The New Tenants

This all happened a while back. It´s time to catch up. Excuse any typing errors, it´s a German keyboard. The proof? ßßßßßßßÖÖÖÖÖÖäÄÄÄÄ-. Bang.

The two new tenants of Petra Capitani´s Poggetto apartment in Florence (once my lovely home) arrived on Saturday. First Lorraine, from Ontario. I was still sleeping off a long last night of conversation and fun with my classmates when she knocked on our door at 9. Later on she shared her life´s story with me while I cleaned the kitchen, and when we sat down for a simple lunch, I told her mine. Still jetlagged, she took a nap while I finished packing.

I went outside to toss some bottles in the recycling bin. On the steps, there was a massive black suitcase and a woman in a sunhat that somehow made me think of Diane Keaton. "You must be Karen," I said, remembering what Lorraine had told me, all after hesitating and wondering what her first impression of me must have been.

Lorraine woke up, and I showed the two of them around. Like, where the grocery store was, how to get to the school, where the Baroncini gelateria was, etc. They wanted to pay me for helping them out, I wouldn´t have any of it. I just took the mere sum left from Petra´s deposit and hit the swollen, sweaty road for the train station. I was going to Viareggio again to decompress under the sun, knowing the sea wasn´t too far.

The night before, I sat on the sunwarmed steps leading up to Piazzale Michelangelo for a taste of red wine and a sunset view of the famous city I´d been calling home for a month. The voices around us were getting louder, and every now and then you´d hear the sparkle of a bottle rolling down to the bottom.

The evening finally brought us back across the Arno to a favorite bar. Then, we slipped into Santa Croce´s notorious tourist club, Twice. I can say with gusto that I´m glad I´ve only been there once. Ashley and I, the only two guys, didn´t have a ton of fun playing body bumper-cars with Ettore or Niccolo`.

I realize now, with dismay, that I never got a good picture of that yellow sign that marked out my neighborhood so well. And by good, I mean any.

Guten nacht. I´m in Frankfurt, Germany now. Yes, yes, I know that screws up the whole concept of this blog. But I´ll be returning to Italy in ten days.

-a

You Are Now Leaving Florence

As my language-teaching course slows down, I have some time to burn. I try to spend it in the center of Florence.

Outside the Uffizi Gallery, the crowd is noisy and colorful. The faces are red and shiny in the three o'clock sun, and they stutter along, open-mouthed, behind cameras of varying shape and size. Or the hunch in the shadows on marble steps, chugging a soda that cost two euro too much. Their clothing wilts off their backs, and they clap for the Czech guitarist. But they don't put any coins in his case.

Walking down a narrow street, I passed a leather store selling belts, shoes, diaries, handbags and change purses. I didn't look in the window, instead I just breathed in its rich perfume. Down the street, a girl stood in an open doorway. She was wearing leather-bound wedge heels, and tossed her hair as she shot me a glance. Right before I passed, she dropped her cigarette to the ground, and I stepped on it without breaking stride. I walked on, and I heard the door click shut behind me. Ah, stranger politics, they're great.

I just realized today that the bathroom in my flat doesn't have a lamp. It has a chandelier. Not that I'm saying I'm livin' that good, good life or anything. I mean, remember, I'm out of here in two days.

I've been surrounded in the run-down beauty of this country for a month now. I celebrated such a benchmark with a walk through the streets of my neighborhood, Poggetto. I've gotten attached to this little 'burb, it's wide streets, boutiques that make a concerted effort to not rip off the locals, the Baroncini gelateria (since 1946), the crazy discoteca where the area's teens waste time on Friday nights, and of course, the neon yellow sign that proudly designates the neighborhood: "POGGETTO," it says, vertically.

I'm gonna miss this neighborhood. But anyway, I walked up the streets, past the Franciscan church - it all ultimately let down a one-way street bordered by olive trees and ten-foot tall walls on both sides. I more or less clung to the walls as I walked, praying to every little wall-chapel I passed to not get hit by an Alfa Romeo.

At a certain point, I noticed a road sign in the distance. White, with black letters spelling "Firenze." A diagonal red line across it wasn't vandalism; it meant I was leaving Florence. And I am, in two days. I ceremoniously walked past it to admire a vista of rolling hills and villas through a blown-out chunk of the brick wall. Then, I turned around.

There's a city-wide strike tomorrow, it starts at 9AM. That means I may have to brave the grocery store, and it may feel like the night before a "snowstorm" in Charlotte.

You'll hear from me in a few days. Viareggio, it seems, is my next destination. Monday, my blog is going to take a weird turn because I'm flying from Pisa to Frankfurt, Germany. I'll meet up with some old family friends and watch the World Cup. Read, and write, always those, too.

Benedicite.
-a

Photos! and Notte Bianca

Finding myself in the streets of Florence

Backlogged on photos. Here's the BC Reunion, Roma.

Giardino di Boboli in Florence.

When I shave each morning, I turn on the radio. The stations usually alternate between English and Italian songs. It was a cloudy day when a bouncy, upbeat Italian pop song came on. I slipped and nicked myself, right on my adam's apple.

Italy has been eliminated from the World Cup. It happened on the jovial feast day of San Giovanni, Florence's 4th of July. "Each one of us knows, deep down, that Italy will lose," said Luca in his well thought-out English. "But during the game, everyone will be absolutely convinced that they will win." Well.

Some character sketches. There's one other coed roommate couple in this program, Beth and Ashley. Ashley's a Canadian guy, over-aware that 95% of all people with his name are girls. He watches football, not soccer, and enjoys the little things. Like killing mosquitoes. Beth is a professor, also 28. She has a quiet first impression but has been to Pamplona for the Running of the Bulls.

She told me that story while we stood in a crowd, tangled in a mess of parked bicycles along the Arno. With thousands of Florentines and expats we watched the red, blue and green fireworks sail skyward from Piazza Michelangelo.

The next day Beth and Ashley hosted a dinner party. We drank a wine called "Red Viper" (I think Ashley picked it out because it looked cool - it was actually fruitier than we all expected). We played a game. I'd played before, in college, but the first time I'd seen it was in the movie Inglourious Basterds. You ask yes-or-no questions to guess the name on a card stuck to your forehead. I was Meryl Streep.

As I walk down the streets in this city, I pay attention to the license plates on the cars. They usually have two letters, a space and then a jumble of more letters and numbers. I always look for the initials of friends and family.

I was a little amused, a little disgusted to find a cigarette machine right outside a pharmacy. This country, never lacking in beauty, style or art, doesn't seem to lack much irony, either. I guess it's a human thing.

Saturday night was "Notte Bianca," white night, on the other side of the Arno River. That meant live music, cheap bar prices and hundreds upon hundreds of Florentine kids leaning on lampposts and fountains under yellow spotlights. All the trashcans were filled with cups and bottles by midnight.

I'm gonna mention some of my co-teachers. Corinne and Beth jumped Alice into a grocery cart and bumped her over the cobblestones. The locals turned from their trance music to watch, and grinned. I got separated and called a roommate from the Ponte Santo Spirito. That was my night.

Bravissimi.
-a

"Poetry is an Art!"

In this country, the aperitivo is as a custom probably as old as wine itself. After work, they go to corner bars - students with backpacks and high-tops, businessmen in suits, retirees jabbering about a car accident fifteen years ago. And there's food, all you can eat, stuff like bruschetta, olives, meatballs, vegetables, that kind of thing.

At a long table at this place called Strizzi Garden, we ate, drank wine and wasted time under a dusty-colored full moon. In company were the teachers in my program, the trainees I've gotten to know so well, and the students. I spoke with this guy Luca. "Let's make a deal," he said in well-practiced English. "You call me Luke, and I call you Andrea. It's a cultural exchange."

The next day was the feast of San Giovanni, known for closed shops and fireworks at the end of the day. I clicked open my front door to the sound of birds and vespa motors.

A loaf of bread - "crushed," they call it - goes for 90 cents at the family owned store across the street. According to Florentine tradition, it has no salt. It's soft as a pillow and reminds me every time why bread is my favorite food.

I recently took the most expensive bus ride of my life. I was caught on board without a ticket and had to pay a 45 euro fine. "You must think you're such a badass," said the expression on the ticket controller's face while I fished around for enough money. Once again, I had no identification on me. It's like I want to shed my name, my age, my country.

My teaching goes on, not without hilarity. Eliciting vocabulary from students is like a really slow, really stupid-looking game of charades.

I walked past a row of restaurants at noon. Mostly empty tables and chairs under white linen pergolas, a few couples here and there sipping a modest glass of wine. I don't hear, I listen to the sounds inside as I pass - the casual clink of plates, of forks and knives, not the usual vocal buzz, but the hum of a dishwasher.

There was a man strolling through the streets a block from the Duomo, wearing a faded shirt and rubber boots pulled up to his knees. In his hands, a notebook clenched tightly, and he cried out - to no one, to everyone - "Poetry is an art!" Poor guy, born in the wrong century.

-a

RVs and Russian Ringtones

My lessons are going well. I find it ironic that my sole purpose in this program is helping people overcome the one language I want to be speaking. Walking back through the graffitied tunnel that runs under the train tracks, I see the sun set on Florence's orange horizon.

"Obey your thirst," says the ubiquitous Sprite ad we know so well. In Italy, you are merely asked to "listen to your thirst."

Friday at the bar in Piazza San Jacopino, there were only a couple customers other than me and 3 other kids in my program. One lady, chainsmoking the whole time, leaned over a carriage only to gently lift out a pet skunk. You never know what you're gonna see here.

According to the folklore of my childhood, I'm turning into a carb. Whatever that is. Probably some kind of geometric-looking, polygonal shape I haven't seen since 10th grade chemistry class. Ah nutrition facts. They're a new addition to Italian food products, apparently. "Calories" are scripted instead as "energetic value." Why would you want to count energetic value?

The head of my teaching program has confirmed it. Baroncini Gelateria is the best in Florence. The worst? I don't know for sure, but probably the ones with the brightest colors and the cheesiest flavor names.

I wake up each morning to my neighbors' shouts and the slams of doors. My arms are mosquito bitten, and I scratch them as my alarm goes off. My ringtone? This tacky and annoying Russian-sounding tune. Cultural, I know.

I'd heard of this kind of chocolate before, but I bought a bar of Ritter Sport. It's German. I hate the name though, because after eating chocolate, there's nothing I'd rather do less than a sport. I'd prefer, I think, a nap.

I was thinking back to Viareggio the other day, some of the things I heard Serena's family say. One of her father's lifelong dreams is an RV roadtrip across the United States. The stuff of novels worshipped by hipsters and B-movies starring Robin Williams. It must seem weird to Europeans, then, that we Americans want to vagabond around their continent on shoestring budgets, wearing coffin-sized backpacks.

Salute.
-a

Ro-ma, Ro-ma-ma

"There's always something going on in Rome." I've said it before, and I'll say it again.

I elevated my language status this weekend to fluent. It's a long story. Digging through my bag on the train, I realized I left my passport in my top dresser drawer in Florence. The hostel manager said I could stay the night if I had my passport number and date of issue. Only a couple hours later, my housemate texted me those superimportant numbers.

But the receptionist that evening didn't believe me, said I was making up the numbers. I had to argue with him. "Call Giancarlo," I said, "Call him now. I'm telling the truth." One phone call and five minutes later, the receptionist asked me to write down my passport number and issue date on a piece of paper that would serve as my temporary passport that night. The guy upped the price 5 euro. I obviously had to pay.

That night found me along the Tiber River with four college friends and three bottles of local wine. We talked about phases of the moon, horoscopes, the Roman Empire and the American Empire.

I posed with Conor in front of some graffiti. It read "We are mods." Keep an eye out for it on Facebook.

Conor and Rob had been experimenting with the concept of the man-purse since the beginning of their European excursion. The verdict? Useful, even if it transgresses traditional gender boundaries. What could I say? I was proud of them. I had to be. Each night in Florence, I sleep under a leopard-print blanket. Not by choice, though, not by choice.

"This is the first time we've been in a country when we had someone with us who could speak the language," my friends said. I did what I could. I translated the name of Bernini's fountain to "the sucky boat." I was antsy to speak Italian, but more importantly, I wanted to make sure no one fleeced any of us.

My friends liked people-watching as much as I do. "What's his/her nationality" was a favorite at the Trevi Fountain. In Piazza Navona, the girl eating a gelato by herself could've been waiting to meet someone. Or she could've been sad. She had square, black glasses. "Italians know how to wear glasses," I told Conor as I adjusted my own crooked pair.

Seeing my close college friends in Rome was disorienting. It didn't seem like a reunion, the gravity of that word just didn't seem to apply. We were just meeting up; it was time shared, one of those summertime get-togethers, not at all a reprise, or an epilogue. This is what it's like, being a grad.

Later, on the four-hour train ride back to Florence, I passed through towns whose names I never heard before, only saw on the labels of wine bottles in the States.

-a

Regionalizing in Flavor

My apartment room in Florence. Neighborhood, Poggetto.

Piazza del Duomo, Pietrasanta, not far from Viareggio.

I blew out my electric razor a couple days ago with an ill-fitted power adapter. So I shaved with a razorblade for the first time. Although I'm not sure that if in Italy, Gillette is the best a man can get.

Italians may lose their faith, but they'll never lose their religion. Every hill down in Tuscany is crowned with a campanile. The soil here is rich, you can tell just by looking at it. From the train window it looks yellow-brown, and out of it sprout vineyard after vineyard. The strongest roots cling to the rockiest earth, all for the best sunshine.

On Saturday I got off the train at Viareggio with a crowd of African immigrants that I'd later see on the beach, selling their counterfeit sunglasses, their bracelets, their beach towels.

The clouds swept away as we walked past the rows of orange and teal umbrellas and volleyball nets. The beach was long and wide. I lost beach rackets to my friend Serena twice. Her longtime boyfriend Stefano doesn't speak English, but he loves the sound it makes. I told him I wished I could hear what sound English makes without understanding anything.

I fell asleep on the beach. "Little shrimp," they call you when you turn pink in the sun. Thanks, Stefano, thanks.

Serena introduced me to cecina, basically, Italian fried dough. It's oily, it's crusty, it's soft on the inside, it's kind of like pizza with the consistency of an omelet. Delicious. Dinner for eight at the Marradi household is an act of provincial theatre. Signora sheds compliments and accepts no help in the kitchen. The homemade limoncello she makes is like Italian girls. It's sweet, and packs a punch. Her husband grumbles after a day's work as an engineer, but the regional wine calms him into a tender father proud of his English skills. The man has a raggy 1994 road atlas of the US.

Night in Viareggio. I sat in the backseat of the Fiat with Silvia, Serena's sister, as the four of us passed discoteca after discoteca, girls tottering along in high heels, and bright red Ferraris in our rear-view mirrors.

Sunday, I woke up at 12:30 to the sound of clinking plates and silverware. Soon enough, I was eating a thick and bloody Bistecca alla Fiorentina, the tenderest. I continued to get drilled on "American Questions."

As I returned, it rained. The train was full of disappointed faces in beachwear.

Salute. E forza.
-a

Expatria alla Fiorentina

My apartment in Florence. It's a little distant from the city center, and I like it that way. Our neighborhood is tree-lined and close enough to a grocery store.

I share this suite with Elizabeth, a 27-year old Texan. Her boyfriend is in the army, and she wanted to get outta dodge, so she's going to be here in Italy for a couple years. I'm envious. Anyway, we get along well, and our place is nice. It actually came outfitted with about 10 bottles of Tuscan wine. We wondered whose it was for about five minutes, then we opened a bottle.

Elizabeth and I somehow overran the power in our apartment, and everything shut down. Fridge, lights, everything. Ironically the electrical bill arrived on the same day.

I had just come back from the grocery store with a fridgeload of fresh meat and veggies. The lock had been changed without my knowledge, and this nice lady let me in. She and this other lady (they have to be over 80) introduced themselves to me as Maria and Francesca. We had a nice little chat about my landlady in the foyer, where i met Signore Magnini and Gnuli. They thought Elizabeth was my wife... awkward. Glad I know the neighbors though.

Random thought of the day. I haven't seen a whole lot of dogs around here. But I saw one today. It was kept tight on a leash and had one of those cone-things around its head so it wouldn't bite its tail.

We live really close to a delicious gelateria. Really, it's the best I think I've been to, ever. You don't order by the scoop, you order by the cone. The woman behind the counter acted a little cold, but whatever. Giver her job, it seemed kind of appropriate, maybe. I'm hoping she'll be a little nicer in the future.

As for this Teaching English as a Foreign Language Course. It's going well after the third day It's 9:30 to 5:30 or later each day, and we have 7 teaching assignments and 2 major projects. I though the average age would be close to 35. But it's actually closer to 25, so that's good. I'm one of three guys in a class of 14, I think. It's a really good group. There are a lot of statistics in this paragraph.

Florence at night is expatrilisticexpialidocious. Did a round or two of prosecco not far from the Duomo with some Canadians, some Americans and some Brits. It shocks me how much English I'm speaking in this town. Really does.

Ciauu,
-a

Last Day in Venice

I’ve been meaning to comment on how Anna and Juliana’s apartment has a wooden door with a round brass knob in the center. In an odd way I feel like I’m in Lord of the Rings every time I walk in.

When you enter the apartment, someone’s usually there. Often it’s Alice, because she’s working on her architecture thesis. There’s this unspoken rule that you have to say “Ciauu!” when you enter the apartment, and whoever’s home responds, “Ciauu!”

I went for a walk. Venice is like a funnel, and everything spirals down into Piazza San Marco. The Basilica looks white in the afternoon sun. The roof tiles lie in their onion-shaped, neglected beauty. Demystified and out of context, they remind me of a moldy shower.

The campanile soars above Venice’s skyline from far away. Up close, it doesn’t seem so big. Back at BC, I had a class in Campion Hall, with a window that looked out on the maintenance building and that brick tower or smokestack or whatever it was. On a crisp, clear day, and sitting in the right place in the room, I could trick myself into thinking it was a campanile.

I saw a dog take a shit in Piazza San Marco. The owner cleaned it up, but I’m still not sure how I feel about that.

Walking down by the Salute. Seaweed floats up through Coke cans and bits of Styrofoam to the stairs that descend into the water. There, it basks in the sun and resembles a pile of little dead snakes.

I traded pens with Anna for kicks. She got a Hampton Inn desk pen from Allentown, PA. I got an Italian pharmaceutical promotional pen. Sweet.

The idea of partying in foreign countries is a really weird idea, if you think about it. And yet, on an empty stomach, I hit the campo with Juliana, her friend Valentina (who I’d finally know in person, as opposed to only in photos) and Alice. We ended up in Rialto where this random old man took a little too much interest in our conversation.

Before heading off to Florence, I got a panino for the train. I was hungry, and didn’t know if it would be better to: a.) eat it slowly, digesting it at an even pace, or b.) wolf it down as fast as I could and have a ball of panino sit in my stomach while I gaze out the window of the countryside.

I chose option b.)

More on Florence later.

-a