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

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