In the morning, the campi between San Giacomo dall'Orio and Rialto whisper with quiet local activity. There's the bump of a push-cart on the steps of a bridge, a slurrish shout-out, always in dialect. Fruit vendors and cafe owners are the first ones, more than ready for the waves of tourists that break upon the city at 10 sharp.
The Sagra continues, I think it lasts a week. Maybe less. Each day the rows of wooden tables are unstacked and hosed down, the plastic outhouses cleaned out by a limby old man. The string lights still stretch from church tower to treetop, and the row of white tents still has a vague perfume of sausage and polenta.
A carrier boat pulls up to to the nearby canal steps and unloads a couple hundred crates of Beck's. Yesterday's shipment lies in chips and pieces over the cobbled pavement, some held together by the red label.
At the gelateria near Anna and Juliana's place, they have the weirdest, most outlandish flavors. Basil, peach, licorice, to name a few. A Japanese guy in front of me asked if he could have a taste of the coconut. The gelato man shrugged. "Why? It tastes like coconut."
The next morning, I walked the streets for the last time with Venetian keys jingling in my pocket. At 11:13 I dropped them into an empty jam jar on Juliana's shelf.
Alessia had told me she worked at the airport. I found her at a wine-tasting kiosk, sans those fabulous new glasses of hers. Instead she wore an orange lanyard around her neck. She said she'd offer me a drink before my flight, but she wasn't allowed to open any bottles until her boss arrived.
Lufthansa is steady, efficient, German. On-board refreshments include any kind of drink and a snappy choco-hazelnut bar. It's a step past British Airways, all they give you is a twinkyish ham-roll for breakfast. Alitalia I've never tried, but my intuition, ahem, stereotypography, makes me feel like the CEO puts more funding into in-flight dinners than on-time arrivals.
Dinner on my transatlantic flight rolled around, first on silver trays, then in our stomachs. The baby kicking the back of my seat in time with "Frere Jacques" did not make things easier. But it stopped long enough for me to ask the flight attendant if wine came with dinner. "Yes, and it costs 6 dollars," she said. "Oh," I responded. "So wine doesn't come with dinner." With a confused expression, she assured me that it did. "Not for me, it doesn't," I laughed. She knelt and asked me if I preferred red or white.
That seemed an appropriate end to those adventures.
If you have any inquiries, so do I.
-a
Showing posts with label wine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wine. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
A Different Flavor
The monastery in Eberbach is where they filmed the adaptation of Umberto Eco´s The Name of the Rose. The 38 degree heat was delicate, quiet. The wine cellar had all the silence of a royal tomb.
In the Rhine valley, carps rippled the surface of a bubbling pond while we socialized to a sip of Riesling. The winery´s square was terraced with beerhall benches and orange umbrellas. Below, a vista of vines leading down to the water´s edge. A view worth raising a glass to it.
"Lovage" is the name of a sweet herb in the Seligenstadt cloister garden. To me, it had a scent of celery, cinnamon and licorice. The interesting tastes and flavors went all the way to the ice cream shop near the basilica; here we found exotica such as "dragonberry" and best of all "dolphin." I tried neither. The latter I actually try to avoid when I buy my tuna. Just kidding. It was blue and had some kind of chips in it.
Early in the morning, Lothar, Linus and I drove to pick up some pastries. We passed a yellow awning and Lothar pointed out the window. "That," he said, "is a very bad bakery." The cookies in the good bakery known as "Americans" have German flags pasted on them with the text, "World Champions 2014." Well.
Backyard badminton is getting more and more intense. The point (at least, the way I play) is to grunt with each shot and celebrate Wimbledon-style at every point. Makes it more fun, I think. And Linus really goes for the competition - Quentin just likes the fun.
One thing occurred to me. I know what German sounds like, simply because I don´t understand it. It´s a weak advantage, but I think meaning precludes the sound, it replaces it. Along those lines - the fourth Harry Potter movie isn´t my favorite. But hearing Hagrid speak German was a little highlight of the day.
Local wildlife includes: frogs, mice, hedgehogs, and the parrots next door. For a touch of whimsy we´ll also mention the neighbor´s automatic lawnmower.
Shakalaka.
-a
In the Rhine valley, carps rippled the surface of a bubbling pond while we socialized to a sip of Riesling. The winery´s square was terraced with beerhall benches and orange umbrellas. Below, a vista of vines leading down to the water´s edge. A view worth raising a glass to it.
"Lovage" is the name of a sweet herb in the Seligenstadt cloister garden. To me, it had a scent of celery, cinnamon and licorice. The interesting tastes and flavors went all the way to the ice cream shop near the basilica; here we found exotica such as "dragonberry" and best of all "dolphin." I tried neither. The latter I actually try to avoid when I buy my tuna. Just kidding. It was blue and had some kind of chips in it.
Early in the morning, Lothar, Linus and I drove to pick up some pastries. We passed a yellow awning and Lothar pointed out the window. "That," he said, "is a very bad bakery." The cookies in the good bakery known as "Americans" have German flags pasted on them with the text, "World Champions 2014." Well.
Backyard badminton is getting more and more intense. The point (at least, the way I play) is to grunt with each shot and celebrate Wimbledon-style at every point. Makes it more fun, I think. And Linus really goes for the competition - Quentin just likes the fun.
One thing occurred to me. I know what German sounds like, simply because I don´t understand it. It´s a weak advantage, but I think meaning precludes the sound, it replaces it. Along those lines - the fourth Harry Potter movie isn´t my favorite. But hearing Hagrid speak German was a little highlight of the day.
Local wildlife includes: frogs, mice, hedgehogs, and the parrots next door. For a touch of whimsy we´ll also mention the neighbor´s automatic lawnmower.
Shakalaka.
-a
Monday, July 5, 2010
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
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
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
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
Friday, June 25, 2010
"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
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
Monday, June 21, 2010
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
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
Monday, June 14, 2010
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
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
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
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
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