One Week Countdown

We have now approached the one-week countdown mark. I already called USAirways this morning to postpone my return. My head is so checked out of NYC and so checked into Italy that I figured, what's one arbitrary return date from the next? My incredibly generous, exquisite granny gifted me her frequent flyer miles for my trip and - though I generally find USAirways to be one of the more obnoxious airlines - the ease of changing a frequent flyer flight with them makes us new found friends.

I made a deal with my sister that if I fall madly in love with an Italian/ Australian/ German (mom's praying for anyone but) or really, who am I kidding -- a male -- then her way of supporting my potentially very delayed return is to take on the role of Apartment 4B real estate agent and handle the sublet changeover. Joanna, our deal has now entered the blogosphere, and hence, is official. Ufficiale.

The past few "pre-departure weeks" have been a funny thing. I'm in this weird in-between where you're sort of biding time before you head out, but still trying to live your life. I've never really had nothing to do before. I think I kind of love it. I've never slept so (ambien-ly free) well in my life. In NYC, we are usually in a general state of busy and crazed -- our heads filled with full time work, a full time passion, and an oddly full time maintenance and juggling of a social calendar. In a city whose subculture supports defining one's identity by job, geography, and relationship status, defining myself by my impending departure has created a temporarily new New York. And I kind of welcome it. I'm not a single producer in the West Village. I'm Katie (still single) and I'm malleable. I practice a few Italian words a day. I walk around the city. I work out. I read. I attend friend's film screenings, book readings, and open-mindedly accept cocktail invitations. I buy travel adapters, and spend way too much time investigating the intricacies of using an international SIM card in a T-mobile Blackberry. I not-so-guiltily trance out to Beverly Hills 90210 reruns on Soapnet while taking inventory of my soon-to-be Italian wardrobe. I have endless hours to reflect, project, fantasize and pine. And many a days when I give myself a shake & slap, and demand that I get the hell out of my head. The highs are quite high, and the lows, well, they could use a high wattage light bulb.

I strongly believe that if you give all of yourself to creating a happy and fulfilling present - that if you give yourself fully to your friends and family, your work, your colleagues, yourself - then New York, like no place else, can offer an obscene abundance of good back to you. An Eye for An Eye: New York City style. But, if you feel as though you have little left to give in any one aspect, New York can do quite a number on you. Either curse self-awareness and go on as is, or - the better option in my humble opinion - embrace the fact that your game is slipping and it's time to change it up. If New York is going to shit on you, at least take advantage of the fact that the city nurtures transition and allows for new cycles.

Continue to indulge my pyschobabble for just a sec..

The city has not shit on me. Nor stepped on me with anything heavier than a ballet slipper. I am incredibly fortunate. And I truly have no desire to live in any other U.S. city. (Emphasis on U.S. as evidenced by my own travel plans). But I do believe you've got to give in equal parts to what you want to get. And for me to meet my own needs, that means removing, re-inventing, and redefining. Or simply, snapping out of it to snap back in. Sure, no matter where we exist geographically, there will always be shit to deal with and shitty people who make life seem like anything but fair. But, no matter where we exist geographically, we control how we navigate the "shit" -- we control how we navigate our choices, challenges, and desires. Sometimes we just need a refresher course. For me, leaving my previous work behind, allowing my spinning head to come to a slow halt, and embarking on the unknown is my own course. My own navigation system. And my attempt at combining all my little parts into creating one whole happiness.

In the meantime, I will get back to juggling the cast of characters involved in my remaining NYC evening rendezvous'.

Welcome to the Single Girls Guide to Olive Picking

I'm sitting in a downtown Manhattan loft in the depths of the trendy/trashy/booming/gritty/indulgent/vegas-esque yet historic and charming Meatpacking district. It's one of those gray and rainy fabulous New York days, the kind where you feel like its universally legit to hide from the world and order greasy chinese. Today I'm Carrie Bradshaw with a twist of Eloise. Single, ambitious, Manhattan gal with open Mac Book and wild hair, ruminating on life in the big city while living in a condo version of the Plaza, preparing to take on international adventure with the fervor and carelessness of a six-year old girl.

I'm on a three-week countdown to depart for Italy. I'm headed to Florence to take a two-week intensive language course, and then to "Trove" - a working family farm in Southern Tuscany that produces wine and olive oil on a substantial but not yet commercial basis. In exchange for four hours of work per day, I will live in the farmhouse, with all meals (and vino) provided. Apparently, the owners, Barbara & Ugo Mariotti, have a Roman-born architect son who is currently designing the renovations for the farmhouse. Roman. Born. Architect. Son. Have four more perfect words ever been strung together? I was advised by my dearest of friends not to commit to the exchange until I was aware of aforementioned son's sexual preference and status Alas...I will take my chances and fall back on the notion that in the very least, he must have friends.

My work will primarily be among the olive groves. Picking olives, as well as burning off prunings, gathering wood, and preparing the gardens for winter. I'm not really sure how to pick olives, or "burn off prunings" for that matter, but then again, there was no great strategy to Lucy's grape stomping and we're all still talking about her performance.

I am curled up at a dining room table that is covered with Frommer's Italy, Time Out Florence, a collection of women author's travel essays entitled Desiring Italy, and last evening's Barnes & Noble purchase of Italian Complete Course: The Basics. The thought of arriving in another country without a fairly decent grasp of the language makes my throat constrict, so I have implemented a daily regimen of repeating the man's voice on the beginner CD in an attempt to perfect my accent and memorize vocabulary. Truth be told, my competitive, over achieving self is most likely driven by the fact that at 8:30am on the first day of class at Scuola Leonardo da Vinci's language school, I will be tested on my oral capacity and understanding. Ewww. Tests. There is a reason that college graduation was the end of school for me.

The dining room table turned Italian literary shmorgasborad where I now sit is equivalent in size to the bedroom of the NYC apartment I actually rent. "Condo Version of the Plaza" translates to "Father's Apartment" - loosely defined as free rent in posh digs that without finding hedge fund husband extraordinaire, I could never afford. Ergo. I have sublet my studio in the West Village for four months and - details I deem unnecessary- in one month am making the same amount of cash while coffee shop hopping that I did the first two years that I worked all hours of the day producing a feature documentary film. I guess that nicely illustrates the difference between independent filmmaker and real estate mogul. And so, venturing out from the independent film world, financed by my dabblings in real estate, I invite you to join me on a re-perspectiving, fresh, simple, art of living adventure. Boys, men, married and single girls alike, welcome to the world of olive picking...