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...