this document "Olive Picking 101."
I read about the farm into the wee hours. I can't actually believe I will be part of this world in two days. Following Barbara & Ugo's letter below, I've included some excerpts from past Podere Trove volunteers. I have 48 hours until I arrive, and I am already planning my return...
Notes from previous Podere Trove helpers:
"Barbara and Ugo's 40 acre slice of heaven is home to olive groves and vineyards, a luscious garden and a huge old stone house of the typical Tuscan variety all nestled nicely upon rolling green hills and valleys dotted by the signature, stately cypress trees. helpers only work four hours a day and Barbara and Ugo insist that we enjoy the hammock, the land, the surrounding area...the house is all rustic and comfy and homey with lots of art and antique furniture everywhere. while this is in many ways the most rustic setting i've been in, it's at the same time the most luxurious and romantic. Barbara and Ugo are two wise, generous souls."
"If you are looking for a true Tuscan experience, then this is a place you must visit. I had to do some convincing to get Jonathan, my husband, to come on this working adventure with me. Once there, though, I practically had to pull him away when it was time to leave. Our first farm assignment was to the help the young olive trees on the hill above the farmhouse, digging a little trench around each of the saplings. It was hard work, but often we would stop, lean on our shovels and look out over the valley. It was serene and deeply beautiful. We talked as we worked and time seemed to go quickly until we heard Barbara's loud whoop! calling us in for lunch. Lunch was the highlight of the day, with all of us sitting at the long wooden table covered in bowls and bottles and wine glasses. We compared notes at lunch, eating the amazing food and then laughing as we went off for siestas or travels through the countryside. Later on in our stay, we picked grapes and then watched as the pulitrice separated the stems from the grapes - old style wine making! We went down in the evening to stir the wine in the big wooden vats and drink in the smells of wine in the making. We tasted wine from the very same vines we had worked! It was so sad to leave Trove and the golden light of the Tuscan hills. It was simply magical. Trove stays in our heads and our hearts. It feels like home to us. "
"Whenever friends ask us the most unforgettable part of our overseas trip, the answer is always: our farmstay at Podere Trove - after which we inevitably bang on for an hour or so about tasting fresh olive oil, insalata di Farro, organic Italian wines, personal tour guide trips around Siena and Tuscany, gnocchi with butter and sage, sleeping in the cozy converted barn and our own little fireplace, and warming grappa, and great cheese, and roasted chestnuts, and fresh apples and great company and the list goes on."
Barbara & Ugo maintain an archive of letters on their site -- personally written stories about the farm & their own varied seasonal experiences. I came across the below, from 2004, and have deemed this document "Olive Picking 101."
I read about the farm into the wee hours. I can't actually believe I will be part of this world in two days. Following Barbara & Ugo's letter below, I've included some excerpts from past Podere Trove volunteers. I have 48 hours until I arrive, and I am already planning my return...
The 'buongustaio' or true gourmet knows that every region of Italy has one or more of its own specialities: it could be a wine or a liquer, perhaps a prosciutto or salami, maybe certain cheeses or sweets. Some regions boast a variety of special products. One such is our own area - the southern part of the Province of Siena.
But let's just talk about our olive oil. The small 'comune' or council area of Trequanda, which includes the villages of Petroio and Castelmuzio, specializes in extra-virgin olive oil. Nearby Pienza, only 10 kms away from us, is world-famous for its Pecorino cheese, product of sheep which graze on local herb-scented meadows. Trequanda has a different set of advantages: good aspect to the sun; a high altitude which discourages pests without the need for damaging insecticides; a timeless tradition of planting just the right mix of trees to produce that delightfully clean, sharp taste.
Another element is the human factor: olives are still hand-harvested with each tree in turn surrounded by a number of pickers up various ladders or working from the ground (maybe the trees enjoy all the laughter and teasing that goes on?). There is also a choice of small family-run crushers (frantoio) so olives are pressed while still very fresh without heating or forcing. The smell of newly-crushed olives is intoxicating and you are able to taste your own oil immediately on bread toasted above a small fire in the corner – a proud moment. Again there is so much competitive laughter and joking in the frantoio about who has the best yield, the best tasting oil.
Last year Ugo went to pick olives in the groves of a Swiss friend who has many more trees than us. And many more olives. His trees had escaped an Easter cold snap during flowering which had left ours bare. A drought or a freeze can be devastating. In 1985 a warm Spring day was followed by a night of 25 degrees Centigrade below zero. 75% of the olive trees in Tuscany were wiped out in a single night! Many families' fortunes went with them. In our area most of the pickers are paid in olive oil, so if we pick one hundred kilos of olives we get 7 kilos of extra-virgin olive oil as a wage. Ugo managed to pick enough for our household use. We used our oil sparingly last year, only on salads and on raw foods. When we were kids our grandma used to push a huge spoonful of olive oil down our throats accompanied by the magic formula : "It's good for you!".
This year we had more olives to pick than ever before. Well, the trees were rested and we've learnt how to care for them. The result was excellent: from a hundred kilos of olives the press extracted 19.50 kilos of extra-virgin oil. For us it was incredible, especially considering that our neighbours were extracting 10, 13 or maximum 15 kilos. It was hard not to boast. Not the done thing! But then most neighbours have about 2000 olive trees, which means that they have to begin picking very early in the season, October, therefore the olives are still green not full of juices as the olives picked at a later dates such as in November and December.
Our groves have a variety of olives - Frantoiano, Pendolino, Leccino, Moraiolo, Olivastra among others. Each farmer has a combination of different trees so the result is that every oil is slightly different from others, though this difference also depends on the time of picking: an early picking produces an oil which is greener and more nutty in taste, a later picking gives an oil which is more bland and yellow.
So I would say that there is no oil better than another although the taste of an unprocessed extra-virgin oil has to be the winner.
This year we had a multicultural team of young pickers from Australia, South America, the States … and ourselves. Lovely young people who in a way become like sons and daughters. Brian from Chicago reminded us of our son Brian Marco - the same dreamy look, the mannerisms, the grunting …. He had postponed his departure several times and Ugo realized that maybe he was trying to postpone commitments to life and his family, so one day just had to tell that the time had come for him to go. We have a book where guest workers leave their addresses and contact numbers. In it Brian wrote, "Can't thank you enough for the hospitality and opportunity, truly the experience of my life. You opened your home, your refrigerator and wine-cellar to me, but more importantly you gave me a better understanding of so much …. Tuscany, good food, good work, inter-relations (both friends and significant others) and the finer things of life …."
This year each helper got a present of extra-virgin oil. The bottles were lovingly placed in their rucksacks before going along on a trip around the world. We will always remember these young ones with great pleasure and affection.
Ugo & Barbara
"Trove", December 2004
Notes from previous Podere Trove helpers:
"Barbara and Ugo's 40 acre slice of heaven is home to olive groves and vineyards, a luscious garden and a huge old stone house of the typical Tuscan variety all nestled nicely upon rolling green hills and valleys dotted by the signature, stately cypress trees. helpers only work four hours a day and Barbara and Ugo insist that we enjoy the hammock, the land, the surrounding area...the house is all rustic and comfy and homey with lots of art and antique furniture everywhere. while this is in many ways the most rustic setting i've been in, it's at the same time the most luxurious and romantic. Barbara and Ugo are two wise, generous souls."
"If you are looking for a true Tuscan experience, then this is a place you must visit. I had to do some convincing to get Jonathan, my husband, to come on this working adventure with me. Once there, though, I practically had to pull him away when it was time to leave. Our first farm assignment was to the help the young olive trees on the hill above the farmhouse, digging a little trench around each of the saplings. It was hard work, but often we would stop, lean on our shovels and look out over the valley. It was serene and deeply beautiful. We talked as we worked and time seemed to go quickly until we heard Barbara's loud whoop! calling us in for lunch. Lunch was the highlight of the day, with all of us sitting at the long wooden table covered in bowls and bottles and wine glasses. We compared notes at lunch, eating the amazing food and then laughing as we went off for siestas or travels through the countryside. Later on in our stay, we picked grapes and then watched as the pulitrice separated the stems from the grapes - old style wine making! We went down in the evening to stir the wine in the big wooden vats and drink in the smells of wine in the making. We tasted wine from the very same vines we had worked! It was so sad to leave Trove and the golden light of the Tuscan hills. It was simply magical. Trove stays in our heads and our hearts. It feels like home to us. "
"Whenever friends ask us the most unforgettable part of our overseas trip, the answer is always: our farmstay at Podere Trove - after which we inevitably bang on for an hour or so about tasting fresh olive oil, insalata di Farro, organic Italian wines, personal tour guide trips around Siena and Tuscany, gnocchi with butter and sage, sleeping in the cozy converted barn and our own little fireplace, and warming grappa, and great cheese, and roasted chestnuts, and fresh apples and great company and the list goes on."
Monday, October 22, 2007
Lavanderia, Scuola, and Mio Padre
15 Ottobre
Please join me in laughing at my lack of Italian inner domestic goddess-ness:
At 6:30pm, I loaded my apartment’s washing machine with all of my darks. It is 10:23pm and the washer light remains lit, the door locked, and not a thing happening to the clothes inside. What the hell setting did I put it on? I even have my drying racks all lined up, but I can’t get the damn clothes out.
The washing machine is installed in the kitchen, under the counter top gas burners. This is all very compact and cute, until you spill washing detergent on your gas burners and across your countertop. And so, in check with my non-domestic goddess status, it’s a good thing I’m not doing much in the way of cooking.
Which leads me to very important news…
I have discovered my official go-to drinking and eating establishment. I Fratellini.
I hate to quote a guidebook, but...
”Just off the busiest tourist thoroughfare lies one of the last of a dying breed: a fiaschitteria (derived from the word for flask of wine). It’s the proverbial hole in the wall, a doorway about 5 feet deep with rows and rows of wine bottles against the back wall and Armando and Michele Perrino busy behind the counter, fixing sandwiches and pouring glasses of vino. You stand munching and sipping on the cobblestones of the narrow street surrounded by Florentines on their lunch break and a few bemused tourists.”
I sat on the cobblestone during lunch today, drinking brunello, people watching while avoiding being shit on by a pigeon, and well, found my little slice of Florentine heaven. And one of the more excellent ways to head into siesta…
19 Ottobre
I got a 93% on my Italian test! I received an “ottimo” and have graduated to elementary Italian, Level 3. I still cannot really speak in a store or a restaurant, but apparently, my grammatical knowledge of the “passato prossimo” and “pronomi diretti” is well, ottimo. And I only cheated a little bit.
My father arrived in Firenze this afternoon. In honor of his arrival, and the final evening in my Ponte Vecchio apartment, I hosted a proper cocktail party. This really translates to: a perfect excuse to go from butcher to cheese stand to vegetable stand with actual reason to buy. One of the more fun hours I have spent in recent memory.
I enrolled in a third week of school before I leave for the farm on the 28th, and so, will be moving into my dad and Kims apartment on Villa Della Vigna Nuova for the upcoming week. From NYC to Florence, seems as though we are the 2007 version of Three’s Company.
Additional waiters and bar-men befriended this week:
Giuseppe.
Francesco.
Armando.
22 Ottobre
I have just returned from my third consecutive day of a due bottiglia di vino lunch. Allora! My father must be in town!
What am I ever going to do if my schedule doesn’t include vino rosso from 2pm until, well, the end of the evening?
It is the start of my third week in Florence, and it’s beginning to feel very intimate and cozy here. I fairly confidently know my way around town, and am loving when Italians stop to ask me for directions. I can’t answer them all that well, but the mere question gives me an extra little spring in my step.
This morning marked the beginning of Elementary Italian, Part 3. School and I are really starting to hit it off. 10 of us from the last session all moved together to the next level, and we have two new teachers who I think are brilliantly dramatic and patient and wise. We are the oddest group of 10 (I think it bad luck to delve into particular individual’s oddities until I’ve at least left Florence…stay tuned…) but it’s an oddness that creates one of the more endearing, supportive & comedic dynamics. We sit around a small conference table, and absolutely not one word of English is to be uttered. I make a lot of facial expressions and exclaiming of “oy” - a substitution that I declare universal and completely acceptable.
The weekend was filled with everything cultural that happens outside of museum or church walls. Molto shopping, eating, wandering, and people watching. I could write a separate novel on how to navigate a car from Florence to Siena, but alas, I will leave pedestrian hopping and winding roads to your imagination. We drove to Siena Saturday morning to eat lunch at a restaurant that is a favorite of the papa’s. We drank delicious wine that was accompanied by one of the more graceful, beautiful decanting presentations by a waiter I have ever witnessed. Siena is truly lovely. Unbelievably quaint, intricately designed, friendly, lively, and for lack of a better description, extraordinarily pleasing to eye and the soul.
For future reference, please note: After lunch (and two bottles of Brunello), my father is excellent to go shopping with. It goes something like this: Dad picks out women’s clothes that he wishes he could wear, and instead (thankfully) hands them to you to try on. It is best if in this situation, you a) ask very few questions and b) just go with it. Try on the clothes, and, if they fit, you will most like become the owner of them. Cashmere and tweeds are the new olive picking fashion, si?
We spent Sunday morning in Fiesole – a hill town just north of Firenze. Again, I could share more car stories, but again, the lunch and the wine and breathtaking views were much less stressful and much more interesting.
Since we clearly haven’t been eating enough, last night I escorted my roomie’s to my favorite bar for apertivo. Good drinks, good music, and single men everywhere. Though one may consider a father to be an obstacle in respects to the manhunt, I officially declare my father to be an excellent wingman. Stay tuned for how he progresses with his newly assigned wingman duties. Five days left in Florence with a language to master and a date to be had.
Please join me in laughing at my lack of Italian inner domestic goddess-ness:
At 6:30pm, I loaded my apartment’s washing machine with all of my darks. It is 10:23pm and the washer light remains lit, the door locked, and not a thing happening to the clothes inside. What the hell setting did I put it on? I even have my drying racks all lined up, but I can’t get the damn clothes out.
The washing machine is installed in the kitchen, under the counter top gas burners. This is all very compact and cute, until you spill washing detergent on your gas burners and across your countertop. And so, in check with my non-domestic goddess status, it’s a good thing I’m not doing much in the way of cooking.
Which leads me to very important news…
I have discovered my official go-to drinking and eating establishment. I Fratellini.
I hate to quote a guidebook, but...
”Just off the busiest tourist thoroughfare lies one of the last of a dying breed: a fiaschitteria (derived from the word for flask of wine). It’s the proverbial hole in the wall, a doorway about 5 feet deep with rows and rows of wine bottles against the back wall and Armando and Michele Perrino busy behind the counter, fixing sandwiches and pouring glasses of vino. You stand munching and sipping on the cobblestones of the narrow street surrounded by Florentines on their lunch break and a few bemused tourists.”
I sat on the cobblestone during lunch today, drinking brunello, people watching while avoiding being shit on by a pigeon, and well, found my little slice of Florentine heaven. And one of the more excellent ways to head into siesta…
19 Ottobre
I got a 93% on my Italian test! I received an “ottimo” and have graduated to elementary Italian, Level 3. I still cannot really speak in a store or a restaurant, but apparently, my grammatical knowledge of the “passato prossimo” and “pronomi diretti” is well, ottimo. And I only cheated a little bit.
My father arrived in Firenze this afternoon. In honor of his arrival, and the final evening in my Ponte Vecchio apartment, I hosted a proper cocktail party. This really translates to: a perfect excuse to go from butcher to cheese stand to vegetable stand with actual reason to buy. One of the more fun hours I have spent in recent memory.
I enrolled in a third week of school before I leave for the farm on the 28th, and so, will be moving into my dad and Kims apartment on Villa Della Vigna Nuova for the upcoming week. From NYC to Florence, seems as though we are the 2007 version of Three’s Company.
Additional waiters and bar-men befriended this week:
Giuseppe.
Francesco.
Armando.
22 Ottobre
I have just returned from my third consecutive day of a due bottiglia di vino lunch. Allora! My father must be in town!
What am I ever going to do if my schedule doesn’t include vino rosso from 2pm until, well, the end of the evening?
It is the start of my third week in Florence, and it’s beginning to feel very intimate and cozy here. I fairly confidently know my way around town, and am loving when Italians stop to ask me for directions. I can’t answer them all that well, but the mere question gives me an extra little spring in my step.
This morning marked the beginning of Elementary Italian, Part 3. School and I are really starting to hit it off. 10 of us from the last session all moved together to the next level, and we have two new teachers who I think are brilliantly dramatic and patient and wise. We are the oddest group of 10 (I think it bad luck to delve into particular individual’s oddities until I’ve at least left Florence…stay tuned…) but it’s an oddness that creates one of the more endearing, supportive & comedic dynamics. We sit around a small conference table, and absolutely not one word of English is to be uttered. I make a lot of facial expressions and exclaiming of “oy” - a substitution that I declare universal and completely acceptable.
The weekend was filled with everything cultural that happens outside of museum or church walls. Molto shopping, eating, wandering, and people watching. I could write a separate novel on how to navigate a car from Florence to Siena, but alas, I will leave pedestrian hopping and winding roads to your imagination. We drove to Siena Saturday morning to eat lunch at a restaurant that is a favorite of the papa’s. We drank delicious wine that was accompanied by one of the more graceful, beautiful decanting presentations by a waiter I have ever witnessed. Siena is truly lovely. Unbelievably quaint, intricately designed, friendly, lively, and for lack of a better description, extraordinarily pleasing to eye and the soul.
For future reference, please note: After lunch (and two bottles of Brunello), my father is excellent to go shopping with. It goes something like this: Dad picks out women’s clothes that he wishes he could wear, and instead (thankfully) hands them to you to try on. It is best if in this situation, you a) ask very few questions and b) just go with it. Try on the clothes, and, if they fit, you will most like become the owner of them. Cashmere and tweeds are the new olive picking fashion, si?
We spent Sunday morning in Fiesole – a hill town just north of Firenze. Again, I could share more car stories, but again, the lunch and the wine and breathtaking views were much less stressful and much more interesting.
Since we clearly haven’t been eating enough, last night I escorted my roomie’s to my favorite bar for apertivo. Good drinks, good music, and single men everywhere. Though one may consider a father to be an obstacle in respects to the manhunt, I officially declare my father to be an excellent wingman. Stay tuned for how he progresses with his newly assigned wingman duties. Five days left in Florence with a language to master and a date to be had.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Tums for Breakfast, Bicycles at Lunch, and Robert: My New Admirer
12 October, 11pm.
One glass vino rosso. One glass vin santo. One glass limoncello. One glass moscato.
These describe the contents of my place setting at the end of dinner Friday night. None were ordered, none were paid for, all were consumed. Correction - this was actually the 2nd glass of vin santo and, as I had trouble stomaching the first, the vin santo glass remained full, but it’s two plates of accompanying biscotti easily found a home.
Welcome to dinner at Il Latini. A tourist trap meets old school Florentine hang out. A pig adorns the bar upon entrance and prosciutto hams hang from the ceiling. A vegetarian’s paradise. And one of the most memorable dinners I have ever experienced.
The evening played out something like this:
Arrive by 7:30pm to wait with the masses outside the closed doors of the restaurant. At precisely 7:30pm, the waiters begin to call in the amusing mix of diners. You must have a reservation, and once they call your party, you are escorted to your table – all communal style seating.
One of the waiters recognizes my friend Alexandra from her previous dining experience this past summer. (Alexandra is one of the tallest, skinniest, blondest woman I know, complete with a killer British accent.) We are seated with two other Americans; a mother/daughter couple from Boston who are touring Tuscany, celebrating the mother’s 87th birthday.
Menus do exist at Il Latini, but it’s much easier and much more fun to be served the traditional set meal, with bottomless, and I mean bottomless, vino.
Upon being seated, we are brought plates of sliced prosciutto, mozzarella and tomato, bruschetta, salami, pate, and a basket of sickly delicious bread. There is a quart of Chianti on the table that goes down easier than water. Within 10 minutes of our arrival, we make a pact to close the place down and to stay until we were chummy enough with the wait staff to make for an even more festive return visit.
Our waiter asks if we next want zuppa or pasta. I go for zuppa, Alexandra for the pasta. He comes back with two bowls for each of us. That would be two different zuppa’s and two different pastas. A ravioli dish, a rigatoni dish, a spinach & bean based soup, and a tomato based soup. Everything is simple and delicious. And somehow, four more bowls return to kitchen already cleaned.
This is when the cow enters the picture….
I had been craving my first authentic bistecca alla fiorentina. Since the Binazzi dinners, I hadn’t actually had much in the way of a full meal. I had been doing a lot of panini grabbing and counting free bar snacks as dinner. And so, I was ready. I was also completely and totally full by the time we reach this portion of the evening…
We ask for one bistecca and say we’ll share. We also ask for some vegetables. And quite wisely, I think, nix the potatoes. Most of the fun at this point is to see what is coming out to all the other tables. It’s the most random variation of mass quantities of deliciousness. Veal chops, chicken, meats, pork, and bowl and bowls of pasta. Everyone seems utterly happy.
The waiter arrives with two bistecca’s. Two! In other words, A Cow. And it tastes so obscenely good. He also brings spinach, roasted peppers, zucchini, and folks at a table a few down from us pass along some of their white beans. We are making excellent progress on the gallon of Chianti, but we are not breathing all that well. We have the remaining bistecca wrapped to go, and are brought vin santo and biscotti. We have successfully turned down the full array of desserts, though another neighboring table pass us some of theirs. We are now nearing the three hour mark on dinner, and are the only folks left in our grouping of tables. An Italian family of 10 arrive, so we are asked to move to another table. This is when we are brought an entire bottle of moscato, another glass of vin santo, a glass of limoncello, and more wine. Then the waiter asks if we want coffee. Ha! All I need is a stomach pump and a wagon to roll myself back to New York in.
There is a head mama and a head papa at Il Latini. The head mama does not look like one to be messed with. There are no other women working in the restaurant and I get the feeling none of the men second guess her demands. The head papa has a bit more of a jolly demeanor. He also comes to each table and delivers the bill. We kindly request a “small bill.” In true Saturday Night Live skit fashion, the head papa and our waiter meet at our table to discuss the contents of our meal. Then the head papa scribbles some numbers directly onto our tablecloth, scratches some more of them out, and wa-la, delivers a price. Grazie mille! We pay a fraction of what we decide we should have.
Nearly successful in our goal to close the restaurant, we head outside while chatting up some of the waiters. They take a break, offering us cigarettes, leaning against their vespas. Is this for real? When I tell them I live in Manhattan, they ask me all about Babbo. And they love when I tell them that Mario Battali walks around the neighborhood wearing orange crocs. We have plans to return next week, and are offered a post- Il Latini drink or discoteca night out. Then they bring us the Il Latini labeled bottle of wine (I saw all the tourists leaving with these…) with personalized hand written notes all over the label.
I giggle myself all the way home. Then take advil and tums, and a second dose when I wake up Saturday morning.
13 October 10:57am – Firenze train station.
I walk to Track 1 to board the train to Lucca. This is not the correct train. I have bought the ticket for the wrong train, and the train I actually want to board will leave from Track 5 at 11:37. I get to cause a whole fun scene with the conductors at Track 5, asking them (in very broken Italian) if I can use the ticket I have already bought for the train I actually need to take. I even get to go in the back, to the fancy conductor’s office, to sort out the situation. The 11:37 manages to leave on time, and I’m en route to Lucca...taking a solo excursion to explore the city for the day.
I love Lucca. It reminds me of why I wanted to come to Italy, and why I can’t wait to get to Siena to explore all of the small towns in Tuscany. Lucca is enclosed by 16th and 17th century walls and entered by one of six gates. I rent a bike for the day – as the Lucchesi prefer bikes to cars as their means of transport. I cycle the four kilometers along the top of the city walls, and then wind myself through all of the little streets and piazzas. I am riding the bike similarly to how an NYC taxi drive drives. It’s kind of a fun game to attempt sightseeing on tiny narrow streets, while simultaneously dodging cars, bikes, and the very wandering window shopper.
As I turn down a beautiful, quiet, peaceful street, a clothespin almost lands on my head. A woman is leaning out of her window, hanging laundry to dry, and accidently drops the clothespin. It misses me by about a foot, and all I can I think is that this is my very favorite moment of the whole day. Shouldn’t we all have a Saturday where a clothespin almost lands on our head?
October 14, 6pm
Il Rifrullo – Via San Niccolo
I am finishing a glass of Prosecco that has been bought for me my Robert. Robert is somewhere in his 60’s or 70’s, and has lived in Florence, in the house cattycorner from this bar, all of his life. Robert still thinks very fondly of Americans because of all of the work they did to help restore the damaged art and homes after the flood of 1966. By the end of this drink, I’m thinking Robert is thinking a little too fondly of me.
I discover this bar through my hours of wandering. It is off the beaten path and has a good all around feel. Turns out this is Robert’s second home. He is like the mayor of this intersection of streets. Robert is asking me questions in English that I am answering in Italian, but I am trying to make the point that his speaking English is not helping me, as English is the one language I seem to have mastered. Robert is a slight hoot. He wants me to meet him at this bar any night from 9pm on so that he can help me learn Italian. I tell him I am in Italy writing about all of the characters that I meet so he be better be careful what he says. Robert is not actually skeevy. He has quite a good sense of humor, and I’m getting a kick out of his attempts to get me to commit to plans with him. He tells me he is very fond of the name Katie and that “I should never gamble for love”. Huh? What? Alas, I have enrolled the British gals to go there with me tomorrow night…
One glass vino rosso. One glass vin santo. One glass limoncello. One glass moscato.
These describe the contents of my place setting at the end of dinner Friday night. None were ordered, none were paid for, all were consumed. Correction - this was actually the 2nd glass of vin santo and, as I had trouble stomaching the first, the vin santo glass remained full, but it’s two plates of accompanying biscotti easily found a home.
Welcome to dinner at Il Latini. A tourist trap meets old school Florentine hang out. A pig adorns the bar upon entrance and prosciutto hams hang from the ceiling. A vegetarian’s paradise. And one of the most memorable dinners I have ever experienced.
The evening played out something like this:
Arrive by 7:30pm to wait with the masses outside the closed doors of the restaurant. At precisely 7:30pm, the waiters begin to call in the amusing mix of diners. You must have a reservation, and once they call your party, you are escorted to your table – all communal style seating.
One of the waiters recognizes my friend Alexandra from her previous dining experience this past summer. (Alexandra is one of the tallest, skinniest, blondest woman I know, complete with a killer British accent.) We are seated with two other Americans; a mother/daughter couple from Boston who are touring Tuscany, celebrating the mother’s 87th birthday.
Menus do exist at Il Latini, but it’s much easier and much more fun to be served the traditional set meal, with bottomless, and I mean bottomless, vino.
Upon being seated, we are brought plates of sliced prosciutto, mozzarella and tomato, bruschetta, salami, pate, and a basket of sickly delicious bread. There is a quart of Chianti on the table that goes down easier than water. Within 10 minutes of our arrival, we make a pact to close the place down and to stay until we were chummy enough with the wait staff to make for an even more festive return visit.
Our waiter asks if we next want zuppa or pasta. I go for zuppa, Alexandra for the pasta. He comes back with two bowls for each of us. That would be two different zuppa’s and two different pastas. A ravioli dish, a rigatoni dish, a spinach & bean based soup, and a tomato based soup. Everything is simple and delicious. And somehow, four more bowls return to kitchen already cleaned.
This is when the cow enters the picture….
I had been craving my first authentic bistecca alla fiorentina. Since the Binazzi dinners, I hadn’t actually had much in the way of a full meal. I had been doing a lot of panini grabbing and counting free bar snacks as dinner. And so, I was ready. I was also completely and totally full by the time we reach this portion of the evening…
We ask for one bistecca and say we’ll share. We also ask for some vegetables. And quite wisely, I think, nix the potatoes. Most of the fun at this point is to see what is coming out to all the other tables. It’s the most random variation of mass quantities of deliciousness. Veal chops, chicken, meats, pork, and bowl and bowls of pasta. Everyone seems utterly happy.
The waiter arrives with two bistecca’s. Two! In other words, A Cow. And it tastes so obscenely good. He also brings spinach, roasted peppers, zucchini, and folks at a table a few down from us pass along some of their white beans. We are making excellent progress on the gallon of Chianti, but we are not breathing all that well. We have the remaining bistecca wrapped to go, and are brought vin santo and biscotti. We have successfully turned down the full array of desserts, though another neighboring table pass us some of theirs. We are now nearing the three hour mark on dinner, and are the only folks left in our grouping of tables. An Italian family of 10 arrive, so we are asked to move to another table. This is when we are brought an entire bottle of moscato, another glass of vin santo, a glass of limoncello, and more wine. Then the waiter asks if we want coffee. Ha! All I need is a stomach pump and a wagon to roll myself back to New York in.
There is a head mama and a head papa at Il Latini. The head mama does not look like one to be messed with. There are no other women working in the restaurant and I get the feeling none of the men second guess her demands. The head papa has a bit more of a jolly demeanor. He also comes to each table and delivers the bill. We kindly request a “small bill.” In true Saturday Night Live skit fashion, the head papa and our waiter meet at our table to discuss the contents of our meal. Then the head papa scribbles some numbers directly onto our tablecloth, scratches some more of them out, and wa-la, delivers a price. Grazie mille! We pay a fraction of what we decide we should have.
Nearly successful in our goal to close the restaurant, we head outside while chatting up some of the waiters. They take a break, offering us cigarettes, leaning against their vespas. Is this for real? When I tell them I live in Manhattan, they ask me all about Babbo. And they love when I tell them that Mario Battali walks around the neighborhood wearing orange crocs. We have plans to return next week, and are offered a post- Il Latini drink or discoteca night out. Then they bring us the Il Latini labeled bottle of wine (I saw all the tourists leaving with these…) with personalized hand written notes all over the label.
I giggle myself all the way home. Then take advil and tums, and a second dose when I wake up Saturday morning.
13 October 10:57am – Firenze train station.
I walk to Track 1 to board the train to Lucca. This is not the correct train. I have bought the ticket for the wrong train, and the train I actually want to board will leave from Track 5 at 11:37. I get to cause a whole fun scene with the conductors at Track 5, asking them (in very broken Italian) if I can use the ticket I have already bought for the train I actually need to take. I even get to go in the back, to the fancy conductor’s office, to sort out the situation. The 11:37 manages to leave on time, and I’m en route to Lucca...taking a solo excursion to explore the city for the day.
I love Lucca. It reminds me of why I wanted to come to Italy, and why I can’t wait to get to Siena to explore all of the small towns in Tuscany. Lucca is enclosed by 16th and 17th century walls and entered by one of six gates. I rent a bike for the day – as the Lucchesi prefer bikes to cars as their means of transport. I cycle the four kilometers along the top of the city walls, and then wind myself through all of the little streets and piazzas. I am riding the bike similarly to how an NYC taxi drive drives. It’s kind of a fun game to attempt sightseeing on tiny narrow streets, while simultaneously dodging cars, bikes, and the very wandering window shopper.
As I turn down a beautiful, quiet, peaceful street, a clothespin almost lands on my head. A woman is leaning out of her window, hanging laundry to dry, and accidently drops the clothespin. It misses me by about a foot, and all I can I think is that this is my very favorite moment of the whole day. Shouldn’t we all have a Saturday where a clothespin almost lands on our head?
October 14, 6pm
Il Rifrullo – Via San Niccolo
I am finishing a glass of Prosecco that has been bought for me my Robert. Robert is somewhere in his 60’s or 70’s, and has lived in Florence, in the house cattycorner from this bar, all of his life. Robert still thinks very fondly of Americans because of all of the work they did to help restore the damaged art and homes after the flood of 1966. By the end of this drink, I’m thinking Robert is thinking a little too fondly of me.
I discover this bar through my hours of wandering. It is off the beaten path and has a good all around feel. Turns out this is Robert’s second home. He is like the mayor of this intersection of streets. Robert is asking me questions in English that I am answering in Italian, but I am trying to make the point that his speaking English is not helping me, as English is the one language I seem to have mastered. Robert is a slight hoot. He wants me to meet him at this bar any night from 9pm on so that he can help me learn Italian. I tell him I am in Italy writing about all of the characters that I meet so he be better be careful what he says. Robert is not actually skeevy. He has quite a good sense of humor, and I’m getting a kick out of his attempts to get me to commit to plans with him. He tells me he is very fond of the name Katie and that “I should never gamble for love”. Huh? What? Alas, I have enrolled the British gals to go there with me tomorrow night…
Thursday, October 11, 2007
The Binazzi Fall Out & The New Firenze
10 October - 4:41pm.
Bottle of open prosecco. Italian books sprawled across desk.
I’ve been here six days, though more accurately described as a 144 hour mini-series.
The popping of the prosecco cork was reward for completing my self-induced Italian homework. I should be writing this in Italian, but my brain hurts. Verb conjugations and my teacher’s pronunciation is running through my head in fast forward, and hence, the need for some prosecco induced numbing of the mind. My teacher also assigned an actual legit writing exercise, so no need for me to go totally overboard here...
The past three days have had a slightly manic quality. Or maybe it’s just me. Regardless, here goes…in a slightly chronological mush...
7 October - Midnight.
After writing the last “blog” entry, in which I attempted to give a positive spin to how I was actually feeling, I spent the remainder of the evening in tears. In our very techy Macintosh savvy world, I had the pleasure of Videochatting with my family, which was a scene all of its own. I was simultaneously laughing and crying so hard that I couldn’t even speak. And every time I tried to talk, I felt the way you do when you are 11 years old at overnight camp, trying to whisper to your bunkmate after “lights out,” while the one token nasty counselor is on duty for the night. Granted, having slept a combined ten hours since my arrival three days before, I was beyond exhausted. But I was also feeling very off about living so far out of the city center, and about living alone with Signora Binazzi. The thought of returning to her home every night by 8pm to eat a TV dinner - Italian style - without anywhere to easily go out to afterwards, seemed, well, molto depressing. And my gut, which has tended to work for me in the past, was telling me this was not feeling so right.
1am/ 2am/ 3am/ 4am/ 5am:
My insomnia took on a mixture of cognizant and hallucinatory thoughts.
I knew it was a living situation that I could try to make the best of, and one that I could certainly get through. But I also knew that I had three weeks in Florence to make the absolute most of my experience. And it felt as though I might as well be living with a widowed grandmother in Queens.
I was a 40 minute walk to the center of Florence, or a somewhat sketchy bus ride home if I were to go out late at night. She didn’t serve any wine with dinner. And I was served so much pasta, I thought I was going to burst. But, vino, food, and all trivial bits aside, in all honesty, I didn’t know what to think or do. I had opted to live with a family because, in my head, I invented a very authentic Italian family experience. I imagined my own adopted Italian family – with long family dinners, and a taste of true Florentine culture. While I was aware that this was my fantasy, I didn’t expect my reality to slap me so hard in the face. I felt lonely and sad, but mostly I felt like, “Why the fuck am I here?”
***7 October - Side Note:
I learned two important things this day:
1) If you are waiting for the light to change to cross the street, and an Italian guy who is waiting next to you starts talking to you, and he starts walking with you and talking and talking and talking….and you realize that this is actually kind of funny because it’s helping your Italian…and you can’t get away from him because he is walking with you block for block… and he is going to follow you whether you make a right or left turn, give him your phone number. Really, it’s true! It’s the only thing that will make him stop walking with you, and you never actually have to answer your phone. Let him think that the dumb American is actually going to go to the discoteca with him later that night.
2) Along the same lines as number one – do not set up the voicemail on your Italian cell phone. This is an excellent preventative measure. For example, Alessandro, the very sweet, but over anxious waiter, keeps calling me. And texting me. But without a voicemail message, he is not leaving messages. So I am not guilty of not returning his phone calls.
Allora…
8 October - 7:45 am.
Breakfast with Signora Binazzi. I am served brioche with a side of toast. Not exactly high fiber cereal and yogurt, but she makes very good caffe and we watch the morning news.
8 – 8:40am
I walk to Scuola Leonardo da Vinci
8:45am.
I am handed the written portion of my Italian placement test.
8:45- 9:05am
I feel like I am back in high school Latin class. I am trying to conjugate verbs and outsmart multiple choice questions.
9:15 am
I am given the oral portion of my Italian placement test.
9:30am
I meet Andrew. Andrew is finishing his test at the same time as me. He is a sound engineer from LA and is the first person I have spoken English with in 3 days. He feels just as Italian illiterate as I do. We are told to come back to the school at 11am to find out what class we are in, so Andrew and I take a walk and have coffee. Since I haven’t been able to communicate the riveting inner workings of my mind, in person, to any other American, Andrew gets the full download. Poor guy.
11am
I am placed in Level 1 / Part 2.
Part 2??? What happened to Level 1/ Part 1?
11am – 1pm
My first conversational Italian class. There are 12 of us, and Andrew is placed in the same class. Along with 10 other people who seem to understand and speak much much much better Italian than I do.
1pm
I make it through class, but consider switching down to Level 1/ Part 1.
1:05pm
I meet Alexandra. A very cool girl from London who is in my class. Alexandra has been at the school for the past two weeks, and has just completed Level 1/ Part 1. She said Part 1 is too easy, and I should stay in Part 2. Easy? What’s easy when you don’t speak Italian, but are learning it in a class where they won’t speak any English, and they assume you already understand the basics? I can speak a little, but I certainly do not have a grasp on the 40 hours of grammar and vocabulary that was taught in the “easy” course. Alas, I talk to the teacher and decide to stick it out in Part 2.
1:05pm continued
I am talking to Alexandra and another girl from my class about my living situation. It strikes me that I am in Florence, having just finished my first day of school, excited and making new friends, but completely preoccupied by my living situation. The girls tell me that it is in the housing contract that if you are not happy within the first three days of a housing situation, you can switch without a financial penalty. So, I decide to go back to the school administration and look into my options. I learn that there are no other family boarding options any closer to the city center, and that all of the school owned apartments are completely booked. I leave the school again and start walking, feeling pretty much like shit. Once I’ve outwardly expressed the disappointment in my housing, it all seems that much more real and that much worse. I go back to the school again to confirm that there is no other way to get an apartment. One of the administrators tells me that they can help me find me an apartment, but it will most likely cost 1000 Euro for two weeks. Obscene. I leave the school again. I telephone family, talk the situation through, and decide to return to the school once more to explore the option of them helping to find me an apartment. Just in case. The head housing honcho, Katerina, says, come with me, and takes me to her office. She tells me that she has one broker she can call to see if there is anything. She dials Rachel. Rachel answers the phone, and says, “Actually, I am standing in an apartment that just had a cancellation, and is now available from tomorrow morning until the 20th of October. Exactly the dates I need. I get on the phone with Rachel, who switches from Italian to English, and now sounds like your standard Manhattan real estate broker. I am in near hysterics. Rachel gives me a rundown of the apartment, which sounds fabulous, and then I hold my breath while she tells me the price. When I hear that it is within 50 Euro of what I was to pay Signora Binazzi, I take it. Rachel says she will be at the school to talk everything through with me in 20 minutes.
Approx 2:30pm
I meet Rachel. She’s a hoot. She becomes the second English speaker that I download my brain to. She fully supports the move, sympathizing with my feelings on the Binazzi home, and my desire to live amidst the center of the action in my short time in the city.
We agree that I will meet her to get the keys and move into the new apartment before school begins at 8:15am the next morning.
Please note: Katerina, the head honcho housing woman at the school, says no problemo to leave the Binazzi’s. She says that I need to pay Signora Binzazzi for the two nights that I stayed and that is all. Finito. This information is important for later in the story.
2:35 pm
I leave school. My phone rings. I fail to screen the call, and it’s Alessandro. He is somewhat asking me to go out later that night. Instead, I agree to meet him at his restaurant at 5:30 when he starts work. I guess this is my Italian version of getting free wine.
5:30pm
I arrive at the Enoteca and he tells me I look splendimente. This is why I love Italy. Even after not sleeping for 6 days and having puffy eyes, you can look splendimente. In my very best Italian, I download the new housing situation. I’ll admit, it’s quite fun to have someone patiently listening to you, while serving you free wine & showering you with compliments. During this time, I get a call from my new friend Alexandra, who wants to come meet up for a drink. I tell her to meet me at the Enoteca, and she says she’s on her way. In my stroke of good luck for the day, she arrives right on time. Alessandro has been serving other customers, but comes back to my table and – while I am only understanding every few words – he is asking me how I feel about him. What do you know? Before I have to answer, Alexandra arrives at the table.
7pm
I have to leave Alexandra, Amy (a friend of Alexandra’s who has also joined us) and the free pizzas that Alessandro has been bringing to the table. I must be at the house by 8pm for dinner, and to break the news to the Signora that I’m moving out.
8pm - The beginning of hell.
I get in my first Italian fight. Nothing physical, but there was a brief moment where I couldn’t be certain that she wouldn’t smack me. When I first tell Binazzi the moving news, it seems to be going okay. But then I get the silent treatment during dinner. I am not even hungry, but I am eating a full bowl of rigatoni, Cornish game hen with a side of bread, and fried breaded mushrooms. Binazzi gets mad and will not let up. We also have a slight language barrier, so pardon the expression, but we’re a little lost in translation. I feel terrible. She is counting on the money and the more she thinks about the fact that she will now have an empty room, the angrier she is getting. I am pleading with her. Trying to explain my thought process (mostly unsuccessfully) and that the school emphatically okayed all of this. Somewhere at this point, she decides that she is going to go to the school with me at 9am the next day because she does not believe me.
9pm
I go to my room. I don’t know if I should pack, if I should cry, or if I should do my Italian homework. I decide on a combination of the three.
8 October - between 12am and 6am.
A little more insomnia, but with a whole lot less cognizant and hallucinatory thoughts.
7am
My alarm goes off. I tiptoe around and finish the last of my packing.
7:45am
I call for a taxi to take me and all of my luggage to my new apartment. I tell Binazzi goodbye, and she says she will see me at the school at 9am.
7:45 – 8:10am
The taxi has not come and I can not get another one.
8:12am
I call Rachel, the broker, and she calls another taxi company and tells me a different one is on its way.
8:18am
Binazzi comes outside to get on the bus to go to the school. In a scene from a movie, she walks out the door, cane and trash bag in hand, looks at me still waiting for the cab, and gives a me a hand gesture that only suggests – ha – serves you right that you are still here waiting for a cab. At this moment, I am feeling really good about myself.
8:25am
The cab arrives. I am now on the phone with Commerce Bank. This is almost as bad as my T-mobile phone calls. They have put a stop on my account because when I was trying to pay my bills on line, I had an internet issue that resulted in my screwing up the security questions on my account. Essentially, I locked myself out of my own account. At the same time, the bank was having its own problem resetting the account, and said it would take 24 hours. Excellent news, as I had to pay for the apartment in cash and I could not get any money out.
8:37am
I arrive at Via Por San Maria, Numero 2. This is the street that becomes the Ponte Vecchio, just off Piazza Della Signora. I come upstairs to the apartment and it’s beautiful. I can’t believe this is mine for 2 weeks. Rachel keeps saying that she knows it is simple, and blah blah blah. I remind her that I live in New York, and this is like a penthouse in my mind. I have a huge living room with windows that open to the street—the Ponte Vecchio is to the left, a view of the Duomo to the right. It’s unreal. There is a full kitchen, a huge bedroom, hallway, and full bathroom. I am in complete and total awe. At this moment I think, why don’t I just live here and go to school full time? Thank god the apartment is rented out on the 20th and that I have a commitment on the farm, or I would be in an even more serious mind twist of what to do with my life.
8:51am
I haul ass to school. Somehow I arrive just as the 9am bell goes off.
I walk through the main reception area, and there, sitting on a chair is Binazzi. (This is the next act of the movie.) I find head honcho housing woman, and she assures me that everything is okay. I’m elated about my new apartment, but otherwise, am a total frazzled wreck. This is so not part of my Italian no - frazzle plan. I feel like the New Yorker who comes to Italy to cause the scene of all scenes. In the end, I pay Binazzi for the two nights I stayed. I, along, with the administrators, re-explain to her that the move was nothing personal, nothing against her, that her home was clean and lovely, but that it was a better experience for me to be in the center of town. I try to bid her a sincere farewell, but she won’t have much of it. This is the second time that morning that I’m feeling really good about myself.
1pm
Class ends and I feel like 15,000 pounds of bricks have been lifted off my shoulders. I am thrilled about school, I can’t wait to get to my apartment, and I announce to my class to all come over that night for wine. I actually feel like myself again.
7pm
I host my first vino party at my apartment. It ends up being my two British girlfriends, who are very lovely, very bright, and I think a little bit fancy in London. They both graduated law school in London, and are here taking some time off before they start work at their fancy corporate firms. They mentioned a party they were at with Prince William, and, well, that was funny. They are both incredibly down to earth women and its nice to have some easy going friends that just feel comfortable to explore the city with.
10 October - 7:45am
I wake up after my first amazingly good night of sleep. I feel like a new person.
1pm
School a little bit kicks my ass, but I decide I am going to stay on for a third week of lessons before I go to the farm. Even though I mostly feel like an idiot, my teachers and classmates create an environment where I can feel somewhat secure in class. We have different grammar and conversational teachers -- Grammar from 9 to 10:45am with Sara, Conversation from 11:15 to 1pm with Fiora. Both are tiny, beautiful, young, animated Italian women who have more patience than anyone I know.
Present moment:
Everyone reading this should come visit. Hop on a flight this weekend and you have a free place to stay, with all the Chianti you can drink. Or just call. The cell (though no voicemail) is working: 011 39 377 305 4810
Bottle of open prosecco. Italian books sprawled across desk.
I’ve been here six days, though more accurately described as a 144 hour mini-series.
The popping of the prosecco cork was reward for completing my self-induced Italian homework. I should be writing this in Italian, but my brain hurts. Verb conjugations and my teacher’s pronunciation is running through my head in fast forward, and hence, the need for some prosecco induced numbing of the mind. My teacher also assigned an actual legit writing exercise, so no need for me to go totally overboard here...
The past three days have had a slightly manic quality. Or maybe it’s just me. Regardless, here goes…in a slightly chronological mush...
7 October - Midnight.
After writing the last “blog” entry, in which I attempted to give a positive spin to how I was actually feeling, I spent the remainder of the evening in tears. In our very techy Macintosh savvy world, I had the pleasure of Videochatting with my family, which was a scene all of its own. I was simultaneously laughing and crying so hard that I couldn’t even speak. And every time I tried to talk, I felt the way you do when you are 11 years old at overnight camp, trying to whisper to your bunkmate after “lights out,” while the one token nasty counselor is on duty for the night. Granted, having slept a combined ten hours since my arrival three days before, I was beyond exhausted. But I was also feeling very off about living so far out of the city center, and about living alone with Signora Binazzi. The thought of returning to her home every night by 8pm to eat a TV dinner - Italian style - without anywhere to easily go out to afterwards, seemed, well, molto depressing. And my gut, which has tended to work for me in the past, was telling me this was not feeling so right.
1am/ 2am/ 3am/ 4am/ 5am:
My insomnia took on a mixture of cognizant and hallucinatory thoughts.
I knew it was a living situation that I could try to make the best of, and one that I could certainly get through. But I also knew that I had three weeks in Florence to make the absolute most of my experience. And it felt as though I might as well be living with a widowed grandmother in Queens.
I was a 40 minute walk to the center of Florence, or a somewhat sketchy bus ride home if I were to go out late at night. She didn’t serve any wine with dinner. And I was served so much pasta, I thought I was going to burst. But, vino, food, and all trivial bits aside, in all honesty, I didn’t know what to think or do. I had opted to live with a family because, in my head, I invented a very authentic Italian family experience. I imagined my own adopted Italian family – with long family dinners, and a taste of true Florentine culture. While I was aware that this was my fantasy, I didn’t expect my reality to slap me so hard in the face. I felt lonely and sad, but mostly I felt like, “Why the fuck am I here?”
***7 October - Side Note:
I learned two important things this day:
1) If you are waiting for the light to change to cross the street, and an Italian guy who is waiting next to you starts talking to you, and he starts walking with you and talking and talking and talking….and you realize that this is actually kind of funny because it’s helping your Italian…and you can’t get away from him because he is walking with you block for block… and he is going to follow you whether you make a right or left turn, give him your phone number. Really, it’s true! It’s the only thing that will make him stop walking with you, and you never actually have to answer your phone. Let him think that the dumb American is actually going to go to the discoteca with him later that night.
2) Along the same lines as number one – do not set up the voicemail on your Italian cell phone. This is an excellent preventative measure. For example, Alessandro, the very sweet, but over anxious waiter, keeps calling me. And texting me. But without a voicemail message, he is not leaving messages. So I am not guilty of not returning his phone calls.
Allora…
8 October - 7:45 am.
Breakfast with Signora Binazzi. I am served brioche with a side of toast. Not exactly high fiber cereal and yogurt, but she makes very good caffe and we watch the morning news.
8 – 8:40am
I walk to Scuola Leonardo da Vinci
8:45am.
I am handed the written portion of my Italian placement test.
8:45- 9:05am
I feel like I am back in high school Latin class. I am trying to conjugate verbs and outsmart multiple choice questions.
9:15 am
I am given the oral portion of my Italian placement test.
9:30am
I meet Andrew. Andrew is finishing his test at the same time as me. He is a sound engineer from LA and is the first person I have spoken English with in 3 days. He feels just as Italian illiterate as I do. We are told to come back to the school at 11am to find out what class we are in, so Andrew and I take a walk and have coffee. Since I haven’t been able to communicate the riveting inner workings of my mind, in person, to any other American, Andrew gets the full download. Poor guy.
11am
I am placed in Level 1 / Part 2.
Part 2??? What happened to Level 1/ Part 1?
11am – 1pm
My first conversational Italian class. There are 12 of us, and Andrew is placed in the same class. Along with 10 other people who seem to understand and speak much much much better Italian than I do.
1pm
I make it through class, but consider switching down to Level 1/ Part 1.
1:05pm
I meet Alexandra. A very cool girl from London who is in my class. Alexandra has been at the school for the past two weeks, and has just completed Level 1/ Part 1. She said Part 1 is too easy, and I should stay in Part 2. Easy? What’s easy when you don’t speak Italian, but are learning it in a class where they won’t speak any English, and they assume you already understand the basics? I can speak a little, but I certainly do not have a grasp on the 40 hours of grammar and vocabulary that was taught in the “easy” course. Alas, I talk to the teacher and decide to stick it out in Part 2.
1:05pm continued
I am talking to Alexandra and another girl from my class about my living situation. It strikes me that I am in Florence, having just finished my first day of school, excited and making new friends, but completely preoccupied by my living situation. The girls tell me that it is in the housing contract that if you are not happy within the first three days of a housing situation, you can switch without a financial penalty. So, I decide to go back to the school administration and look into my options. I learn that there are no other family boarding options any closer to the city center, and that all of the school owned apartments are completely booked. I leave the school again and start walking, feeling pretty much like shit. Once I’ve outwardly expressed the disappointment in my housing, it all seems that much more real and that much worse. I go back to the school again to confirm that there is no other way to get an apartment. One of the administrators tells me that they can help me find me an apartment, but it will most likely cost 1000 Euro for two weeks. Obscene. I leave the school again. I telephone family, talk the situation through, and decide to return to the school once more to explore the option of them helping to find me an apartment. Just in case. The head housing honcho, Katerina, says, come with me, and takes me to her office. She tells me that she has one broker she can call to see if there is anything. She dials Rachel. Rachel answers the phone, and says, “Actually, I am standing in an apartment that just had a cancellation, and is now available from tomorrow morning until the 20th of October. Exactly the dates I need. I get on the phone with Rachel, who switches from Italian to English, and now sounds like your standard Manhattan real estate broker. I am in near hysterics. Rachel gives me a rundown of the apartment, which sounds fabulous, and then I hold my breath while she tells me the price. When I hear that it is within 50 Euro of what I was to pay Signora Binazzi, I take it. Rachel says she will be at the school to talk everything through with me in 20 minutes.
Approx 2:30pm
I meet Rachel. She’s a hoot. She becomes the second English speaker that I download my brain to. She fully supports the move, sympathizing with my feelings on the Binazzi home, and my desire to live amidst the center of the action in my short time in the city.
We agree that I will meet her to get the keys and move into the new apartment before school begins at 8:15am the next morning.
Please note: Katerina, the head honcho housing woman at the school, says no problemo to leave the Binazzi’s. She says that I need to pay Signora Binzazzi for the two nights that I stayed and that is all. Finito. This information is important for later in the story.
2:35 pm
I leave school. My phone rings. I fail to screen the call, and it’s Alessandro. He is somewhat asking me to go out later that night. Instead, I agree to meet him at his restaurant at 5:30 when he starts work. I guess this is my Italian version of getting free wine.
5:30pm
I arrive at the Enoteca and he tells me I look splendimente. This is why I love Italy. Even after not sleeping for 6 days and having puffy eyes, you can look splendimente. In my very best Italian, I download the new housing situation. I’ll admit, it’s quite fun to have someone patiently listening to you, while serving you free wine & showering you with compliments. During this time, I get a call from my new friend Alexandra, who wants to come meet up for a drink. I tell her to meet me at the Enoteca, and she says she’s on her way. In my stroke of good luck for the day, she arrives right on time. Alessandro has been serving other customers, but comes back to my table and – while I am only understanding every few words – he is asking me how I feel about him. What do you know? Before I have to answer, Alexandra arrives at the table.
7pm
I have to leave Alexandra, Amy (a friend of Alexandra’s who has also joined us) and the free pizzas that Alessandro has been bringing to the table. I must be at the house by 8pm for dinner, and to break the news to the Signora that I’m moving out.
8pm - The beginning of hell.
I get in my first Italian fight. Nothing physical, but there was a brief moment where I couldn’t be certain that she wouldn’t smack me. When I first tell Binazzi the moving news, it seems to be going okay. But then I get the silent treatment during dinner. I am not even hungry, but I am eating a full bowl of rigatoni, Cornish game hen with a side of bread, and fried breaded mushrooms. Binazzi gets mad and will not let up. We also have a slight language barrier, so pardon the expression, but we’re a little lost in translation. I feel terrible. She is counting on the money and the more she thinks about the fact that she will now have an empty room, the angrier she is getting. I am pleading with her. Trying to explain my thought process (mostly unsuccessfully) and that the school emphatically okayed all of this. Somewhere at this point, she decides that she is going to go to the school with me at 9am the next day because she does not believe me.
9pm
I go to my room. I don’t know if I should pack, if I should cry, or if I should do my Italian homework. I decide on a combination of the three.
8 October - between 12am and 6am.
A little more insomnia, but with a whole lot less cognizant and hallucinatory thoughts.
7am
My alarm goes off. I tiptoe around and finish the last of my packing.
7:45am
I call for a taxi to take me and all of my luggage to my new apartment. I tell Binazzi goodbye, and she says she will see me at the school at 9am.
7:45 – 8:10am
The taxi has not come and I can not get another one.
8:12am
I call Rachel, the broker, and she calls another taxi company and tells me a different one is on its way.
8:18am
Binazzi comes outside to get on the bus to go to the school. In a scene from a movie, she walks out the door, cane and trash bag in hand, looks at me still waiting for the cab, and gives a me a hand gesture that only suggests – ha – serves you right that you are still here waiting for a cab. At this moment, I am feeling really good about myself.
8:25am
The cab arrives. I am now on the phone with Commerce Bank. This is almost as bad as my T-mobile phone calls. They have put a stop on my account because when I was trying to pay my bills on line, I had an internet issue that resulted in my screwing up the security questions on my account. Essentially, I locked myself out of my own account. At the same time, the bank was having its own problem resetting the account, and said it would take 24 hours. Excellent news, as I had to pay for the apartment in cash and I could not get any money out.
8:37am
I arrive at Via Por San Maria, Numero 2. This is the street that becomes the Ponte Vecchio, just off Piazza Della Signora. I come upstairs to the apartment and it’s beautiful. I can’t believe this is mine for 2 weeks. Rachel keeps saying that she knows it is simple, and blah blah blah. I remind her that I live in New York, and this is like a penthouse in my mind. I have a huge living room with windows that open to the street—the Ponte Vecchio is to the left, a view of the Duomo to the right. It’s unreal. There is a full kitchen, a huge bedroom, hallway, and full bathroom. I am in complete and total awe. At this moment I think, why don’t I just live here and go to school full time? Thank god the apartment is rented out on the 20th and that I have a commitment on the farm, or I would be in an even more serious mind twist of what to do with my life.
8:51am
I haul ass to school. Somehow I arrive just as the 9am bell goes off.
I walk through the main reception area, and there, sitting on a chair is Binazzi. (This is the next act of the movie.) I find head honcho housing woman, and she assures me that everything is okay. I’m elated about my new apartment, but otherwise, am a total frazzled wreck. This is so not part of my Italian no - frazzle plan. I feel like the New Yorker who comes to Italy to cause the scene of all scenes. In the end, I pay Binazzi for the two nights I stayed. I, along, with the administrators, re-explain to her that the move was nothing personal, nothing against her, that her home was clean and lovely, but that it was a better experience for me to be in the center of town. I try to bid her a sincere farewell, but she won’t have much of it. This is the second time that morning that I’m feeling really good about myself.
1pm
Class ends and I feel like 15,000 pounds of bricks have been lifted off my shoulders. I am thrilled about school, I can’t wait to get to my apartment, and I announce to my class to all come over that night for wine. I actually feel like myself again.
7pm
I host my first vino party at my apartment. It ends up being my two British girlfriends, who are very lovely, very bright, and I think a little bit fancy in London. They both graduated law school in London, and are here taking some time off before they start work at their fancy corporate firms. They mentioned a party they were at with Prince William, and, well, that was funny. They are both incredibly down to earth women and its nice to have some easy going friends that just feel comfortable to explore the city with.
10 October - 7:45am
I wake up after my first amazingly good night of sleep. I feel like a new person.
1pm
School a little bit kicks my ass, but I decide I am going to stay on for a third week of lessons before I go to the farm. Even though I mostly feel like an idiot, my teachers and classmates create an environment where I can feel somewhat secure in class. We have different grammar and conversational teachers -- Grammar from 9 to 10:45am with Sara, Conversation from 11:15 to 1pm with Fiora. Both are tiny, beautiful, young, animated Italian women who have more patience than anyone I know.
Present moment:
Everyone reading this should come visit. Hop on a flight this weekend and you have a free place to stay, with all the Chianti you can drink. Or just call. The cell (though no voicemail) is working: 011 39 377 305 4810
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Signora Binazzi
First of all, I can't believe I have internet right now. Today has made me feel like I've stepped back at least half a century, and typing on this computer with a full wireless signal makes me feel like I snuck off to do something very illegal.
Today was my first official Italian breakdown. It's actually still going on a little. Tears and emotional roller-coastering have been kept to a manageable scale, so all in all, quite a success. I am in my room in the home of Loriana Binazzi. Think convent meets Florentine warmth. Loriana is lovely. Truly. She made an expression today that looked so much like my Grandma Jeanne I almost fell over.
It's a nice size apartment, just outside the limits of the city center. I'm still trying to figure out if her grown daughter lives here full time or not. I think yes. She also has another daughter with an 11 month old grandson, and a son who lives nearby. She speaks very very very little English. And I think her English is better than my Italian, which is not saying much for either party. Allora...we managed to get through all of the living logistics and necessities this morning, and then had a few hours early this evening in which conversation came and went. We even sat together at the dining room table and watched the Italian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?.
But I was a slight wreck today. Today said Katie, I'm going to test your confidence and challenge your expectations on a whole new level. Today continued, I'm going to play with your determination and frustration levels until I essentially kick your ass. And Today kept on going and going and going. This is why I am very much looking forward to Tomorrow.
I am not good at being a tourist. I don't like being a tourist. I like to be in a city with a purpose and sense of belonging. And I have to remind myself that that feeling, as well as a fluency in a language, does not come overnight. Nor in 72 hours. And it doesn't matter how bad you want it.
And well, it's a little strange to have a still moment in a overstimulating city, where you look up and think, Shit! I don't know another soul here.
Alas..tomorrow is the first day of school and I feel like I should have an outfit picked out and ready by the bed... Did I mention that I have my own pink bathroom? You have to step through the shower to get to the toilet and it leaves me equally giddy and perplexed every time I walk in.
Today was my first official Italian breakdown. It's actually still going on a little. Tears and emotional roller-coastering have been kept to a manageable scale, so all in all, quite a success. I am in my room in the home of Loriana Binazzi. Think convent meets Florentine warmth. Loriana is lovely. Truly. She made an expression today that looked so much like my Grandma Jeanne I almost fell over.
It's a nice size apartment, just outside the limits of the city center. I'm still trying to figure out if her grown daughter lives here full time or not. I think yes. She also has another daughter with an 11 month old grandson, and a son who lives nearby. She speaks very very very little English. And I think her English is better than my Italian, which is not saying much for either party. Allora...we managed to get through all of the living logistics and necessities this morning, and then had a few hours early this evening in which conversation came and went. We even sat together at the dining room table and watched the Italian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?.
But I was a slight wreck today. Today said Katie, I'm going to test your confidence and challenge your expectations on a whole new level. Today continued, I'm going to play with your determination and frustration levels until I essentially kick your ass. And Today kept on going and going and going. This is why I am very much looking forward to Tomorrow.
I am not good at being a tourist. I don't like being a tourist. I like to be in a city with a purpose and sense of belonging. And I have to remind myself that that feeling, as well as a fluency in a language, does not come overnight. Nor in 72 hours. And it doesn't matter how bad you want it.
And well, it's a little strange to have a still moment in a overstimulating city, where you look up and think, Shit! I don't know another soul here.
Alas..tomorrow is the first day of school and I feel like I should have an outfit picked out and ready by the bed... Did I mention that I have my own pink bathroom? You have to step through the shower to get to the toilet and it leaves me equally giddy and perplexed every time I walk in.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
The Silver Lining to T-Mobile
Meet Alberto. The owner of Michelangelo Leather. A jacket store on a quiet block just off the main streets of the San Lorenzo market. When I left Hotel Lombardi this morning, I was headed towards the market for a second cappuccino, yapping on phone with Blackberry technical service. Welcome to Florence! Really, I was giggling to myself -- it felt absolutely no different than walking down the streets of New York City, trying to unlock the mysterious inner workings of a new service plan. The streets were loud, I couldn’t hear what the woman on the phone was saying, and I was bombarded with a series of very long pin numbers and codes that I was instructed to enter. And so, I made a right turn on Via Zannoni, and plopped my behind on a very nice marble stone on the sidewalk. I took out some scrap paper, wrote down all the numbers I supposedly needed (this ultimately lead to 2 more hours of T-mobile phone calls, but, really, its Saturday night and I’ll save you from that) and began the process of getting a foreign SIM card to work in my “international” phone. After I hung up with my T-mobile friends, Alberto appeared at the doorway of his shop. We exchanged smiles, and I, glancing at my phone and my scribbled pages of notes, added an eye roll and a sigh. He laughed, and then began speaking very, very good English. Please note: this is not the introduction to a bad Harlequin romance.
Alberto and I started chatting – about where I was from, what I was doing, etc. etc. He said “I came out to offer you a chair to sit on from the store, but you looked so busy with your business, I didn’t want to interrupt.” Ha. I let him know I was a very big fan of my sidewalk office. No civilized seating needed. Turns out Alberto is moving to New York. The Upper West Side! He is opening a high-end leather shop somewhere between the 60’s and 80’s, and asked me into the store to look over all of his architect’s design proofs. We talked store concept & location – and then he offered me 15 euro for every customer that comes into Michelangelo and mentions my name. Ha!!
Alberto just became an official US citizen (showing off his California license) and is eager to close up shop and get to NYC. He then introduced me to his brother, and invited me to come to the store anytime I want to practice my Italian in exchange for helping them with any English questions they may have. Then he gave me a huge hug and told me to wear gloves while picking olives…
I spent the rest of the day walking and walking and walking. And spent hours wandering through the Boboli and Bardini Gardens. Pretend that I actually had my camera with me today, and insert visual here: The most exquisite view from the south of the Arno, overlooking all of the Florence skyline and the hillsides to the North. Then I wandered to Piazza Santo Spirito and had an early evening glass of Prosecco. Slight glitch: I was seated at table next to three fashion models, their stylist and photographers, all finishing up a day’s shoot and discussing some sort of fabulous dinner party they were headed to. Alas, I was in my clogs and feeling a little gross.
Have now come back to the room to drop off some things, and am headed out for some vino, food, or something? Tomorrow at 10am I meet my host family…the great Binazzi’s...
Quick Addendum: I just went out to the hotel owner to buy a few minutes of internet access, and it resulted in a 20 minute Italian lesson. He teaches to immigrants in Florence, and just went through his textbooks with me. I love this city!
Alberto and I started chatting – about where I was from, what I was doing, etc. etc. He said “I came out to offer you a chair to sit on from the store, but you looked so busy with your business, I didn’t want to interrupt.” Ha. I let him know I was a very big fan of my sidewalk office. No civilized seating needed. Turns out Alberto is moving to New York. The Upper West Side! He is opening a high-end leather shop somewhere between the 60’s and 80’s, and asked me into the store to look over all of his architect’s design proofs. We talked store concept & location – and then he offered me 15 euro for every customer that comes into Michelangelo and mentions my name. Ha!!
Alberto just became an official US citizen (showing off his California license) and is eager to close up shop and get to NYC. He then introduced me to his brother, and invited me to come to the store anytime I want to practice my Italian in exchange for helping them with any English questions they may have. Then he gave me a huge hug and told me to wear gloves while picking olives…
I spent the rest of the day walking and walking and walking. And spent hours wandering through the Boboli and Bardini Gardens. Pretend that I actually had my camera with me today, and insert visual here: The most exquisite view from the south of the Arno, overlooking all of the Florence skyline and the hillsides to the North. Then I wandered to Piazza Santo Spirito and had an early evening glass of Prosecco. Slight glitch: I was seated at table next to three fashion models, their stylist and photographers, all finishing up a day’s shoot and discussing some sort of fabulous dinner party they were headed to. Alas, I was in my clogs and feeling a little gross.
Have now come back to the room to drop off some things, and am headed out for some vino, food, or something? Tomorrow at 10am I meet my host family…the great Binazzi’s...
Quick Addendum: I just went out to the hotel owner to buy a few minutes of internet access, and it resulted in a 20 minute Italian lesson. He teaches to immigrants in Florence, and just went through his textbooks with me. I love this city!
Friday, October 5, 2007
Anecdote Numero Uno
I received my first Italian male’s phone number. Is it bad taste to put names in blogs? Alesandro. A fifth year psychology student at a medical school. Or something very similar to that says my veeerrry broken Italian. He waits tables at an Enoteca in San Croce where I sought refuge from my attempt to walk the entire city today. I also got to turn down my first date invitation. Considering that I have now been awake for 33 hours, and look and feel like I have been run over by at least three tractor trailers, the thought of meeting at a stranger’s party to drink wine at midnight did not sound as appealing as I have a hunch it may sound tomorrow. Note to Kate: A shower after flying across the ocean is usually a good thing.
Buona Notte.
Buona Notte.
Flight 718
Here I am in Seat 21F. Complete with bad cabernet and requisite can of seltzer.
For the first time in my life, I had the honor of paying an overage charge for my luggage. My bag weighed in at exactly 70 lbs, resulting in a fifty-dollar scam. The very chipper US Airways check-in woman praised my ability to fit over two months worth of "things" into one bag. She emphatically supported my sentiment that it's so much better to go with one heavy bag than it is to go with two. Alas, she did not waive the fee.
Chipper woman then bumped me up to a very in-demand aisle seat.
Enter Sharon. Sharon is my new "in-demand aisle seat" airplane friend. A 50-ish Jewish mother of two from a suburb of Philadelphia that I used to compete against in high school tennis, Sharon is headed to Florence for a weeklong walking tour through Tuscany. Sharon's husband passed away a few years ago, and this is her first time truly traveling on her own. Sharon's daughter is my age, and described as a creative, funky, do-gooder, Wesleyan grad type. I think I am Sharon's adopted daughter for this leg of her trip. She is very relieved to have a partner to navigate the Rome airport and the Firenze train. I am too. We have excellent airplane rapport -- easily chatting and making fun of those around us - with no forced pressure to talk for talk's sake. We are also the only two people on this flight with empty seats between us; we are seated in a four-seat emergency exit row, and we are both on the aisle. Our legs are probably the shortest of anyone's on this plane but we have hands down the greatest room to sprawl.
This aircraft has been having some sort of electrical issue since before we took off. Supposedly it was "fixed", but has now resulted in a massive in-flight entertainment debacle. Nobody's TV's are working, and there are more than a few folks up in arms. A very sympathetic & distraught stewardess in my section started giving out consolation free booze. She brought Sharon and I two bottles of wine each. Neither of us had complained and I hadn’t even yet attempted to turn my system on. One point for USAir.
I'm slowly coming out of my 48-hour pre-departure nausea. My stomach felt a little bit like a pit stop for the butterfly migration. No particular nervousness or fear, just all the last minute doings, and the general anticipation to go already. And now that I'm on the plane, and the captain has announced that we are indeed en route to Rome, this whole thing feels just a wee bit surreal...
For the first time in my life, I had the honor of paying an overage charge for my luggage. My bag weighed in at exactly 70 lbs, resulting in a fifty-dollar scam. The very chipper US Airways check-in woman praised my ability to fit over two months worth of "things" into one bag. She emphatically supported my sentiment that it's so much better to go with one heavy bag than it is to go with two. Alas, she did not waive the fee.
Chipper woman then bumped me up to a very in-demand aisle seat.
Enter Sharon. Sharon is my new "in-demand aisle seat" airplane friend. A 50-ish Jewish mother of two from a suburb of Philadelphia that I used to compete against in high school tennis, Sharon is headed to Florence for a weeklong walking tour through Tuscany. Sharon's husband passed away a few years ago, and this is her first time truly traveling on her own. Sharon's daughter is my age, and described as a creative, funky, do-gooder, Wesleyan grad type. I think I am Sharon's adopted daughter for this leg of her trip. She is very relieved to have a partner to navigate the Rome airport and the Firenze train. I am too. We have excellent airplane rapport -- easily chatting and making fun of those around us - with no forced pressure to talk for talk's sake. We are also the only two people on this flight with empty seats between us; we are seated in a four-seat emergency exit row, and we are both on the aisle. Our legs are probably the shortest of anyone's on this plane but we have hands down the greatest room to sprawl.
This aircraft has been having some sort of electrical issue since before we took off. Supposedly it was "fixed", but has now resulted in a massive in-flight entertainment debacle. Nobody's TV's are working, and there are more than a few folks up in arms. A very sympathetic & distraught stewardess in my section started giving out consolation free booze. She brought Sharon and I two bottles of wine each. Neither of us had complained and I hadn’t even yet attempted to turn my system on. One point for USAir.
I'm slowly coming out of my 48-hour pre-departure nausea. My stomach felt a little bit like a pit stop for the butterfly migration. No particular nervousness or fear, just all the last minute doings, and the general anticipation to go already. And now that I'm on the plane, and the captain has announced that we are indeed en route to Rome, this whole thing feels just a wee bit surreal...
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