Letters From Tuscany

Seeing the "David" for the First Time

2009-10-28T11:15:00.000-07:00

I am ashamed to say that for the almost two years that I have lived here, I have never seen the “David.” I attribute my reluctance to see the sculpture to the replica standing outside the comune in Piazza della Signoria. However, a visit from a friend spurred me to see the capolavoro (masterpiece) today.

My friend Tina is from Germany, and this is the second time she has come to visit me in Florence. Thankfully she is not into taking in all the sites of Florence. I find being a tour guide boring and deviant Tuscan behavior. If someone really wants to see Florence, they should just enjoy it.

She did have one request — to see the “David” at the Galleria dell’Accademia. I honored her request. And I am glad I paid to see it.

Seeing the “David” in person is surreal. He is handmade perfection. He stands at the end of a long corridor that contains I Prigioni (“The Prisoners”) sculptures, also by Michelangelo.

When I reached the end of the hall, the room opened up into a circular viewing area. People from all over the world looked up to admire the peak of human perfection. From his navel around to his backside, I examined his body. He is what every woman wants her man to be — strong, smooth and focused.

He is eye-catching. Something else caught my eye. There was a plaque on the wall of the hallway to the left of the “David.” It commemorated his recent restoration and thanked those that contributed funds to the project. I looked closely and noticed that all or most of the names of the supporters had non-Italian or Anglo- last names. I found that odd.

Besides that observation, I was fascinated by the David. I encourage anyone who lives or visits Florence to see him; the replica does not compare.

Eating at My Favorite Pizzeria

2009-10-19T10:33:00.000-07:00

After cooking for my friend and date to the wedding for almost 10 days, I wanted a break from the stove. We decided to eat out. At first I was at a loss for suggestions, then I remembered that one of the hottest — hot as in spicy — pizza places I ever ate at was here in Florence.

I only ate there once over a year ago. I remembered that it was not in the center, but over the river and away from the hustle and bustle of visitors. I could not recall the exact name of the restaurant. I only knew that the word “fratelli” (brothers) was part of the name and the owners were Calabrese.

After some searching on the Web I found the pizzeria. Rocco e I Suoi Fratelli (Rocco and His Brothers) was located in Piazza Ravenna, right down the street from my apartment. All these months I never knew that great tasting real Italian pizza was so close to me.

Florence is known for many traditional foods, pizza is not one of them. Not to say you can’t find good pizza here, but generally in Italy it is best to eat the dish in the town of origin, as the locals or to be more precise, creators, have first- hand knowledge of how it should be prepared.

But this pizzeria is different. The owners are from Calabria, a region known for its hot peppers. The menu has a section dedicated to hot toppers. My friend chose “Stai Lontano da Me” (Stay Far Away From Me) a triple-hot-topped pizza. There was perperoncino piccante (hot chili pepper) spread, freshly chopped garlic and chunks of hot sausage, ʹNduja — enough spice to keep Dracula away.

The origins of ʹNduja are uncertain, but what is certain is that it was brought to the region either by the French or Spanish and is now a food that is considered Calabrese.

The pizzeria is just that, a place to eat pizza. Around the room are signs warning the customer not to get out of hand. “If you get up to smoke outside, stay outside,” was written on one sign.

That’s why I love eating here. Like true Southern Italians, they don’t mess around.

A Witness to Love

2009-10-10T02:50:00.000-07:00

Under the cloudy blue Tuscan sky my friend and old roommate in NYC proclaimed her honor, love and commitment to the man of heart’s desire.

I have been invited to many weddings, all of them fairly large with hundreds of guests. This was the first small wedding that I attended. I actually spoke to the bride and groom without interruption. I shared their day with them.

It was an intimate gathering. The guests included their immediate family, best friend from childhood (and her husband) and two distant cousins, one of which was my date. In all we were 20.

Before the ceremony I went to the bride’s hotel room to help her with her dress and the final touches of makeup. Her dress was designer and lace. Her shoes were Champaign Manolo’s. Her makeup was NARS.

Her look was gorgeous.

Her hairdresser showed up late. That meant the photographer would have to wait until she felt she was perfect.

Once she was off taking pictures I called a cab and headed back to the hairstylist’s studio near my apartment for my do. But he completely failed to reproduce the look I wanted. Not only did my hair look like a flop but the lateness of the hairdresser made me late to the wedding.

At home I tried my best to get dressed quickly and re-do my hair.

The wedding was at Villa La Vedetta on Viale Michelangelo, literally two minutes from my house. But today there was traffic. We crept up the hill, stopping and going every 30 seconds.

We were a half an hour late, but the wedding did not start without us.

Finally we sat down in cloth covered chairs and waited for the bride. The groom was beaming and anxiously waited for his soon-to-be wife to appear.

With Brunelleschi’s masterpiece cupola serving as the backdrop, they recited their wedding vows among those who are truly a part of their lives.

During the ceremony I thought about how my friend had waited so long for this day. The nights we would stay up till 2 a.m. talking about our dreams and fears regarding relationships. At that time it seemed like forever till “the one” would appear. But then suddenly she fell in love and everything changed in a moment.

After the ceremony we went below the terrace to the pool for aperitivo. It began to pour. The rain lasted only for a few minutes. It stopped in time for our dinner on the terrace.

The bride and groom weren’t walking around the dining room greeting and thanking all the guests for coming or sitting away from their guests. They were sitting in front of me talking, laughing and reminiscing.

I felt honored that they made me a part of their special day and I wish them both love and happiness each day of the rest of their life together.

Harassed by a Worker at the Vendemmia

2009-10-08T13:41:00.000-07:00

He cupped my breast so fast I didn’t even realize that I had just been molested. I didn’t know what to do. One of the workers, who I’ll call One-Eyed Pete, kept harassing me today.

At first it started with glaring stares. One of the supervisors had to yell at him.

“Pietro, ma cosa guardi, (Pete what are you looking at),” said the supervisor when he noticed Pete watching me while I took a break to drink water at the end of the vines.

We switched fields later in the day. We began to pick the white grapes for Vin Santo. Only the best grapes are picked, those without any marks, mold and that are ripe. They are cut and then laid in a plastic carton so that they can dry by Christmas.

Because the labor was slower and more involved I had to rely on One-Eyed Pete for advice. Esat was busy riding on the back of the tractor running up and down the rows collecting the filled cartons. So I had to stay close to One-Eyed.

Of course the jokes started. But he and another colleague saw my displeasure and annoyance at hearing more jokes. So they began to assure me that they only say jokes to pass time. It’s only talk.

One-Eyed stepped closer to me to tell me that once a girl thought he touched her, but he really didn’t. I joked that he should stand back since I had my scissors in my hand. But missing one eye did not stop the little man on zeroing in on me. He reenacted how he touched her. He swiftly reached out his arm, placing his hands around my breast. I looked down, his hand was gone and he was laughing.

One of the non-Italian workers noticed what happened. This was the first time he spoke to me. He yelled to me from down the vine to stay away from One-Eyed Pete.

I didn’t know what to do. One-Eyed was slick, he acted like it was all in good fun and even had the other worker laughing about it. I was mostly mad at myself for letting it happen. The rules are different out here. If I yelled at him or told the owner, I would probably look like a prudish moralist or stuck-up American girl. I just kept reminding myself that it was my last day.

Esat remarked that they took advantage of him not being around. He noticed that they had all been acting differently since the day I arrived on the fields.

When I returned home I told my Tuscan male friend what had happened.

His response “Va be, in campagna (Oh well, it’s the countryside).”

Being Tired of Jokes at the Grape Harvest

2009-10-07T13:02:00.000-07:00

Carrying the heavy baskets up and down hills, emptying the full baskets into the cart and picking the grapes in general have gotten much easier this week. Listening to the workers talk and make jokes about sex for eight hours every day has gotten tedious — especially when they are made at my expense. It is annoying me to the point of aggravation.

I usually work alongside my friend Esat from Albania. In between the vines we discuss our likes and dislikes of Italy. He also helps me out when I cannot carry my weight in the field. He knows that my body is not used to working in campagna, so he tries to assist me when possible.

Today Esat is away taking care of personal business. It seems that the jokes are more frequent and everyone feels less inhibited to speak to me about my personal life.

I don’t know how many more times I can fake a laugh. How many times can one smile or giggle at comments like “don’t take a sharp turn, I may have to kiss this bella ragazza”; “if I was younger…”; “do you like dopo cena (after dinner, aka dessert aka sex)?”

I thought that if I told them I had a boyfriend they would leave me alone. But that has just given them more material.

I pretend that I don’t understand what they are saying, but they’ve caught on and have called me out on it. “She understands; she’s just pretending. She knows what we’re talking about…wink wink.”

Taking a Break from the Rain

2009-10-01T09:42:00.000-07:00

What started as sunny turned into a grey rainy day. After lunch we continued the repetitious task of cutting grape clusters. After we finished harvesting all the red grapes we would move onto picking the white grapes for Vin Santo. The grapes have to be dry when picked, said Guiliano.

I was excited to do something “new” and to see the initial process of how Vin Santo was made. But after lunch it began to rain. I held out and continued to pick, but eventually the raindrops got bigger and fell faster.

My co-workers and I ran to a little shed filled with hay located on top of the hill with the vineyards below. There I finally got a chance to sit down and talk to some of my co-workers.

Gino, my supervisor, told stories of the most memorable incidents during the 25+ years that he has worked in the vineyard. The one incident that remembered the most was when he caught a couple having sex in a gazebo that once existed on the property. His eyes twinkled and he had to stop himself from laughing in order to tell us the story.

We sat for an hour waiting for the rain to stop. I was told that we would not be paid for that time that we were idle. I explained to Gino that I thought this was unfair. Either let us go home or pay us. “My time is precious,” I said.

They thought my comment was cute, however I was serious. They explained that this is how it is when one works in campagna (the country).

The Vendemmia: Unglamorous Work

2009-09-24T10:05:00.000-07:00

The vendemmia is one of the most unglamorous jobs I have ever held. To harvest the grapes I have to completely strip myself of anything I consider feminine. A green hat covers my head to protect my scalp from the sun. I wear old T-shirts that are now stained with purple grape splotches; the bottoms of my black pants or ripped jeans are stuffed into my black boots to protect my legs from weeds, overgrown bushes and other creatures that crawl on the vines. I wear gloves but I still have blisters on my right hand from the pruning shears that are used to cut il grappolo (grape bunch) from the vine.

We are required to work four hours before taking a one-hour lunch break, and another four hours after the lunch break. No other breaks are allowed. If I have to go to the bathroom, tuff. The field is my toilet. Luckily I haven’t had to do that. But my colleagues are constantly going among the weeds. A turned back is considered privacy. I try not to avoid seeing them urinate, but at times I catch a glance of a stream.

By the end of the day, I am sticky with grape goo and sweat. My arms and face, the only uncovered parts of my body are a magnet for thorns, seeds, pieces of grass and insects, including mosquitoes.

Because one has to carry the grapes that they pick up and down the rows, which are usually on a slant, the work requires physical strength. It is highly demanding on the body that by the end of the day I could care less how I look. I just want to splash water on my face, hands and arms and sit in peace.

The weather has been sunny and about 28 degrees Celsius everyday. The heat at times makes it almost unbearable to work. The others aren’t bothered as much by the sun as I am. This is not the first time they have worked on a farm. And also they have told me that it is worst to work in the rain because the mud makes your feet weigh 10 pounds each.

I am not embarrassed to say that I don’t even wash my hair at the end of the day. What’s the point. I don’t go anywhere and I haven’t done anything but eat and sleep. The only thing that reminds me of who I am is my tube of Lancôme lip gloss that I carry in the pouch fastened around my waist.

First Days Working the Grape Harvest

2009-09-22T01:42:00.000-07:00

My First two days working the grape harvest were exciting only in the sense that I was among old school Tuscan farmers. The two main workers who I have the most contact with are Giuliano and Carlo.

Carlo picks up Giuliano and I at Giuliano's home every morning around 7:30 A.M. And every morning I watch their interactions and all-in-the-name-of-fun arguing from the back seat while quietly cracking up. I look over at my other colleague who shares the seat with me, Esat, who we pick up along the way to the vineyards, and I can see that he is just as entertained with the Carlo and Giuliano show.

I couldn't explain the particular details of what they are talking about because most of the conversation is in dialect; however I do know that both of them enjoy picking on the other or as they would say rompere i coglioni (to break balls).

The first ride into the countryside Giuliano insisted that Carlo could not see the road. Back and forth he insisted that. And each time Carlo assured him that he could see where he was going despite the slight fog. This went on for 10 minutes.

The two have been working the harvest for years. Giuliano has been working this particular harvest for 11. He showed me the ropes the first day and introduced me to everyone, even though he himself could not remember my name. To make the eight hours fly Giuliano tells me jokes. All of them with sexual innuendos. Although they are jokes, they give some insight into how Tuscan farmers lived and the roles of woman and men a long time ago.

If we were in the States and or working in an office, Giuliano and the others would be prime defendants in sexual harrasment lawsuites, but the only rules of conduct in the world of the contadino are: work hard.

Preparing for the Vendemmia

2009-09-20T00:44:00.000-07:00

I returned from Sicily by train on September 5. Since that time I have been waiting for Florence to open up again, and fill with my friends and acquaintances who left during the July/August break. In addition to that I have been desperately trying to find work. Since the city is basically dead from July to early September it has been difficult for me to find a job. Finally Friday night my roommate gave me the good news: I will be working la vendemmia (grape harvest) for three weeks starting tomorrow.

Because the harvest is in the countryside of Tuscany, in the province of Siena, her parents will host me Poggibonsi. She gave me the details of my job; I will be the only woman; I will be working with old Italian men; they will be talking about sex and may occasionally try to pinch my ass; “So be nice, joke a little and at the same time keep some distance,” said Francesca.

I heard woman get paid less than men, which leads me to believe that I will make 4 or 5 euros an hour. Regardless of the pay and hard work involved in picking the grapes Francesca told me that it is fun. I know I will be exhausted and may even have to work in the rain, but I am excited to be a part of the process that results in the best wines of the world.

Knowing My Family's Stories

2009-08-14T03:40:00.000-07:00

Will my family’s stories be lost? That is what went through my mind as I sat amongst my Uncle’s sister, her children and grandchildren looking at photos — tones of black and grey and color, old and new. Yesterday was the first time I met her. I spent the day with my mother’s oldest sister, Nella. I accompanied her in saying her “goodbye’s” to her sister-in-law before returning to Australia.

My uncle and I have never met. They moved to Australia shortly after he married my aunt. Although they had the best intentions to move back to Sicily, fate had a different plan. My aunt and I met for the first time in 2007 in Milan. This is the second time we were in each other’s company.

So I was happy to meet my Uncle’s family. At least I could get some feeling of what he is like and how he grew up. I asked his sister if she had photos of him when he was little. Everyone gathered around the table to reminisce in the past with me.

As I sat there quietly listening to their gasps and laughs as they recalled their life, I wondered if anyone would ever ask me to share with them my family’s history. Will I have photos of my children, their children and their children’s children?

After viewing photos of weddings, baptisms, military trainings etc… my aunt and I visited my nonno’s sister. At my great aunt’s home my zia Nella told the story of how she met my uncle. She told us how she and my mother and other aunt, their littlest sister, pushed a cart of spices through the dirt road. That was one of the few times my nonna would permit her daughters to leave the house. It was at that time that my uncle first saw her.

We eagerly listened to my aunt tell the story. I asked for clarification and details trying to understand how different her life was then, how strict my grandmother was and what exactly did they do for money.

Her eyes and mouth fluttered while she poured out her love story. I thought about taking out my camera and capturing it all on digital, so someone else could know everything I know; so the past would not be lost. But stories like hers lose value when recorded. They are best told from memory, passed on from relative to relative in those few precious moments when distance is shortened.

Visiting the Doctor in Maniace

2009-08-07T03:24:00.000-07:00

“Chi ha la sigaretta piu leggero,” asked the Doctor as soon as he entered the room filled with patients waiting to see him at 9 a.m.

The door he walked through had a sign attached to it that read “Voui smettersi di fumare, parlene con il dottore (Want to quit smoking? Speak to the doctor).”

My cousin’s father offered his. Diane. The doctor, with his wavy silver overgrown hair, proudly walked toward him. He checked out the label before making a show of balancing the pack on his hand to judge if it was in fact the lightest.

I don’t remember whose he took because I was trying to figure out my place in the waiting line. The locals of Maniace do not make an appointment to see the doctor. They don’t even engage in the simple system of number taking. Instead they memorize who came in after them. Upon walking in the waiting room they ask “who is the last person,” whoever responds is the person they are after. Some people send children to hold their spot in line. Others beg the person in front of them to let them cut, pleading urgency and pain.

I did none of that. I felt it was no one’s business why I was in to see the doctor. Every familiar face that entered after me greeted me with a “oh you’re in to see the doctor,” expecting me to discuss my ailment. But I never bit.

Today was a follow-up visit. The Doctor was supposed to tell me why I have not been able to wear my contacts for months. He asked me to return after taking an antibiotic he prescribed.

I was one of the last people to arrive. After hours and discussions about my turn in line the person ahead of me finally walked out of the Doctor’s office. I entered his office. He sat behind a messy desk filled with papers and ashtrays. No white coat, I think he wore khakis and T-shirt. I looked over at the seemingly unused examination table, and knew my place was in the chair in front of his desk.

“My eye still feels dry,” I started to describe my symptoms to him.

He cut me off with “how do your eyes feel.” I repeated my symptoms to him again. He asked for me to describe my symptoms again. That back and forth continued for about five minutes.

“What’s wrong with my eyes,” I asked.

Without looking, touching or examining me he point blank responded “I don’t know.”

He suggested I visit his friend, an eye specialist. He rummaged around the office looking for the number. He made the appointment. I asked how much the visit would cost. The visit would cost 70 euros, but he got me a deal of 50 euros. I started to complain about how people say that the Italian health care system is free, when it really is not and at times can be more expensive than the U.S. healthcare system.

He stopped me. The appointment was with a private doctor. He explained that if I wanted to wait weeks I could go through the public system, but there was no guarantee when I would get to see a doctor and although the cost would be less through the public system I would still have to pay a fee.

My complaining about the supposed “free” and “quality” socialistic Italian healthcare system, lead to further questions by him about the United State’s healthcare system, Obama and how the insurance system works. I was getting annoyed.

“Doctor I don’t care about Obama, I just want to wear my contacts,” I insisted.

“No, please tell me, I am curious how it works,” he insisted.

Seeing that I was not going to participate in his wanted conversation of politics he called in my father. There we were — me, my father and the Doctor — sitting around his cluttered desk. Somehow my eye was no longer the topic of conversation. I don’t even think they remembered I was in the room. I patiently sat in his grimy office listening to him and my father discussing the United State’s healthcare system.

My father was kind enough to answer all of the Doctor’s curious questions. The Doctor really wanted to know why the doctors in the U.S. were “rich” while he was “poor.” He must have gotten his answer because he finally escorted us out of his office.

When my turn came to see the doctor the waiting room was empty. I was afraid to walk into it now. My session with Doctor took an unwarranted half hour or more. These people will kill me. Just my luck in order to exit I had to go through the waiting room. I discreetly scanned the room. Half of Maniace was now waiting in line behind me, and they did not look happy.

“Scusa, scusa,” I said with my head down briskly walking through the room and out of the building with my father behind me.

Being Pregnant Out of Wedlock

2009-08-06T03:21:00.000-07:00

The moon hovered over Etna’s outstretched Western arm lighting up the black night as I sat outside my friend’s modest home on her front outdoor patio intently listening to her struggle as a single pregnant woman living in the small Sicilian town of Maniace.

A cricket’s chirp filled in the silent gaps of our conversation. My friend got pregnant out of wedlock. Her boyfriend and she have been together for several years, with the intentions to marry, but the baby to be was an unplanned pleasant surprise.

“I know everyone is talking about me, but what they say about me is happening in their own family.”

In a town where reputation is everything, a family will do anything to save face in public when something in their private life happens that is considered a disgrace. My friend told me how those who threw the knives are now on the receiving end of the daggers.

The whispers, the looks and the underneath conversations eventually make it back to the person who broke one of the Sicilian codes. My friend did not do anything to cover up her pregnancy. Unlike those who criticized her, she did not rush to the altar nor did she insist on a ring from her boyfriend.

The family that scorned her not only insisted their pregnant daughter marry the father of the soon-to-be-born child, “they filled out all the marriage documents on the father’s behalf,” she told me. “Now they are having a wedding in September so that she will not look pregnant.”

I always ask the questions that I know many Sicilians would not directly ask the person whom they are inquiring about. Instead they ask other’s in the town. Everyone knows she is pregnant. It is something one cannot hide. But to actually discuss with her how she feels about being pregnant without being married maybe considered taboo.

Maybe she was thinking how dare I ask if she was on the pill; how did it happen; how did she tell her mom; does she want to get married? I think I would be standoffish if someone was prying in my business; however, I was just trying to understand how she was dealing with living in a town that kept up mentalities that are extinct in the modern world.

Maybe she is just appeasing me and will go behind my back and tell everyone in town that I was being nosey asking questions about things that are considered very private. In the end I think she was relieved to speak openly. I noticed that she never left her house. It was then that I realized that this summer she never accepted my offers to get breakfast together or to take I walk. She didn’t say that she was ashamed to be seen pregnant. She didn’t have to.

Eating Fresh Organic Ricotta for Breakfast

2009-08-05T03:18:00.000-07:00

Today for breakfast I had a hot bowl of fresh ricotta. My mother, nonna, zia Nella and zia Pina left our home at 8 a.m. to eat ricotta at a farm outside of Maniace. My nonna brought bowls and spoons so that we could eat it immediately after it was made.

When we arrived Antonio, the owner of the family run organic farm, was stirring a cauldron filled with milk squeezed from the cows that morning and yesterday evening. The room was hot and filled with cheese. Balls of provolone hung on the wall. Rounds of brilliant white cheese sat in strainers on top of stainless steel tables with a built in drain for the excess water.

I did not know that ricotta was made from what remained after the cheese was formed. I have heard that some do not consider it cheese and the way my relatives refer to make me believe that they consider it eat separate from cheese. We arrived after the cheese was removed from the hot milk. So I did not see the whole process nor inquire on what exactly ricotta is.

When the ricotta bubbled up we grabbed our spoons and bowls anxiously waiting in line for Antonio to ladle in spoonfuls of it into our ware. I ate mine outside sipping the hot tinged green water that surrounded the spongy ricotta in between mouthfuls. There were no additives, not even a pinch of salt — just pure milk — because it was made organically.

We left with baskets of ricotta and hand formed balls of cheese. I said “bye” to the brown spotted cows roaming around in the hay and promised to return one early morning for breakfast.

Mass Exodus South

2009-08-01T03:03:00.000-07:00

I had never seen a mass exodus before this night. What is amazing about this trip is that everyone is going to the same place and everyone is originally from the same place. My cousins, Nuccia and Mario, picked me up in Florence on their way to Sicily. This year they decided to drive from Milan to Sicily instead of flying. Our trip will take at least 14 hours.

We are not the only ones making our way back to the Motherland. There are hundreds of others with Southern roots making the same journey. When we stop at rest stop along the Autostrada for coffee or gasoline the parking lots are littered with people gathered around Alfa Romeo’s, BMW’s, Volkswagens and Fiats. Their accents are rougher compared to the refined Florentine dialect; harsh “ooo’s” and abrupt “oh’s” begin drawn out words and Bella now becomes Bedda.

Immediately after the Sicilians, Neopolitans and Calabrians exit the car they light up a cigarette — men and women alike. Nuccia offered me one, but I decided to decline. Once I start smoking in Sicily I can’t stop. Everyone smokes. If I accept a cigarette one time from someone in Sicily that person will always will expect me to indulge in a drag with them. Sicilians have a way of insisting that conjures guilt that I end up accepting just to make the other person feel better. So it’s better for me to start practicing my refusals now.

Once inside the restaurant of the service area Nuccia and I pushed our way through the mini market to reach the bar. After ordering coffee I took a step back to observe. Everyone had my features — thick dark brown hair, dark olive skin, not too tall, big almond hazelnut or brown eyes with a slight or considerable bulge. It is so strange to see mini-me’s congregated in one place.

My Friend MC Loren Taylor and DJ Jahknow Playing at Tamburello Wednesday

2009-07-30T14:44:00.000-07:00

Normally I don't promote events for the sake of promotion. But as I was packing for my trip to Sicily I received an e-mail from my friends Loren and Mark about their musical gig at Tamburello in the Cascine Wednesday, August 5. I looked closely and noticed that they lovingly stole my picture from my blog. I found that very amusing. So during intermission, while my life in Florence is on pause and I leave for a hopefully eventful month in Sicily, I leave you with the flyer. If your in Florence in August you should definitely check them out.

Will write as soon as an Internet connection is available. Happy August!

Suffering from Moving Syndrome

2009-07-25T03:12:00.000-07:00

These past days I have seriously considered giving up and moving back to the States. Going back to NYC. Will I ever be happy anywhere? Is this symptomatic chronic moving syndrome? Do I suffer from moving syndrome? I posed those questions to my friend Cassandra during our breakfast Thursday morning. I expected her to reassure me that I will someday have a permanent home happily settling in one place for the rest of my life.

Instead she whispered a “yes” as she slowly brought her café macchiato to her lips and took a discreet sip.

My mouth dropped. Was she serious? I do have moving syndrome?

“People like you, me and Loren, we get bored quickly,” she said referencing her track record in dating as proof that it’s difficult to hold her interest. I replied that I never even get the chance to be bored with a guy because my relationships never last past six months. So I don’t know if that holds true for me in regards to men.

But as far as cities go … well it’s a different story. I have lived in so many places in my opinion, too many places for my life — Oxford (Ohio), Cleveland, Kent (Ohio), Washington D.C., Cleveland, Washington D.C., Hoboken/New York City, Cleveland, Firenze, Athens (Ohio), Firenze. I feel like a yo-yo. Will my list ever end?

The thing with humans is that we never stop wanting. If I could just be satisfied then maybe I wouldn’t always be searching or moving. But maybe I am fighting against human nature. Why am I so restless?

I remember one episode of “Sex And The City” where Carrie was going through the checklist of the three important things in a woman’s life: Apartment, Job and Boyfriend. At the time of the episode she only had two out of three. I currently just have the apartment and I am not sure how long that will last.

I always think how things look greener on the other side. And it’s true. I never imagined that I would have so many dislikes when it comes to Florence. Italy seems so beautiful from the other side of the pond, especially the Italian men. And I know that life is difficult no matter where one lives. But I did not imagine it like this. I also didn’t imagine that I would be selective in which Tuscans I actually liked.

Why can’t someone just call me and tell me what I want and the next step I am supposed to take? Why can’t I get out of my head?

I asked my sister for advice. She is biased. She told me to move back to the States. Her life is “the program.” No offense; a person on the program cannot understand a person who decides to get off “the program.”

No one understands that I feel obligated to all the people I call “friend” in Florence. I just can’t up and leave them because I can’t buy a pair of socks, or because I can’t afford to sustain the lifestyle I want. I’ll just be another person they speak about when they tell the newcomer how all their friends always leave Florence (see April 2, 2009 post “Keeping Friends”).

“I miss pedicures, and haircuts and buying things like shoes,” I confessed to Cassandra.

But above all this, the thing that bothers me the most is not being able to write for a credible newspaper. It does not have to be the New York Times. I would like to write for any newspaper that has some ethics and reports the daily news. How many times can I write that Italy is “beautiful?” When I interview people they are just trying to plug their product or business all for tourism. And I suspect that some people only befriend me because they know I write, hoping one day I'll write about their paintings, political cause, Web site, and other services that cater to Americans. It sickens me.

Before I left the States I had to search and discover my true feelings for wanting to return to Italy. If it was for my ex I could not return to Florence. I had to do it for myself. Before I left I told myself that I can no longer move to places just for an experience. I had to put my career first. I would go to Italy, but staying in Italy depended on my journalism career.

I am working on a project, which I am excited about. I will assess my decision to stay here in six months. In December I will return to my two homes, NYC and Cleveland. By then I should know if the project is moving forward. I know I said a year, but I can’t linger that long.

The Cold Enemy: Air Conditioning

2009-07-22T04:30:00.000-07:00

There are two words that when I hear them I want to scream: “Air” & “Conditioning.” Put them together and they mean that marvelous invention that sucks out humidity and blasts dry cold air. For some reason, Italians blame it for everything, every malattia (illness). It’s the Antichrist.

“I can’t sit near air conditioning; shut it off,” said one of my cousins during dinner at a restaurant. She was referring to a white thing positioned on the wall behind her that slowly emitted puffs of air. I sweated during that dinner.

“Don’t put the air conditioning, I have to work tomorrow and I can’t have a headache,” said another cousin when we drove to Piemonte. Another time I sweated and could not breathe because they also refused to open a window for the same reason.

They even converted my friend Melinda into a believer.

But what makes me want to scream about the invention that the Italians use as a scapegoat, which I’m sure came from the new world, is that it barely exists here. I can literally count on my fingers the few times I have actually stepped into a room with air conditioning. Let me be more accurate, I can count on my fingers the few times I have actually stepped into a cool room with air conditioning in Florence.

I have been sick this week. I have suffered all my life from chronic ear infections. Without warning my ears are blocked and an excruciating ping of pain takes over, so strong that I cannot speak.

Of course the Italians have their homemade remedies to cure my pain. My roommate once told me to put a scarf around my neck. I wanted to kill her, but I was in too much pain to argue. A scarf does not cure nor silence the pain of an ear infection, nor does it prevent an infection. She eventually took me to the emergency room.

This week my left gland was noticeably swollen. I felt fine. Just as a precaution I went to the Pronto Soccorso, (emergency room). My doctor was so nice, he waved the payment because I told him I was a broke immigrant, he showed the location of the eye hospital in case I needed a check-up, and he gave me advice about getting my tessera di sanitaria, the national health card.

He said the swelling was because I was getting an infection, in both ears, again. When I asked him why he said, “well you go from hot air to cold air; in and out of the air conditioning.”

I still carry my sarcasm from NYC, but it doesn’t come across quite the same in Italian.

“Air conditioning,” I said rhetorically. “oh yeah, cause it’s…,” I began to mumble. I noticed he was not laughing just looking at me with a blank stare.

Then I could not remember how to say “I’m joking” in Italian.

“See doctor, it just doesn’t exist anywhere I go, none of the bars or restaurants have it and I do not have it in my home,” I said.

“Well maybe when you get in and out of your car,” he said

That’s when I decided to just play along. If the doctor was smart he would have taken my shock over paying 26 euros for a visit as a sign that I cannot afford to own a car. Moreover why couldn’t he just admit he did not know why I was sick, instead of blaming it on air conditioning?

When I got home I called my friend Christine to judge the believed culprit — Air Conditioning. During the conversation she told me her allergies have been acting up the past few days. That’s when I realized what was probably causing my unnoticeable slight congestion, leading to an eventual infection. The last time I had an infection, I was also suffering from allergies. Thank God I have an American friend to consult with.

Making Potato Gnocchi with My Students

2009-07-19T13:58:00.000-07:00

No matter how hard I tried to gently roll the dough using a calm rhythm with my hand flat it was gooey stuck to my palm. I just couldn’t get the right pressure and touch so that it was round in form instead of dull flat pasta.

One of my students teased that she comes from generations of gnocchi making, when I asked her why I just could not get it right. Despite feeling worthless because I only rolled one little batch of gnocchi right, the mood in the kitchen was fun and upbeat. We were having a hands-on “Gnocchi Party.”There were seven eager cooks in the kitchen, half of which were my students that I teach English to at the Library in Sesto Fiorentino; one part eager to eat and the other eager to make light practically weightless potato gnocchi.

It started with 12 (or 2 kilograms) of “classiche patate” boiled and peeled, and then pressed through a food mill. But the next steps were not easily measured; six eggs a pinch of salt (stirred well) and then “00” flour based on the elasticity, and stickiness of the dough. I was told this part is something that is learned by practice not by reading a recipe. The flour and eggs required just depends on the potatoes. We put in at least 300 grams of flour, and we all made a note of that.

During the mixing of the “pasta” is when I noticed that in Italy every measurement is done by weight, whereas in the states we measure by volume. That did not cause too much of a dilemma when I oversaw the making of one of America’s favorite desserts, Rice Krispie Treats. I had to explain what a cup was, and a tablespoon. It was amusing. But the most amusing part was seeing their delightful curiosity over the marshmallows. They had never seen marshmallows in the form of a puff.

I tried to warn them not to look at the ingredients because it was pure sugar. But we had a good conversation about what really was a marshmallow. At dinner time, everyone could only eat one Rice Krispie Treat because there were also brownies present.

I had to have my brownies with milk. Is there any other way to eat them? One of the guests was shocked. You see there is an order in Italy, an order to eating. Cappuccinos and anything milky or as they would say “heavy” should not be eaten at the end of a meal. Instead Italians drink a liquid to help with the digestion. Some may have a splash of Coke to help push the food through, before ending the meal with café and all sorts of liqueur including Vin Santo.

Even though I was playfully teased for refusing to be ruled and eating my chocolate brownies with a tall glass of cold milk, I was truly thankful that the guests and hostesses were open enough to try marshmallows. That they did not refuse a food because it didn’t have thousands of years of tradition and craftsmanship behind it was pleasure enough for me. We even roasted them on the barbecue, not quite the same as a fire, but it’s the thought that counts.

Attending BarCamp at Palazzo Vecchio: Discussions on Integrating the Contemporary and American Students

2009-07-11T10:11:00.000-07:00

Salone de’ Cinquecento in Palazzo Vecchio (city hall) abounded with pens and notepads held by journalists eager to record discussions at the first BarCamp conference organized by the new contemporary and culture councilor, Giuliano Da Empoli.

From 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. along the walls of the large room marked by marble statues and frescos were numerous tables and dry erase boards facing a seated audience ready to hear the presenters’ opinions, ideas and visions for Florence in regards to culture and bringing the city in line with the contemporary and modern elements characteristic of most leading European cities.

I should probably explain this to my readers. Most people come to Florence to view the past. As beautiful, rich and preserved the past is, at times it’s a burden to the city. Florence is like a big small town. There is no modern museum, no cool nightclubs or swanky lounge bars like the ones you would find in NYC or London, no recent fashion trends that I know of have originated here, and there is no metro or subway.

There are innovative and forward thinking youths that come up from the underground during the Festival Della Creatività and Frabbica Europa. Those once a year events boast modernity in music, design, art, fashion, thinking etc… Despite that the shops display antiques, the art scenes hung on the gallery walls reminisce in the Tuscan hills and landscapes, the design of the buildings faithfully hold to the medieval structure and the artists promoted by the city are the artisans creating objects according to a hundred-year tradition. That is what keeps the tourists coming. I am not saying get rid of it, hell I’m Catholic I love tradition and always worry that the Sicilian ones I have witnessed will be lost because I am too busy to practice them.

But what’s wrong with a bit of the future alongside the past? Why can’t we have some different and diversity? Is that possible without damaging what the Medici’s left behind? Less than a month in office the new mayor Matteo Renzi and Da Empoli have recognized that Florence’s past is weighing the city down. BarCamp gave people a platform to discuss integration of the contemporary while preserving the culture heritage of the city.

One topic I overheard being presented was integrating the American students into the Florentine life. As of now, I feel that they separate themselves and don’t really have a way to experience Florence they way it should be experienced. In my opinion most of the locals probably wouldn’t give them a second look if it weren’t for the Americans’ excessive drinking with a side of shopping. The drinking is a catalyst for peeing in the Fountain of Neptune in Piazza della Signoria, puking in the streets and other debauchery that takes place in the wee hours of the morning keeping up the residents. Plus many men from Italy and Albania hang out at the local bars just for a chance to brag about having a one night stand with a hot, rich “American bitch.”

In some ways I am so sick of hearing about the American student. It’s like an obsession for the business owners: “How can we take their money while controlling the things they do?” It seems that most of the American students that come here are from the affluent neighborhoods in California or the East Coast; not an accurate representation of the 50 states. Because of my aversion towards the obsession I walked over to another discussion.

Pino Brugellis, an architect of Fondazione Targetti, presented Spazi Comuni: L’Architecture Contemporaneo Per La Citta (Common Space: Contemporary Architecture for the City). I couldn’t hear most of what he said due to the poor acoustics and lack of a microphone. When he mentioned the word “space” Maurizia Settembri broke into his discussion taking an opportune time to present her ideas about making permanent space in Stazione Leopolda for Fabrica Europa, an organization that promotes contemporary arts in Europe. There was a disput between them about time slots. Eventually Brugellis conceded that his time was up, giving me a chance to talk to him alone.

It seems that public space for the people is slowly deteriorating. In giro (around town) I hear people complaining that the city center no longer belongs to the Florentines; the locals do not frequent the center as they once did. That may be because they do not feel safe in their city.

He made it clear that he does not believe in a police state, rather the people can “autocontrollo” (self control) their city by promoting activities in the public spaces. The socializing and mingling of the residents can make Florence approachable at any time of day including night. “Streets are not only for cars … an influx of people makes a safe city,” he said. “A secure city is possible when the people of that city control it. If there is activity in the streets it will automatically become safe.”

I asked him his opinion on restaurants and bars taking up public space on sidewalks and piazzas for outdoor seating or entrances, such as the Cavalli Club’s entrance ramp that is causing some distress to the locals. He said the problem is the use of good sense. The space should not be overcrowded while fitting the objects in with the local atmosphere. “I am not against this use of space, but the space used should be proportional to the overall public space; an element of elegance is required,” he said. “When a restaurant takes up space and that is half of a piazza … they should use good judgment.”

Brugellis was called back to the Settembri’s discussion during the interview. So I found some of my friends and met some other Expats. My male American friend wanted to introduce me to Da Empoli, but said there was a crowd around him. I tried to figure out who he was. I saw a good looking man who barely looked 30 surrounded by journalists. That can’t be him I thought.

“Is that him?” I asked unconvinced it was.

“Yep, that’s him,” said my friend.

We slowly inched our way closer to him. My friend, being a journalist in the past, did not want to interrupt their work. I had to remind him that I am a journalist. But it was too late. Someone escorted him away. Even though I did not speak to Da Empoli it was worth the little time I spent there and I hope to be informed the next time Palazzo Vecchio opens its doors to the residents.

Visiting the Catina La Torre Castel Rocchero in Piemonte

2009-07-05T00:21:00.000-07:00

“She was the one drinking wine like water,” said our waiter to two of the soci (associates) of the winery La Torre Castel Rocchero in Piemonte. The soci of the cooperative invited their clients for a lunch at the agriturismo S. Desiderio (agriturism) near the winery. Fortunately for us, Nuccia’s neighbors Fiorella and Bruno were one of the chosen invitees. They RSVP’d for 22, turning the lunch into our mini family reunion. Relatives in Torino, Milano and Piacenza were coming to the lunch.

We left Milano around 9 a.m. with the TomTom GPS system guiding the two “drivers” in the front seat. For some mysterious reason no one listened to it. After a couple of wrong turns, reverse driving to catch the passed up exit and fighting over rolling down the windows, we finally made it to our first stop before lunch, the cantina cellar near Acqui Terme. A cooperative, the winery collects grapes from the 120 soci that own vineyards in the area. According to our tour guide Michele, an aggregate 15,000 hectoliters of wine including Moscato D’Asti, Barbera D’Asti, Brachetto D’Aqui Dolce (a spumanti) are produced each year.

Fiorella said that although white wine from Piemonte is good, red is the par excellence.

The meal seemed to last forever. An endless stream of dishes came one after the other, each with a wine. My favorite dishes were the carne crudo (raw beef) and tortellini. Even the coffee came with sugar cubes soaked in flavored alcohol. Two jars, one orange the other green were placed on the table. At first I thought they were candies. I popped one in my mouth. The whole inside of my mouth burned like a cool fire. I quickly spit it out. I looked over at my cousin. She was eating them like Skittles. With a smile on her face she said “these are soaked in pure alcohol. I love them.”

At the end of the meal my brother and I were saddened because we only had a drop left of the Brachetto D’Aqui that was served with the cake. We stared at his almost empty glass.

“Oh man I wonder if they’re going to come around with anymore,” I said.

Just when we both gave up hope, the waiter appeared. Our spirits rose again as he refreshed our glasses with the red bubbly. A cling and a toss, we finished the last of the wine. The long lunch ended in the early evening. With our stomachs overloaded we headed back to Milano.

Eating Sicilian Cookies with My Family

2009-07-02T12:11:00.000-07:00

“Ci vuole tempo, pazienza e passione (it takes time, patience and passion),” said my mother. She proudly explained to her cousins the mix required to bake. My parents returned to Italy after a five-year absence, and with them they brought my mom’s homemade Sicilian cookies. Everyone at the table was pleased that she managed to pack and transport the delicate edible “surprises” that she made in the early mornings.

She primarily made them for my sister’s baby shower, but then decided to pack up the traditional almond and hazelnut cookies, for her relatives in Milano and her sisters who are both waitng for her arrival in Sicily.

Her first cousins and their children sat around the table in awe of the little “gifts.” I find it a bit ironic that they enjoy her cookies when they have access to the ingredients and bakery shops that create the sweets. Thier reaction to me means my mother is an excellent baker.

My mother and father brought me the best gift of all — my older brother. His last visit was 16 years ago. He hardly remembered some of our distant cousins that were no bigger than a newly planted tree stalk the last time he visited Milano. But nonetheless, the Caprino’s, each one with fuller lips than the other, carried on just fine around Nuccia’s dinner table.

During dinner Nuccia discovered that she and my father are distant cousins.

“E sangue che ti tira (its blood that pulls you),” she said to me as she kindly squeezed my chin.

She always looks after me, and treats me just as good as her own children even though I am only related to her husband, Mario, through my mom. But now we know why she instinctively takes care of me.

Police Raid Piazza Santo Spirito

2009-06-20T00:33:00.000-07:00

Empty. That is how Piazza Santo Spirito looked when I entered it from the side street that leads to the front of the church. It was 8:30 p.m. — time for aperitivo. Normally the piazza is bustling with young locals. I looked around for the neighborhood crew. They are not difficult to miss. Some of them with dreadlocks, a mix of African, whites and Italian guys rolling cigarettes and possibly other plants, they are usually sitting with their backs up against the church wall.

But today no one was on the church steps. Instead I saw carabinieri (the Italian police force part of the government's military arm) huddled in a corner of the piazza. An eerie feeling came over me. I thought maybe I missed something. Ever since September, 11 I always prepare myself for any possibility — bomb scares, buildings falling etc.

Then I remembered what my friend had recently told me. He said there was a raid on the piazza recently. First the cops were lingering around and next thing he knew all the entrances, including the main entrance that runs along Via Mazzetta, were blocked by police cars. No one could get out. Then the authorities came around and requested documenti (identification papers) from all the people in the piazza, except those who were dining outdoors at a café or bar. Apparently they were trying to find illegal’s.

“The cop was shocked when my friend (part black part Italian) took out his Italian passport,” my American male friend said.

I should mention to my readers that my American male friend is far left than any communist I have met in Tuscany. Most of the time I strongly disagree with his theories, but he did make me question why the authorities only requested documents from those in the square. Why didn’t they check the identification of the people sitting in the outdoor dining areas of the cafés or trattorias, a space that sits on the sidewalk and part of the square? Is it a question of money? Not wanting to disturb those who are spending it? Or is it assumed that those spending it can afford to, and therefore are most likely not to be an illegal immigrant?

My friend and I discussed if it was legal to search people without probable cause; however he reminded me that although many countries emulate the U.S. model of democracy, they tweak the rules to fit their needs.

A couple of months ago I read in Il Reporter, a local newspaper that covers Firenze by quartiere, that the residents of the Santo Spirito area want to build it up into a posh neighborhood. With Roberto Cavalli calling glitz and glamour at Cavalli Club around the corner they were hoping some of that dough would rub off on the rest of the quartiere. I also met some ladies who live in the square and they spoke of a Santo Spirito committee to clean up and better the neighborhood.

For who? For the people that live in Florence? The people who the police pressured into giving up their identification? Or for the businessmen and politicians who want a piece of the tourist action that takes place across Ponte Vecchio.

It’s true. There are drunks and drugs in the piazza. In the doorways of the homes that make up the border of the square there are always people drinking and once or twice I’ve seen some selling. But they never bother me. This is the place where I go to have a reasonably priced aperitivo not affected by “tourist inflation,” to hang out with friends, and to be surrounded by real Florence. Not the tourist saturated Piazza della Repubblica or Piazza Signoria.

This is a place that is filled with people who live here, alternative Florentines with their thick rimmed glasses and dogs stroll in, the occasionally Brit or American looking for the unconventional sit down at a Café, and the Arabs who meet for business stand around the water fountain that sits in the middle of the square. The church steps are filled with locals drinking beer, putting on fire shows and playing bongos on any given evening, especially during the summer. It’s real.

I am not advocating the drug sales or use, and violence that sometimes takes place here. But how can Santo Spirito be“cleaned up” without losing its life? Why do all have to be punished for what a few do? I fear that if the politicians focus too much on it, they will make it sterile. It could be compared to the rift raft of Times Square replaced by Disney Land during Giuliani’s term. Ask a New Yorker how many times he hangs out in Times Square.

I once read a book that was a compilation of interviews with three famous Italian journalists (of course I don’t remember the name of the book or the journalists). One of the journalists was questioned about his choice to stay in the margins of society. He explained that it was where the action was. To know what was really going on in society one had to be in touch with those who lived outside the mainstream. It is in the margins of society where change and creativity take place. This is why I spend most of my time in Oltrarno and go to Piazza Santo Spirito.

Piazza Santo Spirito is the home of the modern Tuscan hippies and the recent foreigner trying to carve a place. It is the home of the contemporary not the redundant Renaissance. Florence’s now converges there and it would be a shame to see it silenced.

Being in Love With A Woman

2009-06-15T14:16:00.000-07:00

I am in love with a woman, who at times I do not like. I have been in a relationship with her for a year now. The past 12 months she has brought me joy, heartache, tears, smiles, good times and bad. Although she is magnificent to look at, at times portraying a serene disposition, underneath she is complex. She portrays innocence yet, she is not a fool. She wounds those who try to bed her too soon and rewards those who are steadfast, patient enough to weave through her web looking for her soul. She only reveals layers of herself when she feels I have earned it.

Her past is carried on her shoulders. It is her past that makes her attractive, but it is her stubbornness to never let go of it that makes me daydream of my ex. Is this wrong? Should I break it off? Can you be in love with a woman, while not liking every aspect of her personality? Is it wrong to wish that she give in, and submit; to gratify my wants upon asking?

At times I am determined to take charge and command her to speed up; to conform; to trust me; to be on my level. Sometimes I ponder her seemingly self induced complexity. Why can’t she be simple; be bland not spicy; straight not curly. Then I remind myself why I started this relationship. I start from the beginning. I weigh her negatives, with my ex’s positives. Today I concluded that although I may miss another, my woman is like no other woman I have met before. She does not give in. She does not give up. She is Italy, and I will wait for her for one more year.

Is He a Pervert or Just Being Italian

2009-05-10T08:02:00.000-07:00

How do you know when a man’s hug or hand slightly creeping around your waist is not “Italian-ness,” but actually an unwanted sexual advance disguised as a warm gesture?

That was the topic in question at this Sunday’s after-brunch lunch among me and the other staffers when all of the customers had gone home. I told them the story about when I was alone with an elderly married man for business reasons. What seemed like an ordinary meeting turned into a reason for him to get me alone. His generous embraces left me confused and unsure about what was really going on.

The female staff present at lunch had also experienced unwanted touching by older men (sometimes relatives or family friends) in an ambiguous way. It was obvious that these men were betting on ambiguity, taking advantage of the girl being uncertain if he was being friendly or a pervert.

One of the waitresses retold the story of being greeted by a friend’s father with a caress to the back of her neck. In front of the friend, and with family present, she quickly reprimanded the father.

“Don’t put your hands on me,” she told us what she said with a firm and direct voice emphasized by a hand gesture that communicated “punto … basta.”

She said that out loud for her friend and her friend's family to hear. She explained to her friend that her own father never greeted her friends with a hug or caress, but only with a handshake, or the standard kissing on the cheek, and that only after the friend has become a part of the family. The friend was upset with her for calling her father out on the unwanted physical contact, but she absolutely refused to feel uncomfortable for telling someone not to touch her. Ironically, it was later discovered that the friend’s father had been molesting a little girl.

Many American’s that I meet in Florence are not accustomed to the Italian culture of kissing on both cheeks, but since it is known that Italians are warm, some of them step out of their comfort zone to return the cultural gesture. Nonetheless, the male staff present at lunch said that these little touches and side hugs are the Italian man’s way to slowly get close to a girl, full well knowing that an American girl may think the touch was a result of just being Italian. It’s their excuse.

“That’s how they do it. Have you ever seen how these guys act once their girlfriends have left the room? They are always hugging or touching other women,” my male American friend interjected into the conversation.

Unlike the waitress, I was not sure if the older man I spoke of was hitting on me, or just being warm. When the touching was happening, it was mixed with pleasant words and little side hugs. Then he brought me outside for a serious discussion about relationships. He walked beside me and wrapped his hand around my waist. I did not want to be rude. I thought of how upset his wife would be if I said her husband was getting a bit too close for my comfort. I did not want to ignite a fight between her and her husband, nor did I want to run the risk of being accused of false accusations, or provocation (I have heard many woman in Italy, say that men cheat because a woman is insisting he sleep with her, and since the woman does not let up the man will eventually give in since he is weak).

So I didn’t say anything. However, I know that I never want to be alone with that man again. I was so offended that an old, ugly man would even think I would be interested. In the moment that he was hugging me and putting his hands on my waist, I had thought that maybe I was reading it wrong; maybe he was just treating me like family. But then I realized that whether or not he was trying to get a feel, his actions made me feel uncomfortable, and in the end that is all that matters.

What is upsetting is that I am not the only one this has happened to. Many of my female friends have had similar experiences here in Italy. Of course things like this happen everywhere, but in the States we follow through on laws, such as sexual harassment, in order to make men think twice about turning a business meeting into an opportunity to make unwanted sexual advances on their colleague.

I left out significant details of my personal experience in order to avoid direct identification of the man, and to spare hurt feelings or misunderstandings of others.

The First, the Last, the Boy

2009-05-05T08:19:00.000-07:00

There is a protocol to sex: Everyone needs to make sure that everyone else is having fun. I went out with the 21-year-old American boy after we returned from Munich, and what started out as intrigue soon dwindled into an akward union that left only one of us satisfied.

Monday night we met on Ponte Vecchio, and walked over to Pop Cafe in Piazza Santo Spirito for an aperitivo. The conversation was nice, but I felt that there was a change in our chemistry since returning from Munich. He seemed more reserved, and I was ... I dunno ... I was feeling more direct, or domineering. Perhaps it was because we were back in my home, a place he would soon be leaving and I felt, he really did not understand.

After we finished our wine he walked me back to my place. Once at the foot of my building door, I asked him if he wanted to come up.

"I don't care," he said.

"Is that a 'yes' or a 'no,'" I asked.

"Maybe" annoys me. What does "I don't care" mean? Is the person interested or not?

Throughout the evening he spoke of an animated Disney film, about two robots that fall in love, shocked that I had not seen it, he suggested we watch it. So we snuggled up on my tiny bed to watch a free download of "WALL-E." It was cute, but I can't remember the last time I watched a movie with a guy as a prelude to sex. Wait, wait now I remember. Yes, the last time that happened I was in college.

He made his move. He gently tickled my back with soft kisses. Being with him was sweet, no sparks, just sweet. And I thought he was a nice boy. Despite the thoughts in back of my head that said, "be careful he's just a boy. Don't get caught up," in all honesty, he just seemed genuine and good looking, and respectful of a woman. A precious boy. And I told him that.

"You're so sweet," I said in between a kiss.

"That's weird. No one's ever said that to me before," he responded.

That's when I knew this was not going to rank on the top 10 best sexual experiences of my life. What else do you do in these moments? You say nice things. In love or not. You compliment your lover. Those sweet emotions pull at you when your lying in bed with someone.

I love pillow talk. That's the honey of romantic trysts; spending time, clothes off, talking about nothing in particular. Maybe the American did not know who he was yet, because if he was secure with himself, as so he should be, he would have taken the compliment with a smile.

He was taking his time, and I was asking him to hurry up and get to it. Maybe I was being too Samantha, but after him not taking to my compliment, it became apparent that I would just have to use him. But unlike my hopes of repeating certain acts throughout the night, he said he would only be showing for one single performance. And if I was not satisfied at the end of it, so be it.

And I was not satisfied at the end, middle or beginning. Maybe he did not know how it worked. It's called reciprocity. On top of that, he kept his socks on. Doesn't he know the rules: No socks, give and receive, repeats are a must, and its rude not to spend the night.

"Look at you, you look so mad," he said jokingly, laying there, acting like he just ran the New York City Marathon.

"This is an exchange," I said.

Of course I was pissed. Are you kidding, that's it? I felt bad for being demanding, but I chose him for certain reasons, just as he chose me.

He left in a rush. I think he was embarrassed, although really there is nothing to be embarrassed about. Things happen, chemistry is not right. I would have liked to try again, it took Carrie and Burger two times before they got it right, but the boy never surfaced again.

I think about what I did wrong. Maybe I was too mean; maybe I should have been nicer; maybe I should have just smiled and kept my mouth closed; maybe...

Now I figured it out. Maybe he was just too young.

Spring Fest in Munich

2009-05-03T15:29:00.000-07:00

Löwenbräu beer, scenic hikes, juicy pork hocks, storybook castles, American boys and bikes … were all incorporated into my weekend jaunt with FlorenceForFun to Munich. FlorenceForFun is a travel agency that organizes affordable excursions to accessible cities of Europe primarily for American students studying in Florence.

I went on the trip as an assistant to one of the guides and managers, Anna McNiel.

We left around 11:30 p.m. on Thursday on a bus packed with 44 students, and drove through the majestic Alps to Bavaria. Anna warned me to sleep well on the bus because we had three days packed with activities ahead of us. So naturally I didn’t sleep at all.

The next morning, with our luggage checked at the hotel, we hit the ground running, making a quick detour at Starbucks before beginning a four-hour bike tour of the city. Mikes Bikes Tour lead the group from well kept bike paths alongside gilded monuments, to the serene English Garden. We took a much needed lunch break at the Chinese Tower Beer garden.

Under flowering chestnut trees, I sipped my stein of amber beer, while trying to conquer a full plate of heavy German food. Although my stomach disagreed with it later, I was thankful for the fried potatoes, topped with spiced sour cream and deep fried pork knuckles; finally, a greasy, unhealthy meal that was not centered on a boiled noodle or squashed grape.

When we arrived back at the hotel, Anna and I only had time for a quick rinse and makeup fix, before heading out to the weekend highlight — Spring Fest. In a fog of cigarette smoke, women and men from 16- to 70-years-old drank, drank, drank. A lady with boobs up to her chin, that shook when she spoke, continuously dropped off fistfuls of beer at our table, while we sang and danced on top of benches.

The thing that amazed me, besides everyone having a good time and socializing with the patrons at the next table, was the cleanliness of the bathrooms. The portable bathrooms located outside the beer tent were cleaner than all the bathrooms I have used in an Italian restaurant or bar. A woman cleaned up the toilette seat after each use. Actually all the bathrooms that I used during this trip were sanitized mechanically or personally after each use.

It was that night that one of the students paid extra attention to me. I kept noticing him touching me, and naturally I wanted to touch him back. The beer helped me ignore the 10+ year age difference between us, plus he had a sweet smile and was from my hometown Cleveland.

Because I was technically working, I could not spend as much time with him that I would have liked to. We did manage to find a dark street corner, away from everyone for a long heated kiss, accompanied by some pushing up against a wall and leg wrapping.

The next evening we met up at Spring Fest, after I had spent the day hiking hills to visit Ludwig II’s fairytale refuge, Neuschwanstein Castle. Around 1:00 a.m. we took an exceptionally long walk to the furthest Burger King, and held hands while carrying back cold food for myself and Anna.

It was refreshing to spend time with a boy who was not dramatic, did not fake tears because I did not want to spend the night in his room and was laid back. He just seemed “untouched” by any negative thing in life or love, unlike me. And that is attractive.

On Sunday morning, the end of our trip, I called him to see if he wanted to join Anna and me for lunch in a beer garden with live music. I would never have called an Italian guy on the whim. They would have taken a phone call as a sign for desperation, pushiness or the worst clinginess. When I was in Sicily, I called x. one night, just to say “hey,” because I was bored. By the end of the conversation I knew that phone call was a mistake, and I would never see him again romantically. I was right.

In this situation, I figured I could enjoy Munich with another, and have a bit of fun with someone before they returned back to the United States. I knew it would not last, and if we saw each other back in Florence, I told myself “it could only be sex.” Let’s be realistic, he is not going to bring me back with him to his college dorm in the States, and I could not fit him into my current life.

In all, I was grateful to Anna for giving me work. Although, I admit being a tour guide is not my forte. I cannot make a connection with a person unless I make a connection. And that is difficult to do with a large group of people from all over the United States, in an age group that I feel I no longer have any common ground with. But Anna finds a way to ensure fun is had by all, and that everyone is taken care of. She also knows Munich like the back of her hand, and gave essential information about the city to those who wanted to break away from the planned activities.

Besides the natural beauty, Germany is a gorgeous country becauses everything works, and the Germans seemed to respect the space and rights of the others around them. I noticed this when we rode our bikes through the public parks and spaces, by how the bike path was shared, who had the right of way at a crossings, etc ... I would choose to live in Germany if I ever left Italy.

Being Ostracized

2009-04-25T08:52:00.000-07:00

I have been ostracized by two people in Florence because I decided to no longer work for their publications.

People here take things to a personal level when it should stay professional. What makes my situation even more baffling is that neither of them paid me, yet they expected me to be at their every beck and call without consideration for my personal time.

One of them would invite me to free dinners, as if that should be sufficient compensation (last time I checked my landlord did not accept a plate of pasta for the rent); and the other only paid me about 300 euros for at least five months of work (and I had to ask for that amount).

When I had told each one that I was broke and needed to find paid work, I thought they would get the hint that their assignments for me would no longer be placed first — nothing personal, it's business.

When I informed one of the last month I would be working for free, they replied, “You have a lot to learn … I am not taking advantage of you.” Who said anything about being taken advantage of? That person was actually selling their product, and advertisements, yet there was not enough money to compensate me for my editing and writing services.

The other person, although not selling any advertisements that I was aware of, brought me into their idea for an English newspaper. The idea was I was supposed to be the editor. In a meeting last December the graphic artist, salesman and owner of the paper were all arguing about when to publish the first issue. It became clear that they expected me to write all 16 pages of the biweekly publication.

“What will the sections of the paper be,” I asked the owner (it was only natural that they would know what they wanted their future newspaper to be).

“No, you have to do that. You have to figure out all of the sections,” he said.

“But where was the rough outline that we decided on together last week,” I asked.

“No, no you have to do that. I don’t have any time,” they said.

In this meeting, I was told that I was not allowed to leave Florence to go to Sicily to visit my family, yet the same person that made this rule visited the United States for a week this month. After frivolous meetings and arguing over target groups in the months that followed, the group was falling apart, yet the owner made it clear that “the paper must come out before I leave for the United States,” yet they “did not have time” to commit to it. Somehow I felt that all the responsibilities were falling on me. I began to feel exploited for my knowledge of English, and writing skills.

That made me think twice about how appreciated I was, and if this person was as serious as I was about their so called “dream.” The day before they left for their trip to the United States, they told me I should look for a job since the economic crisis was not the opportune time to introduce a new publication in Florence. So that’s what I did. When they returned, I was still expected to commit my personal time. When I made it clear I was no longer going to be their writing monkey I was cut off — with intent.

It takes a lot of arrogance to dangle a work contract in the face of woman who does not know where her next meal is coming from. But what makes the vulture show through, is when they pretend not to know you when they see you on the street, blame you for the failures of their publication, cancel you as a friend from Facebook (my friend Christine and I laughed over that for hours), send a lackey to request materials back from you, and refuse to return your calls, all because you put yourself before their self interests.

I am realizing how the game is played in Italy. They try to make you believe that you need them, so that you will work for free. However, in reality it is they who need a mother tongue English speaker to develop their business idea. It is a psychological game. Some people that I have met in Florence are so good at this game, that they have made me feel ashamed for thinking that I deserve money in exchange for the work I do.

Those two experiences and more have made me realize that Italy does subscribe to a caste system. “You’re at the bottom freelance immigrant journalist! I am ‘so and so’ and I have been writing longer than you, living in Florence longer than you, and I have more connections than you; so you need to kiss my feet and work for free until I think you’re worthy of earning cash.”

And you know what I say to that: Fuck you. I have just as much right as anyone to make my living here, and write for more than one publication and to develop my ideas for my own projects — all for $$$$$$.

Competition exists everywhere, and so does jealousy. In Italy I see a trend beyond the normal competitive traits that these personality types have in common. They tend to be over emotional. They also talk themselves up and surround themselves with people who look up to them, such as students who come to Florence on study abroad programs. They keep their cards close; never revealing any information on their business or contacts; secrecy to the point of suffocation.

Maybe I am the naïve one; maybe I should be following those personalities and learning from their actions. But if being closed off and taking everything personal is what it takes to run a successful business in Italy, I hope I fail miserably.

I have deleted and added content to this post after its original publication in order to present the material in a more journalistic manner.

My First Interview with a Famous Person: Garrison Rochelle Speaks about Fame, Success and Life After "Amici"

2009-04-20T04:00:00.000-07:00

“Amici are coming! Do we have enough food for Amici?” asked one of the owners of Angels Restaurant, the place where I waitress for the Sunday American brunch run by Florence For Fun.

I am now embarrassed to say: I thought she was talking about her friends. I was annoyed. Didn’t she know that we stop serving at 3 p.m.?

Then Matteo, one of the Italian servers told me who was coming to brunch. “Amici,” is a popular Italian television show, comparable to “Fame” with a splash of “Big Brother.” It’s been on the air since 2001, and is part documentary, part talent contest that shows young talents’ quest for stardom in the entertainment business. Viewers determine who will win the televised talent show based on participants’ ability to dance, sing and act. The professional dancers from the show were in town to perform "Io Ballo" at Teatro Verdi, and called the restaurant to see if we could accommodate them so shortly before closing.

I seldom watch T.V. ever since moving to Italy — I get my information solely through the Internet. So I remained unfazed, while some of my colleagues scurried in preparation for the arrival of the “Amici.” This with the exception of the boss, Federico — he always portrays a minimum level of charm, enough to keep everyone smiling.

“I am not serving them,” I said to Federico. “I don’t kiss anyone’s ass. I treat all customers the same, so it’s best that someone else serves them. I will only place things on the table where you tell me.”

While I was walking back and forth from the kitchen, I was stopped by one of the professional dancers, José Perez. He asked if the shops were open on Monday. I do not remember if it was at that point or another that I said a word in English.

“You’re American,” said Garrison Rochelle, a former dancer and famous choreographer of the show.

And that started our conversation.

I took him into the kitchen to meet the rest of the staff, mostly Americans. Matteo was red and could not speak. That gave me a sign that this guy was someone worth interviewing.

Besides my professional interest, I sincerely liked speaking with him. I chatted with Rochelle about living in Italy, the struggles and the show. I told him I was a journalist, and asked if I could interview him if I ever came to Rome. He readily agreed.

The next day, I thought: why am I waiting? Maybe he has time for an interview today. With newfound determination, I called him and set up the appointment.

At 7 p.m. I entered Teatro Verdi through the artists’ entrance. A lady with thick black glasses walked me to the backstage. Bright, hot, almost blinding lights shone on the dancers practicing the routine for that night’s show.

I have to admit it was great to see the “behind-the-scenes” of a performance. Many people wearing black walked past me. I took it they were permanent staff of the theatre, and probably wore black to blend in with the stage.

Eventually, Rochelle arrived, and happily arm-in-arm, escorted me to his dressing room.

There his two dogs greeted us, and I interviewed him while he put on his makeup. We faced the large lighted mirror. I wasn’t sure where to stare, at him or the mirror. I chose to communicate by looking at his reflection. Before I pressed record on my digital recorder, I told him that he is my first famous-person-interview.

That comment initiated the interview. Rochelle really does not consider himself famous.

“Famous almost sounds like a dirty word to me, because it has negative aspects,” he said.

Traits usually associated with famous people, like vanity and neuroticism, are qualities that Rochelle does not possess. That makes him a genuine person. It also made it comfortable for me to simply converse with him. He does not put much worth in being famous or popular.

“The last 10 years have been good because of ‘Amici.’ But before that I worked for a program that was really popular. And so I would be ‘famous — really — famous’ (he made the familiar quote-mark sign with his fingers) where I couldn’t walk down the street. And then I’d be off T.V. for a year, and people kind of forget the face,” Rochelle said.

But Rochelle does not have a problem with that. From dancing on Broadway to performing on various Italian entertainment shows for more than 25 years, Rochelle acknowledges that fame is momentary. After experiencing the downside of show biz, he places value on other types of success defined outside of public esteem.

In 1984, he had his first encounter with fame. Italian fans noticed him with his mother in Milano’s Piazza San Babilo. They overtook the square in a matter of minutes, causing the police to be called. The experience’s impact was twofold.

“It freaked me out … than after that I thought: Wow, I’m famous! I thought the deal was done … I could just wait for the contracts to come in.”

In the early 1980’s, he moved to Italy, where he and Brian Bullard formed the duo-dance act “Brian and Garrison.” One of their first performances was on RAI Uno’s variety show “Fantistico 4,” where they danced alongside Heather Parisi. Like most television shows, the program eventually finished. People called them with offers that he and Bullard thought were beneath them, such as “putting a woman between us.”

“We thought: we are ‘Brian and Garrision.’ Why do we need to do that?” he said. “So you say no once, you say no twice, you say no three times, and they stop calling you.”

In hindsight, Rochelle admits that they should have taken those opportunities, both for financial reasons, and to maintain a level of popularity. However, the lull in his career taught him to live independently of popularity, and to separate his professional and personal lives.

“I try to keep the two things (professional and personal) apart.” Rochelle said. “I like the person I am outside of television.”

Rochelle’s career spans dancing on Broadway for renowned choreographer Bob Fosse, to being accepted by Italian audiences for what he describes as “being dizzy.” Rochelle now only wishes for what many people desire: enough money to live comfortably and to have free time.

Looking beyond “Amici,” Rochelle foresees two or three prosperous years left in his career, and then hopes to retreat to three modest homes he would own. He already owns a house in Rome; his second home would be in Barcelona, and the third in Miami or Tampa, Florida.

Luckily his career has afforded him trips all over the world. However, because he was working on those trips, he did not get the chance to explore and enjoy those places. Now Rochelle is trying to set up his life where he will have time to travel.

I’m always amused about how men’s eyes get wide when I tell them that I belly dance. I am sure they imagine how my hip drops and twists play a role in bed. I prefaced my next question to him with that story. I had to ask him if he thought being a good dancer translated into being a good lover.

“Yes,” Rochelle replied without hesitation. “When I see a dancer, or male or female, when they dance bad, first thing I think is ‘God they must be awful in bed,’” he said with a playfully ghastly look. “You know,” he said to me.

“Yeah.” I completely agreed with him.

“I mean, I could be wrong, but someone that’s uncoordinated when they move, how could they be coordinated when they have (he put his hand over his mouth)… make love?” he asked. I assured him he could use any word he wanted to, as we freely exchanged opinions on the matter.

I admire Rochelle for his candidness, and for letting himself show through the interview. More importantly, I admire him for not putting too much worth in his popularity and fame.

As far as defining success, he does not use fame to measure success.

“You don’t have to be famous to be successful … you have to figure out what’s successful for you,” he said. Being successful in his career, as well as in his private life, “that’s a success.”

Rendezvous with My First Lover

2009-04-20T03:02:00.000-07:00

Why is that you always hear from a past lover in those times when you least expect it? Today, I was minding my own business, when I received the unexpected call. I recognized his voice immediately.

There was a bit of uneasiness in his words that followed after he identified himself: “How are you? How is work? Have you found a job?”

He was my first lover, but neither of us has actually been in love with the other; we had always kept our attraction for each other low key and secret, since he has a family and a “wife” (to understand why wife is in quotes, please read my former post Runaway Love about how unions between a man and a women are recognized by some Sicilians). In fact, I have never given him my number, he obviously received it from one of my cousins giu (down South; literally means down or below, and is a way to refer to Southern Italy).

Years ago, after a theatrical chase and purposely created sexual tensions (I was saying “no” and he was insisting on “yes”), he and I had spent an unforgettable, drama and emotion filled night together — I would angrily slap his face every time he said my name wrong and he in turn would aggressively rip off another piece of my clothing. I did not know if he was saying my name wrong on purpose, but either way his reaction heightned my excitment. We consummated our desire for each other in a vineyard on a cold winter night, with a full moon spotlighting our shameless act.

I think back to that night, and know that any man from any other background, would never act with such intensity for the sake of being dramatic nor would they find my purposely disobedient non-submissive conduct so attractive. An American man would never find drama, fighting and lust that borderlines hate or my antics magnetic. An American man does not have the edge to pull off up-front crudeness with sex appeal.

But regardless of the attraction between us, today I feel differently about him. At that time I was not fully aware of his circumstances. Now that I know his situation I feel a responsibility to keep my feelings capped, and to recognize him truly for what he is, furbo (sly). Being that we have relatives in common, we have always been cordial to each other the few times we have seen each other since that night, and I avoid being alone with him, while he avoids direct eye contact with me.

I feel that he is like all the other Sicilian men I have encountered since living here: Always thinking of themselves first, married or single, they are constantly trying to conquer a pretty woman in order to upkeep and assure themselves of their raw Southern machismo. Just like furbo, as soon as their female companion turns her back, or as soon as she is out of sight, they take their chances and go out on the prowl for a one-time thrill.

So when he said he was passing through Firenze and he wanted to meet for a caffè, I accepted, but I was not sure if caffè equaled sex. I called one of my good male friends, who I thought would give me a straight male opinion.

“Well maybe he just wants to meet with his old lover for coffee, there is nothing wrong with that,” my American male friend said.

“But do you think he is calling me to have sex?” I asked.

“This is a question for Christine,” he said reminding me that he was not one of my girlfriends.

Well my friend Christine and I gave furbo the benefit of the doubt. I met him.

I waited for him; he walked towards me with that walk, that Sicilian unrefined walk where their male organs go first and the rest confidently follows.

We talked for a good 20 minutes. Small talk. Then I said I should be getting back. Somehow, someway, he got me into his vehicle. He said he would bring me back to the bus stop. I could not say no. I mean what do I say, “no I cannot be alone with you because I am afraid I’ll start tearing off your clothes.” That’s ridiculous.

So we waited for the bus. It came and went without notice. I said “there’s my bus,” but he ignored it. So I had to ask if this meeting was a secret, if anyone knew he was visiting me.

Those questions opened the door.

We talked about that night — if there was regret, if there was a tie between us. He asked if I ever wanted to repeat it. That is when I started thinking about how much it hurt me, when I found out that my ex, the Albanian, was cheating on me. I do not want to do that to another woman, especially when I know that I am not in love with furbo. If I was in love with him, I would take the risk, I would fight for him, and he vice-versa; but our feelings for each other can only go so deep.

We are from two completely different worlds. He could never fully understand me, just because of the way he was brought up to view a woman’s role in society. And I could never be what his “wife” is to him and his children. Sometimes, it makes me sad, but I am happy that we both can recognize that it could never be. He is the only man that I have had relations with and I can truly say I have no hatred or negative feelings towards him.

“Of course I would [like to do that again], but you are not free, you have a family. And in the end, I will be left with nothing. So no,” I said.

He understood and made it clear that he did not call me to sleep with me. Sure of course not. I tried to probe deeper to understand how he could have a family yet, look for other women.

“I do not look for other women, you are the only one that, that has happened with,” he said. “And it never happens to me … I am happy; I have my kids … giu we have a saying that it is okay to have an avventura (adventure) once in a while.”

I wonder if his “wife” knows that.

Drinking Bombardini in the Mountains on Easter Monday

2009-04-13T04:49:00.000-07:00

Dawn on Pasquetta (Easter Monday), five sleepy young adults piled into a station wagon, and tolerated a long twist and turn uphill drive to take advantage of a sunny day snowboarding, and soaking in the rays on the slopes of Cimone, in the Emilia-Romagna Apennines.

I, one of the five, couldn’t speak on the drive up to the mountains. My stomach was still trying to digest Sunday brunch and a late Easter dinner that was regrettably topped off with a cake that looked like panettone, smelled like panettone, and tasted like panettone, but strangly called columba.

Once we arrived at the foot of the slopes, the men brought over three chairs so we girls could chill, gossip, and witness their attempts to gracefully slide down the snow covered track. We carefully planned our day: 10 a.m. cappuccino; 12 p.m. lunch; 2 p.m. another cappuccino and 4 p.m. bombardini.

On the way to Cimone, we spoke about how many bombardini we would drink. It was going to be the extra highlight of the day. Made of a thick egg liqueur VoV, espresso and whipped cream, the warm, but heavy drink is popular during the winter at mountain spots and ski resorts.

In the late afternoon, after the guys were done snowboarding, we all gathered around the fire and drank our bombardini.

We drank them slowly with a teaspoon. In Italy, and other European countries, thick drinks and concoctions topped with whipped cream are served with a teaspoon. When I visited a friend in Madrid, we chatted in Starbucks while scooping our frozen coffee drinks.

I don’t think I could have stomached drinking a bombardini in one or two gulps, as I typically have been brought up to do with alcoholic drinks served in shot or demitasse glasses. The bombardini did not go down as smooth as hoped, but it quickly warmed me up my insides.

I can see why it is popular. I always fantasize about going to the mountains with friends, wearing the sport appropriate J Crew outfit, laughing while holding a warm festive drink in one hand and cuddling a hot guy in the other — all of this of course occurs by a fire. The bombardini is that festive drink of my fantasy.

I know my fantasy is a product of me looking at too many J Crew catalogues. Nonetheless, this day was close to it. I say close, because my fantasy involves Christmas tree cutting, and today I was without the “hot guy”; but my friends and I decided that when we return next year I will have the “hot guy” and we will fit him on the roof. I guess he will have to hold the Christmas tree.

Store Fronts Dressed Up for Easter Day

2009-04-05T23:36:00.000-07:00

As I walked around the city today, I noticed that all of the coffee shops are adorned with giant chocolate eggs that are meticulously wrapped in pastel colored paper, held together by a large ribbon tied into a pretty bow.

In some of the shops, the displays are the main attraction. The eggs, made in anticipation for Easter, and other festively wrapped sweets, cover any open space, transforming stores into magical lands of creative fruits and candies. The chocolate shop Vestri, on Borgo degli Albizi, 11, is dressed in playful decorations from head to toe.

The shop is brimming with embellished chocolates. The Easter ornaments, overflow onto the entrance way, converting Vestri into a colorful, springtime bouquet.

I stopped to take some pics, and spoke to the owner about possibly watching them make the eggs that usually contain a surprise inside. He said that they have already made all the uova di Pasque (Easter eggs) for this year. But there is always next year. Till then, I cannot wait to unwrap and eat the chocolate egg on Easter day.

Keeping Friends

2009-04-02T02:54:00.000-07:00

Meeting people in Florence is easy, but keeping them in your life is difficult. The circumstances that draw people to and away from this town are many.

Some come here to study, knowing their days here are counted. Others come without an expiration date; there is the lost person, who comes to Italy with a personal mission to rediscover, reinvent and find themselves; there is the dreamer, who sipped a cappuccino, looked into their cup of coffee and saw visions of a new life reflecting back at them; then there is the lover, taking a chance or trying to forget a bad decision, he comes here to escape or submit to love’s power, letting fate and destiny determine his life.

I have made a handful of friends, and I use the word “friend” in its truest sense, but every now and then, one of us questions whether the other will stay around. We size each other up, trying to categorize each other by the characters listed above, determining the probability that the winds of change will carry one of us away. Since I am the newly arrived, it is usually falls on me to convince the other that I will stay.

When I meet people, one of the first conversations we have is why you are here and how long will you stay. Depending on the connection, they delve deeper to find out my true intentions for being in Florence. It’s like they need a contract or guarantee that I won’t suddenly up and leave, making the time we spent together a wasted investment.

Before my closest friend became my friend, we had a conversation about how long I intended to stay. I could hear distress and hope in her voice that I would not be one of those people who come and go, leaving her with a yet another disappointment. I had to assure her that I came here with the decision to build a new life, to make Firenze my permanent home.

At that time, I did not see what the big deal was. I could not understand the fuss. I love meeting new people. The more people you know the better.

This week I invited one of my readers to meet me for a coffee. Her response was yes, but she was kind enough to warn me ahead of time that she would soon be leaving. When I first read her e-mail I thought, no big deal, meeting someone is never a waste of time.

But today I am no longer the newcomer. Today I understand. My friend, who I consider family (although he may not want that big responsibility), told me he may be leaving Florence for at least three months. I don’t know why, but I started crying. And I am crying now just thinking of it.

I could not believe I was crying. What’s wrong with me?

“You’re growing up,” he said.

Is this what happens when you grow up? People leave?

Now I look back at all of my relationships and people I have encountered since that day in June that I arrived. I can count a handful of loves and friends, that I have left behind in Sicily to return to Firenze, and that have left me behind in Firenze to return to their home. It truly makes me blue.

Unexpected Trip to Siena

2009-03-15T05:01:00.000-07:00

I love unexpected occasions; when it’s a Saturday night, and you have nothing to do and then within two seconds your Saturday and Sunday are filled with dinners and engagements.

A last minute invite to a meal turned into drinks, and another dinner the next day, and a trip Siena.

This was my first trip to Siena. I don’t know why, but I have never made it a point to visit the city whose inhabitants are known for being more closed off to strangers than the Florentines.

My friend Nicola gave me a tour of the town and explained its history. He had lived there years ago as a student. The city was formerly a nation state and was, and still is divided into contrade (districts).

He told me that the shape of Piazzo del Campo, was constructed to capture water when it rained; all of Siena’s water comes from the sky. Beneath the city exists a network of systems to purify and cleanse the water.

We decided to brave it and climb up the tower that dominates the square and Siena. A small strict doorway, opened into a modern room. I didn’t know if the entrance or the room after it was indicative of the stairwell that laid ahead. Unfortunately, it was the former.

Parts of the stairwell were so tight, that my back barley slipped through. Plus the climb was a physical workout. At times we had to pause to catch our breaths. But the view from the top was worth the labor.

From there we noted that there were not that many cars within the city walls. Most of the ancient streets could not fit the modern vehicle. The absence of cars, coupled with the absence of graffiti, gives Siena a sense of tranquility that Florence does not posses.

Nicola explained that the Sienese would personally punish anyone who tried to deface their beloved city. Before we entered the city he told me that the only place I would see graffiti would be the building that housed the school of arts. And he was right.

One of the street art that made me stop and stare, was a still life of a bare breasted woman in a window. I was not sure if the woman was part of a symbol of one of the 17 districts. But she was not the only woman who decorated the streets. All throughout there were tabernacles of the Virgin Mary. The city was dedicated to the Virgin Mary prior to the Battle of Montaperti (1260), when Siena defeated its rival Florence (the city has been dedicated several times to the Virgin since that time).

My personal tour ended with a tall pint of frothy Guinness. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day.

Confronting My Past

2009-03-08T04:41:00.000-07:00

I am a victim of abuse. I have been hiding it for some time now. I am compelled to write about it today because of a march I attended on Saturday, organized by Libere Tutte. Participants protested violence against women in commemoration of La Festa delle Donne (Women’s Day).

I covered the march as a journalist, so I did not participate. As I walked alongside women, who to me a good group of them seemed like angry men haters, I questioned why I was not shouting and protesting alongside them.

Observing and not participating in the march made me feel like a fake, because I act like I have nothing in common with those women. I do not consider myself one of them. I do not hate the Catholic Church, I wear makeup and I hate the smell of patchouli. And I love men. I love them for everything women are not.

As I followed the marchers through the center of Florence, I thought about how many other women are like me. How many try to deny the reality of their past? How many are so ashamed that they let someone torment them mentally, physically and sexually, that they place those horrible events in a dark corner of their mind, hidden away, only to rear itself, in those silent lonely nights, as a slight prick in the chest?

So here it goes. My former ex, at first said all those things I wanted to hear, but soon those words that lifted me, slowly bruised and brought me down. Abuse is a slow process. That is why people get caught in abusive relationships. By time they realize — if they realize — they are being abused, it is too late.

The abuser entices you with the promise of love, trust and a happy future. But slowly everything that is pink and bright fades into black. Without notice, negativity trickles in and soon his actions do not mirror the promises he made. Eventually, when he knows you are attached to him, he slowly chips away at your confindence, lowering you to his level in order to keep you chained to him.

In my situation it began with verbal abuse. At first he made me believe we were made for each other. And as soon as I began to fall, those nice words slowly turned mean. I did not notice it because he would say negative things about me as a joke or teasing.

When I would call him out on the teasing, he would say he was just being funny and would get angry with me for being “jealous” or “critical.” Soon little put downs escalated into anger and physical violence. I tried to leave once, and he trapped me up against a wall. He screamed in my face and punched the wall close to my head, demanding me to stay. Punching the wall is a threat that translates to “you are next.”

When I caught him in an act of betrayal, he hit me. Now that I look back that was not the first time he smacked my face, but it was the first time that he did with great force. By that time, I was frozen and already tied to him. I could not move.

I always wonder if an abuser plans their manipulation. My ex is not smart, but the way he manipulated me was calculated. As the relationship moved forward, he was present, but distant at the same time. It’s comparable to a drug pusher, just giving you enough to keep you hooked and coming back for more.

In the beginning of the relationship he was always available physically. We were with each other every hour except when I had to work; however, eventually he would only sleep with me when it was convenient for him. He would ration sex and the time we spent alone (we always spent time going out with his friends), giving me just enough of him to keep me asking for more. Sometimes he would make me feel like a slut or a child if I did ask for more. A woman should never have to convince a man to have sex.

Moreover, he was never careful when we were physical. He was always trying to get me pregnant. Another way for him to keep by his side.

He would call me fat in front of his friends as a “joke.” At the same time, he would force me to eat large amounts of food. He was always trying to make me eat more than I wanted. It’s as if he wanted me to be fat so other men would find me unattractive; so I would always be with him.

Besides him constantly criticizing me, little by little he made me give up the things I enjoyed, to please him. He made rules. I was not allowed to: occasionally smoke a cigarette (I had to take care of my eggs for his children, he said), go topless at the beach, have male friends, go out with my girlfriends without him, speak to other men, including my coworkers etc.

I only experienced the tip of abuse. If I had stayed with him it would have worsened. The only thing that saved me was receiving an assistantship to study journalism. I chose to leave Florence, to study in the U.S. for one year. When I returned to the States, he still tried to manipulate me, but after a month he abruptly ended all communication with me.

I know that if I did not make that decision, I would be married to him (he was always pushing marriage even though we only knew each other for a short period of time), seldom leaving the house, raising his children with no help from him, and probably working some crappy job to support him and his immediate family.

What makes me angry is that I was devastated when he abruptly ended the relationship. It is difficult for me to explain why I was so upset. Only my friends who have been in an abusive relationship understand why I felt like my world ended.

I did see him recently. He walked through Sant’Ambrogio Square while my friends and I were drinking outside a bar. My thoughts were, “how could I have cried over such a piece of shit.” To see my abuser for what he is, is gold.

I am writing this for those who may be questioning their present relationship or who are angry about a past one. It happens to the best and strongest. It does not mean you are weak, although I admit I question my strength. Not all men are like that. I know many men that love and respect the women in their lives, whether it be their sister, lover, mother or friend.

Always listen to that tiny voice deep inside that says, “something is not right.” It was difficult for me to believe that someone could be so evil and manipulative, because I would never do that to someone; especially someone that I claimed to love. I could not understand how someone that I loved could not love me back. I ignored my voice and chose to listen to his instead. That was the biggest mistake.

Biblioteca delle Oblate

2009-02-28T04:11:00.000-08:00

Biblioteca delle Oblate (Oblate Library) is one of my favorite places to spend time writing. It is situated in a building dating back to 1287, in the shadow of the Duomo, on Via San Egidio. Serving as a convent in the 15th century, the former home of the Monastero delle Oblate, was restored by the Comune di Firenze and converted into an active public library in 2007.

On each of the three levels, porticos border a green courtyard that contains stone sculptures. Students gather on the outdoor terrace to read, study and leisurely smoke cigarettes.

That is where I prefer to write. On a fall or winter day, I sit outside at one of the white small rounded tables. I try to pick a table graced by a ray of sunlight, to warm my fingers when typing, while the rest of me stays warm bundled up in my scarf and coat.

What I like most about the library, besides free Internet, is its setting. The tables and curved plastic green and clear chairs, add a modern touch to an antique building which holds to true to its original architecture. Even the coed bathrooms have a minimalist design — two white squared sinks and two mirrors, with silver hand drier and soap dispensers.

Inside there a computers available for patrons to use for free; A wide screen T.V. for people to watch movies or play video games, while sitting on one of the many black rectangle couches that envelopes its guests.

The library hosts movie nights and book reviews, along with speakers who discuss topics relating to Italian culture and literature, as well as issues in today’s society. I often come here to find information on cultural events taking place in the city. But the main reason why I come here is to feel Florence and keep in touch with my thoughts, ambitions, and the city I now call home.

Sometimes I spend hours writing on the top floor, only taking a break to roll a cigarette and enjoy the view of the Duomo’s cupola. Other times I pop in for an hour or two just to check e-mails and collect brochures about events. And once in a while, when passing through the city, I take a stroll to admire the arched hallways that support the structure, and artworks displayed throughout the building.

Although I visit to learn about what’s going on in the city, I am ashamed to say that I have never taken advantage of the events hosted by the library. This month I have made myself promise to use the library as a means to participate in Florence and to be involved in the issues and movements that are taking place in the city.

Prying Information from the Police

2009-02-24T02:43:00.000-08:00

Anytime I tell one of my friends (who I will call "a." for this article) that I am going to call the police or go to the police station, for information about robberies in the news, "a." laughs at me. "a." told me that I will receive no information and they will tell me to “screw off.”

Many people that I speak to in Italy share "a.’s" negative attitude towards the police, though the reasons and severity of the negativity may differ by region.

My relatives in Sicily have no confidence in the police. We argued over dinner during the summer, about whether the police serve a purpose and protect the citizens. They said the police always arrive late, after the crime has taken place, and for this reason, they have no respect for the police; however, Sicily functions on a differnt code and culture compared to the North.

In Florence I have come across some people with an alternative political view towards police and the central government.

I dated a cop for a month or two, and three of my friends tried to convince me to break up with him, because of his profession.

"Don't dirty yourself with a cop," a friend said.

Public offices withholding information from its citizens, is such a difficult concept for me to wrap my head around. I have never tried to get information on a robbery in the States, but I know that the documents on an arrest, crime, lawsuit etc … are public, and anyone can look at them.

I read in online version of The Plain Dealer, a daily paper distributed in my hometown Cleveland, that someone I knew had been arrested. From Italy, I called the county jail located in a small town in Ohio. They did not ask who I was, they did not ask why I wanted the information, and they just answered my questions about the facts of the case.

In Italy, journalists are not free. Reporters need to recieve accreditation from the government in order to be considered a "journalist," and recieve "private" information, a throwback to fascism and Mussolini.

Today I went to Palazzo Vecchio, a historic building built by the Medici family that houses the Comune di Firenze (city hall). I had originally gone there to speak to someone in the press office, but once inside the building I noticed a sign that said Polizia Municipale.

There have been several thefts against visitors of Florence in the past weeks. All of the robberies occurred around the same time, from 2:30 a.m.-3:30 a.m. and in the streets surrounding Piazza Santa Croce — all of the victims were women.

Tourists and American students frequent the area, Piazza Santa Croce, at night. The street that faces the Piazza has a string of bars that are popular with American students and other visitors of the city. In my opinion people are profiting on the fact that some student or visitor will be walking home from the bar alone. So I am hoping that the local police will step up security in that area, especially during the hours after the bars close.

I read about those robberies in La Nazione, a local daily, but wanted to find first hand information about the occurrences. So I walked into the Polizia Municipale office. A man in uniform greeted me. I told him about the crimes reported in the paper and explained what I was looking for.

He was not forthcoming about information.

“What time did the incidents occur and who intervened,” he asked with a touch of hostility.

Italy has three types of police and each has a separate jurisdiction: Polizia di Stato, Carabinieri and Polizia Municipale.

I could not answer those questions. I had no idea who intervened. Italy’s bureaucracy is tangled and murky, to fully understand who does what will take me years. I felt he was just being difficult for whatever reason. I mentioned that I was a journalist — big mistake.

“You cannot just talk to any police on the street,” He said repeatedly.

I looked around. I thought I was in the town hall; normally a place for citizens of a community to interact with the administration, but maybe someone had slipped some hallucinates in my coffee. Maybe this conversation was taking place in the middle of the road.

He told me to go to an office near the Cascine to speak to the Segretaria Comandante. The Cascine is the most west part of Florence. It is located in no-man’s-land. I asked for the name of the person with whom I should be speaking to.

Again he told me that I could not speak to any police on the street. I explained clearly that I completely understand this concept.

I changed the question. I asked him the responsibility of this particular office. Again he told me to go to the Cascine and that I could not just speak to any police on the street.

I asked again. I am stubborn. His colleague stepped in.

“No let me explain it to her, because she keeps insisting,” he said

I understand that the men were not authorized to give me a statement related to the incidents that occurred in Piazza Santa Croce; however, as a citizen of Florence, it is a normal question to ask about the responsibilities and services of the Polizia Municipale, and in particular, the purpose of the office found in the comune.

They would not answer my question. Actually they did, they rudely and repeatedly told me that what they do there is “un segreto (it's a secret).”

I am hard headed and sometimes people need to say things directly to me, because I cannot read between the lines. A third man appeared and he shouted the same response, “è un segreto!”

"a." was right, they were telling me to "screw off." Naïve me did not catch on for the first minute. Maybe I was really in Langley, Virginia.

It turns out the men I spoke to were Vigile Urbani, not the CIA. They can give out tickets pertaining to city codes and ordinances, and cannot make arrests. I discovered that later, from the informative and forthcoming policewoman of the Polizia dello Stato, located in Piazze del Ciompi (she could not give details on crimes, but could explain the responsibilites of the police).

I do not understand why the men in the comune could not tell me that themselves. Having three men shouting at you is not fun. So I gave up and left the Polizia Municipale, and continued on my search for the press office.

I spoke to the policewoman who stood near the entrance of the comune.

“Where is the press office,” I asked.

“I am not sure, go to the Polizia Municipale and ask them,” she said

I have changed this post several times due to sources taking offense that I published private conversations, and colleagues advising me to be more specific on the reasons why some groups are against police; and I posted a photo as proof that people lack respect for the police, however I do not want the reader to confuse other's opinions with my own, thus I deleted the photo.

I may have lost some friends over this post, but what I have written is the truth and I believe that people need know that information that should be public, is actually private in Italy.

The Secluded Immigrant

2009-02-21T09:31:00.000-08:00

Francesca invited me to see a movie about Ethiopia last night at the Circolo Il Progresso, a community and cultural center of ARCI, a left-aligned association that promotes democratic ideals and Italian culture in Tuscany.

When I first arrived, I was one of about three women in the place. Mostly Italian and immigrant men, from Ethiopia or Eritrea, were waiting for the film presentation and a genuine Eritrean meal that Francesca’s co-worker’s grandmother prepared for attendees.

Francesca helps many immigrants and refugees from African countries assimilate into the Italian culture. She introduced me to several of her utente (this translates to client in Italian, but I have a feeling that is not how I would refer to them in English).

Each one was a bit shy or hesitant to meet me, and surprised that I had heard of their home country. Their reaction made me think that they do not meet many Italians or Italian women in Florence, and that many Italians do not know much about Africa.

Only one was bold enough to approach me without a formal introduction. He was from Ghana, and he told me things about his past life that made me seriously feel for him.

He was shocked when I told him this was not the first time I had met someone from Ghana. I feel like I am living in a country that is 1,000 years behind when African’s and other immigrants in Italy are shocked to learn that they are not the first person I met from Ghana, Ethiopia or Eritrea or that this is not the first time I have eaten African food, because this translates into Italians do not intermingle with anyone whose origins are outside the Italian border. Where am I living?

After we ate a traditional Eritrean meal with our fingers, we gathered into a cold room to watch the film “Come Un Uomo sulla Terra.” Everyone had their jackets on during the film and the meal.

My new acquaintances, were both polite and equally interested in me, sat next to me while we watched women and men from Ethiopia speak about their hellish travels from their homeland to a prison in Kufra, Libya.

It is unbelievable that a slave trade is still happening in Africa. They are not forced to work land. Instead they are forced to pay their way out of Libya and Africa, physically and financially over and over again; repeatedly being arrested without cause and released for a sum of money.

What was even more unexpected was the audience's reaction to the movie. Some had arrived to Italy via Libya. As horrible and unforgettable that their traveling experience has been, it is nothing compared to the treatment they receive in Italy, attendees said. One person said living in Italy is like living in an open-air prison. Many agreed with him.

Now I understand why the young men I met were uncomfortable when meeting me. They are not used to intermingling with natives, for whatever reason.

I feel like a small group of Italians mingle with immigrants, but I question their motives. I feel that some do so because they see immigrants as a novelty or they are rebelling.

I sometimes feel like a special trinket to Italians that I meet, especially Southern Italian men. It may be that they are attracted to “different” or go against their society by racking up internationals: African friend — check; American friend — check; American girl in my bed — check.

It is so bizarre that people who are common in my home country, are looked at as unfamiliar objects to be avoided by the majority of Florentines. I just cannot get over it. In the States it is not unusual to meet and be friends with people from different nations and cultures.

Cooking with Benedetta Vitali

2009-02-13T06:00:00.000-08:00

Cooking with Benedetta Vitali is like being informally initiated into a fraternity of impressive, regional Italian cooks, all openly bestowing their vast food knowledge on you via one expert chef.

The only requirement to be a member of the secret Italian food society and to enter into its revered kitchen is a willingness to learn.

Vitali does not believe in “secret” recipes and invites all who share in her passion for good food to prepare classical Italian dishes beside her. She has been making foodies, professional chefs and the average person like me part of the menu at her restaurant Zibibbo for over six years.

Like her “lessons” she is hands-on when it comes to running her restaurant and deciding on the day’s dishes. She visits San Lorenzo Market every morning, buying foods that are in their seasonal prime. The first time I met her, she was walking into her restaurant carrying fresh local tuna.

“We do not keep any of our food frozen … our menu changes everyday depending on what is fresh and at the market,” she said.

Her philosophy of using seasonal ingredients when nature intended them to be eaten is strewn into the menu and passed onto those who cook with her.

I spent the morning and good part of the afternoon on February 4, observing her pass on that philosophy to Jeanette Lykke Kristiansen Gulley, professional chef trained at the French Culinary Institute located in Soho, New York and now a private chef for guests aboard their own yachts.

Her method of cooking is “the right way to cook, because she cooks what is in season, it’s the right way of eating,” said Gulley.

The kitchen has a window that faces the formal dinning room, allowing guests a peek at the restaurants operations. It is here, that Vitali explains how to test a gnocchi for elasticity so that are light and airy when cooked, tells which is in her opinion the best anchovy paste — Balena — and how to eyeball cardoons for greenness when ensuring they are properly cooked.

Rated as one of the best restaurants in Florence by Michelin and L’Espresso, Zibibbo’s reputation as an “elegant, yet comfortable” atmosphere extends in the kitchen.

“It’s a hard job, you work all day in a small kitchen,” she said.

She sees no point in making an already difficult job, more difficult. She sets a serious yet relaxed tone when she is sharing cooking techniques with others.

Gulley was delighted to hear the kitchen staff chattering while they busily prepared for the lunch crowd.

“It makes me feel like I am in my mother’s kitchen,” she commented on the vibe of the kitchen and Vitali’s method of teaching.

Around 11 a.m. Vitali insisted everyone take a coffee break. No task goes without a bit of history and knowledge. She encouraged Gulley to make cappuccino and espresso, giving her tips on how to work the elaborate espresso machine.

They exchanged opinions about how to sugar coffee. Vitali spoke about how Romans place sugar inside the Moka machine, recounting an experience she had while spending time teaching in the ancient city.

I find her willingness to happily allow eager hands prepare the traditional Southern and Tuscan recipes that her restaurant serves unique, because Vitali is a renowned chef, author and a celebrity in her own right, often appearing on local T.V.

Communicating the knowledge of food through the senses of touch, taste and vision, Vitali gives a part of herself when she teaches others how to cook.

“It's like a love. Like transferring a love,” she said.

Learn more about cooking courses with Benedetta Vitali at Zibibbo's Web site and through EUROPASS.

Being Chased by a Political Campaign

2009-02-11T11:13:00.000-08:00

A man that I never met is chasing me. Anytime I leave my home I see him in the passing corners within eyesight. He is at the coffee counter. He stares at me when I am in line at the cashiers and I swear I catch a glimpse of him in store windows while I walk the street.

Today he made his way into my home when I picked up Il Reporter, a local monthly newspaper. As soon as I tore the plastic covering that enclosed the news, I saw his conservative wave-to-the-left brown hair and pink shiny lips peeking out at me.

That is when I realized there is no escaping one of Florence’s mayoral candidates, Matteo Renzi. As the primaries grow closer I see him more often. Today I came across his image on fliers, newspapers and inserts.

I honestly do not have time to read up on every candidate in the election. I think he will win the first step towards office that takes place this Sunday because up until this week I have not sought out information on the election or the candidates, yet I know his name and recognize his face.

He is young and running a modern campaign utilizing all the latest modes of communication and social networking. On his Web site’s home page songs by popular Italian artists, like Jovanotti, play while a computer that leads to videos of him on youtube.com flashes “Renzi TV.” An Ipod that has a play list of songs with underlying political messages like “si può fare” (you can do it or yes you can), and a facebook logo so I could request to be his friend, are all arranged on the page that resembles his personal desk.

The page is innovative, fun and easy to navigate. But pr is one thing and following through is another. I cannot give an honest opinion on him yet, because I am not informed. I did request his campaign team to send me information in English because there are many expats who live here, who can vote, but cannot speak or read Italian and I think they deserve information in English.

I am interested to see if his campaign efforts will push him through the primaries.

Three Times and It Is Over

2009-01-31T07:05:00.000-08:00

Over a small meal in a little trattoria near Sant’Ambrogio square my Tuscan male friend unconsciously admitted his dating rule — “third date, no sex, you’re out.”

He and I always have honest conversation, but sometimes I think he forgets that I am a woman and I cannot always handle what men really think and do.

With my friend it is easy to speak frankly as adults and I can tell him when I have had more than I can handle. I do treasure being let in on the male rules of dating.

This evening, we dominated the restaurant with our sex and gender chatter. There was one lonely man in the corner, occasionally grunting for no reason and old man sitting at a table diagonal from my friend’s back. They either listened to us with curiosity or annoyance.

We are both single so when we meet, we exchange a brief rundown of our love life. Tonight was his turn to divulge. He said something, which I cannot remember now, that prompted me to ask this: “You would stop dating a girl if she didn’t sleep with you by the third date?”

His immediate response was “yes.”

My mouth dropped. Seeing my reaction and realizing what he just said, he began to change his answer. But I begged him to stick with the truth.

“Unless there is some reason, like if she does not believe in sex before marriage or something, I would not, but otherwise . . .”

But otherwise she gets the ax. He explained that if there is nothing deep between him and her, than there is only sex, and if there is no sex, there is no point. So much for getting to know someone.

In Florence, where tourists and students from all over the world arrive with an idealistic image of the “Latin Lover,” and do things they would not normally consider while slaving over their corporate job or studies back home, the Italian men have an international buffet of one-stands and short term flings.

My outlook on the city is completely different now that I live here compared to how I viewed the city in 2007 during my four-month study. I was more open to meeting people and men. I think twice about whom I date, and try to weed out the ones who are only looking for play now that I live here.

When I heard this rule, many men flashed through my mind and I tried to remember what happened on all my third dates.

I felt like Sally in “When Harry Met Sally,” when she learned over lunch that Harry used the excuse that he had to clean his andirons to make an escape from women’s beds. I jokingly told him that now that I have this information if we ever dated I will wait well past the third date, that is if he wouldn’t dump me first.

Tacos and Cheese

2009-01-28T14:30:00.000-08:00

My friend Lorenzo often cooks me dinner since we live nearby each other and are working on project together. When he invites me over for dinner I already know what the meal will be. Without a doubt it is always pasta; pasta with pesto, pasta with ragu. Once he mixed it up and boiled some ravioli.

I am not putting this noodle down. Comparable to a chameleon, it can transform into fantastic shapes and sizes. But no matter what you put on it, it is still pasta.

As a girl that comes from a country that is raging a war against carbs, eating the staple of the motherland each day and sometimes twice a day, is a “no-no.” Not to mention my behinds worst nightmare. But of course, I cannot explain that to Lorenzo.

So when he invited me over for dinner tonight, I just kept thinking about how long it has been since I have had something with beef in it and how many miles I would have to walk to work off this meal.

I sat at the white marble table that he always sets before my arrival. There were more than white plates and clear glasses. A bright yellow packet of taco seasoning lay all by its lonesome on the table. I almost died.

I have not seen taco seasoning for over half-a-year. My mind went racing. If he has taco seasoning then that means I have not been shopping in the right isles at the local Coop.

“Where did you get this,” I asked.

He bought it when he went to the States. Okay, so I may have to put taco seasoning on my list of “things to send me.” I was a bit disappointed. But then my frown turned into joy when he said “I am making tacos for dinner.”

I had a real American dinner. There was salsa and chips and cheese. Granted the cheese was real (it was mozzarella), but just the same. He warmed tortillas in the microwave and served me Coke. I normally do not drink soda, but did in honor of this special meal. There was a lacking of sour cream, since it does not exist in Italy, but nonetheless I was a happy girl when I filled my tortilla with the spicy beef.

While we ate our soft shell tacos, I confessed that I was getting sick of eating pasta everyday.

"But there are so many different kinds," he said

I love pasta, and I appreciate and enjoy that he cooks it for me. Moreover I love the fact that I do not even have to pick up a dish when the meal is through. What I do not understand is how someone could look forward to eating cooked noodles for at least one meal of each day of the week.

I know the Tuscans reading this are "tsk tsk"-ing but sometimes the body needs some bad food. And today my body's craving was completely satisfied.

Control

2009-01-24T12:36:00.000-08:00

Where are the “mazzo di fiori, cioccolati e ceni” said my friend Antonio when I sought him for advice on how to handle D.

“This is what a man does when he is in love or cares for you, he brings you flowers, buys you chocolate and cooks you dinner.” Antonio was trying to make me see that I deserve the best and should look at all my male relationships using my head not my heart.

He saw why I thought it selfish for someone to contact me after three months of silence. My life, my friendships and my heart do operate with a swinging door. People cannot just decide to enter and leave when they find it convenient. Seeing someone on their terms, when they find it comfortable is not fair.

I do not like when someone dictates to me how things are going to be — in all aspects of my life. If someone sees me as a bother, and makes it clear they want to be left alone, then I will leave them alone. As I did in this situation.

So when I responded to him, I told him that I was not that happy to hear from him, because the past was still fresh, but since he was leaving I would see him.

And once again he took the cowardly route and declined. But it did not go unnoticed that he declined kindly with grace and indicated that it was in my best interest not to see him. What a gentleman. Nothing makes a woman happier then when a man tells her what’s best for her.

Of course Yelena had a response for him.

“You know what I would tell him, you should think twice before you decide to disturb someone.”

But this time I did not follow her advice.

Insignificance, inconsistency, and irresponsibility do not deserve a response.

Where are the men that do not accept no for an answer, that have courage, that recognize a good thing, that own up when they make a mistake, that take risks, that leap?

Passing on the ABCs

2009-01-22T12:44:00.000-08:00

For a foreigner who comes here without any contacts, friends or family to support them financially, Florence — a city where its locals survive by personal networks, kinship and inheritance — can pull everything out of person, especially those who only have themselves to rely on, in order to make some money.

In order to avoid complete poverty I have depended on the one thing that is a natural reflex and an integrated activity of daily life. I have begun teaching English.

Although there is a high demand for the language, whether it is for business or pleasure, it is still difficult to find students who set time aside to study consistently. Then there are those who want English lessons, but do not want pay for it. So they underhandedly invite you to dinner, pushing Italian aside, they slyly insist on making you feel at home by only speaking their second language.

Presently I have four students, two of which are 7 years old, that more or less meet with me on a weekly basis.

When I first visited the home of child a., I could hear curious whispers in anticipation to meet me while I walked up the stairwell. Upon meeting her, she looked at me with questioning eyes and had a hint of embarrassment to greet me with a “hello.” At the same time, there was a sense of excitement, to have a special visitor in the home.

It was so odd, to see a youngster looking up at me, eagerly waiting for me to properly instruct her. It is scary yet thrilling at the same time to have someone interested in me, my culture, language and habits.

Teaching children is draining because I have to find ways to grab their attention and keep them sitting in their chairs. Or if we are playing, I have to find creative ways to thread in English sentences and phrases.

As much as it is draining, it is also rewarding, because children take risks. Little is needed for them to overcome their embarrassment. They mimic my words without thinking of how they will sound or if they are speaking correctly.

A couple of days ago I had my second lesson with a. and she was already asking me to sing the ABC song. She and I sang together teaching her friend the English alphabet.

Teaching English is worth more than just the pay I receive. It makes me proud to pass on a piece of my heritage to someone who is open to differences and learning.

Change?

2009-01-20T01:12:00.000-08:00

I caught the tail end of change taking place in the United States today. Busy writing and trying to figure out what bus will take me to and from the inauguration celebration held by Democrats Abroad at New York University, I missed the swearing in and speech of President Obama.

It was raining while I waited for the bus to take me outside the city center to the NYU campus. Since Washington D.C. is six hours behind Italy, I thought I only missed the oath of office.

When I arrived at the address there was a long, straight driveway lined with trees. It was so dark that I was not sure I had the right place. I tiptoed on the gravel trying not to get my boots wet, because that would be the real tragedy of the night — not missing Obama’s speech.

Barely halfway up the seemingly endless drive, two Italians stopped me, one was smoking a hand rolled cigarette. I asked them if I was at NYU, they assured me I had indeed found it. Before I could join the festivities they had to make sure I was on the guest list. I was.

Thankfully I did not have to walk all the way up the driveway, the location of the party was just off the path to my right. As I approached I heard people soulfully belting out a tune.

Inside, I walked around, climbed up the stairs and found the most popular room, the one with the free wine. I was happy to see a friend, who immediately gave me crap, for being late, which I deserved. I missed the whole inauguration. Thankfully he gave me a recap.

I am not a Democrat and I am not completely sure about this “change” everyone is talking about, but as he repeated snippets of Obama’s speech and detailed the event, I felt a flush of pride and emotion. Because history happened today. And because I love my country, the forefathers, and people that struggled and died to make a dream possible.

The more I live in Italy, the more I realize that although the United States is not perfect and the economy has taken a dive, the Americans have a pride and confidence in their government like no other people I have ever met.

The Italians I have met from Tuscany, Milan, Torino and especially Sicily, have this indifference or negativity towards their government and lack belief in possibilities. That is so difficult for me to grasp.

How can one not have pride and joy when a new president takes office? The ceremony itself, to see democracy alive, that someone is putting their hand on the Bible that Lincoln used, gives me chills, regardless if I voted for them or not.

Today in response to Obama’s call for service the Democrats Abroad held a successful blood drive. Cathleen Compton, treasurer of the Florence chapter, assured me that they would continue to support the president and the party platform.

Attendents of the festivities echoed thier support and expectations of the new president.

"To change the way people think, to move humanity towards oneness," said Dianne Carriker (pictured above) who has been living in Florence for 35 years.

Like others who are determined Obama will rebuild the global U.S. image, she spoke about the necessity for America to be united with the rest of the world.

My hesitance towards change aside, I am happy that Americans support each other in Florence and keep our countries spirit alive, by honoring the requests of the president.

As for this change everyone is talking about — only time will tell.

Just Add Water

2009-01-15T07:51:00.000-08:00

I have the privilege of indulging in customary, simple yet flavorful dishes prepared by the chef and sommelier of the agriturismo Castello Di Fulignano, Francesco Materozzi, because his daughter is my roommate.

At times our refrigerator becomes unexpectedly stocked with containers holding his edible creations. I never complain, only happily eat. I admit I do not always know the formal name of the concoctions, although I can pick out the ingredients. I do know that everything I have eaten that has been made by him is delicious.

After we picked olives together in November, he made steak that was grilled over a little fireplace inside his cozy home. Just that image, of him placing steaks on top of a real flame, not one sparked by the clicking of a stove, makes me want to return to his table.

Today I interviewed him for a newspaper that I am currently creating. Although I have not yet written the article for the paper, I wanted to share one of the two recipes he made me, both of which he cooked not in olive oil, not in butter nor animal fat, but water.

Sporting a merlot-colored apron, he laid out all the ingredients on the counter, and the historical background on the dish. I sat eagerly watching him cook and listening to his culinary advice.

Acqua Cotta is an antique dish that originated in southern Tuscany. Dating back to medieval times, it takes advantage of the optimum vegetables found in the orto, garden, or those that are in season.

He started with an abundant amount cavolo nero (this literally translates to black cabbage, it is a type of collard green) stripping out with his hands the hardest part, the stem. After cutting into large pieces, he placed it into a flat pan with more than enough cold water to sufficiently cover the bottom and then some. That was placed over medium heat.

Next he added about three chopped celery stalks stripping of the harder strings with a peeler.

“It does not matter how thick each vegetable is cut, it is important that one tastes il profumo (flavor) of each ingredient,” he said.

The vegetables need to keep their form and should not be mushy when eaten. “I like my vegetables crunchy,” he said when described the texture that should be sought for this recipe.

Each ingredient mentioned here was chopped right before going into the pan. Making the dish unique is essential, so the more vegetables one would like to add the better, and there is no rule on how thick each should be cut, but avoid slicing too thin.

To achieve the desired firmness the dish calls for, each ingredient should be added to the pan following the order as seen here or if using other vegetables those, which take longer to cook, are placed in the pan first.

Next he added two carrots, followed by parsley and then red onion. He prefers red onion and also it was used at the time this dish was first created since white onion did not exist in the area.

Basil went in next, but it is possible that the initial recipe may have only called for parsley only; however Materozzi stresses that others adjust the dish to their preferred taste, making it original as he did.

“There are many different versions of this dish, but mine is original, I have personalized it. If you taste one like mine than that person copied me,” he said with pride.

Chosen because they do not bloat the stomach, he added green beans; about eight or nine piccadilly tomatoes or those sold on the vine followed. Although tomatoes are not in season, the farmers that prepared this dish usually conserved tomatoes by hanging them on the wall.

As he cut the tomatoes directly into the pan, periodically checking to ensure there is enough water to cook all the newly added ingredients, he reminded me that the dish was originally made during a time when knives did not exist.

He then added four peeled, small potatoes, two pieces of garlic, and then about two sliced zucchini (after removing the soft middle part). Just before he added the salt, he had a taste test.

Tasting it before adding salt, one can recognize if the flavors are distinct and harmonizing into one. He added an amount of salt that is dependent on the taste test.

He then added two homemade spices, peperoncino sotto olio (hot peppers conserved in olive oil) and whole dried oregano.

“There are two more ingredients to be added, but they are a surprise,” he teased me.

He stirred all the ingredients, checked the water and let the dish cook covered for about another 15 to twenty minutes, and eyed the firmness of the vegetables every so often.

He told me that the dishes he was preparing for me are piatti poveri, dishes that were cooked and eaten by the poor, probably farmers. They cooked with what vegetables they had on hand at the time.

One thing I learned during this conversation, was that cooking was about having fun and making a dish your own while staying true to the base of the recipe: Cooking in water, using quality ingredients, keeping the vegetables crunchy and or firm, while maintaining their inherent flavor.

Without me noticing, he shut off the gas and let the mixture cool just a bit. He then added the two ingredients, which added to the heartiness of the plate, golden brown bread cubes and tiny pieces of aged pecorino cheese.

The bread cubes were made from bread that was sitting for about two days, he then toasted them with olive oil and rosemary. The pecorino cheese can be substituted, but this was the cheese that was available when the recipe was born.

Finally dinner was served. He dribbled olive oil, which was made from olives that I picked, over the melody of colors that steamed in my bowl.

A light sweet spumante brute bubbled in my glass while he excitedly waited for my reaction. It was tasty with a bite of hotness or sharpness at unexpected moments that accentuated the pureness of each vegetable.

A balance of diverse flavors that combined to defy sogginess, and exemplify nourishment. Satisfying and simple, it could be a companion to il primo piatto or serve as hearty meal on any winter day.

Catching Thoughts

2009-01-09T07:29:00.000-08:00

Yesterday afternoon as I briskly walked from the city center to my apartment a thought about D. floated into my head.

“I’m going to hear from him. I don’t know when, but I know it will be soon and when I least expect it.”

The last time I had a thought like this, was when I was getting over the Albanian. At that time I was angry because I felt that he was creeping into my head because he was not letting me go, and he was thinking of me. Several days later I heard from him.

This time the thought about D. quickly floated out of my head. I did not dwell on it and I was not even thinking about him after.

When I arrived home I decided to chill. I caught up on some shows via the Web. I snuggled under a down-feathered blanket and propped my laptop on my belly so that I could rest while watching.

In between a download, I refreshed my e-mail page. There it was. Under the “from” was his full name. It was so unexpected that I had to blink before I believed it.

I did not know what to do. I wanted to read it, but then I did not want to read. So I did what I did the last time I received messages from an ex who angrily swore he had no feelings for me, fell of the face of the earth (basically in my mind he was dead), and then suddenly came back to life — I called my Russian friend in NYC, Yelena.

Yelena always keeps it real. She has a deep intuition and feeling about people and life, and her cynicism brings my head out of the clouds, yet she shares my hope and faith in love. Her life guidelines usually begin with “In my country we have a saying . . . ”

Whenever a married man shows a slight interest in me she says “ . . . a wife is like a wall, she can be moved.”

Whenever I talk about finding someone she says “ . . . it is important that two people are looking in the same direction, not into each others eyes.”

After the beach trip with D. she told me things that I did not want to hear, but I knew she was right. “He is not free Natalie. Let him go.”

And I did. But every time I cancel him, he comes back.

I told her how I thought about him for a second today.

“You know feelings and thoughts flow, so you caught his thought,” she said.

We read the message.

My first reaction to the letter was anger. I do not believe in keeping in touch with an ex, especially if I was emotionally involved with the person.

“What the fuck is this, now that he is leaving Florence, he wants to see me. Where has he been for the past three months,” I cried to Yelena.

“It is like he has something to close with you. You have closed things, but maybe he has not,” she said. “Don’t cry. Did I tell you that my belly dance teacher died?”

She always tells me that her 80-year-old dance instructor — who looked 50 and danced like a star — passed away at the worst possible time. It never fits into the conversation, so hearing it always makes me laugh through my tears.

The tone of the letter was friendly. “We are not friends, why is he writing like we are friends,” I asked her for clarity.

“He is trying to be breezy. What are you going to do? You do not have to meet him.” Then there was silence that Yelena broke with a sharp judgment.

“What a fucking idiot.”

She continued on with her advice. “What is he going to tell you, that now that he is leaving he has feelings for you, like what are you going to do with these words,” she said in here signature Russian accent.

“You know I cannot, not see him and we do not know what he wants or what he is going to say,” I said

“Why. Why do you have to see him?”

Even though she pushed me to think about it, I knew I did not have to explain why I would eventually have to respond and meet him.

I am angry and upset that he did not just leave. I was happy not knowing anything about him or his life. I also feel that he is just writing me so that he can leave Florence on good terms.

I feel that when men act this way it is selfish. They should let a woman move on. But I know I will have to write him back soon, and I know I will have to see him. I am just too upset to write him back now.

Follow this story:
Beginnings
The Turn Off
Deleting

Taking the Fast Train

2009-01-05T06:35:00.000-08:00

Around and around and around we drove circling the Milano Centrale railway station trying to find a parking spot. I honestly just wanted to go. After spending two weeks in Milan I was done. My time spent there was up.

My cousins wanted to accompany me to the train. Being that I have traveled to and from Spain, Albania, DR and other countries by myself I really did not see the importance in having a send off. I can carry my bags, I can find my seat, and I can definitely find my way back to my apartment in Fi, which I was sure remained in the state I left it — cold and vacant.

At last, a spot opened up. One cousin stayed in the car and my host Nuccia rushed with me as I stepped on the new moving walkways that zigzag to the giant hall.

Covered by an arched roof I always walk with my head high in the hall. Nostalgia takes over. Worldliness and importance shuffle past me in their Gucci suites, exaggerated fashion bags, high heals and leather. Times like this I miss NYC and my corporate job that afforded designer jeans and gorgeous shoes.

Nuccia climbed onto the car with me and we said our goodbyes. I used to take time in saying goodbye to people, but lately it has become a habit. I am always coming and going, meeting and leaving friends so much so that departing has become tiresome. Physically and mentally draining.

Apart from my personal exhaustion from parting, there is something romantic about saying goodbye on the train. There used to be excitement in taking someone to the airport, only leaving until after seeing their plane take off. But in post September 11th, those days are gone.

Only at the train station can that dreamy, steamy goodbye exist. Unless Humphrey Bogart has arranged for your own private plane to escape from the Nazis, no one can say goodbye or catch a loved one at the gate. Trains make the goodbye personal and final. You see the person leave. And the person leaving can look out their window and wave adieu to their loved one. There is worth in that. For this trains are in.

Now that a fast train can carry me to and from Florence and Milan in about two hours, I hope to be traveling to one of the world’s fashion capitals more, and will put my personal issues with “farewell” aside and insist that I find my train on my own less.

Superstitions of a Sicilian Mother

2008-12-30T01:38:00.000-08:00

My Sicilian mother has passed onto me many superstitions and myths that she learned from her native country. One superstition that I truly believe in is il malocchio, the evil eye, but during this time that I am spending in Milan with my relatives, I realize that I have forgotten some of the traditions surrounding il malocchio.

My mother taught me from a young age that people sometimes curse others, purposely asking evil spirits to harm them or sometimes putting a hex on strangers without even knowing it.

I am more susceptible in getting the curse compared to others my mother told me. When I was little I would be nervous, pensive and sometimes depressed for no reason, which lead her to believe that I had the curse.

She believed that in my case I was primarily affected by evil spirits from people, mostly strangers, unintentionally passing on jealous thoughts through a striking glance. Other times, I would notice envious relatives chewing the inside of their check intently gazing at me while I tried to eat in peace during a holiday dinner.

Whenever my mother noticed that I was not acting like myself she would perform a little ceremony to expel il malocchio. On a Saturday, she would turn off the T.V., hush my bother and sister, and command silence. The tick-tock of a quartz clock that hung on our kitchen wall was all that I could hear. I tried to stay as still as possible while she balanced bowls and glasses holding water and olive oil over the crown of my head. She would say a secret prayer simultaneously dropping oil into water, trying to determine if I was cursed and if so, how bad was it.

When I was older I would ask her questions about the ceremony. She could only tell me the sacred rites during midnight mass on Christmas Eve. One Christmas Eve, just she and I attended midnight mass, and I was initiated into a group that nowadays barely exists.

In recent years people that I have never seen before in my life, stop by my parents house asking my mother to remove il malocchio. Some of them are suffering from poor health; some of them are experiencing hardships in their life. One thing the ceremony cannot do is make good fortune, my mother taught me.

Being in Milan with my cousin Nuccia, we somehow got on the subject of il malocchio. I confessed to her that I no longer remember the prayer, and am sad because I do not know when my mother and I will be together again on Christmas Eve.

The woman who taught my mother passed away many years ago. So when I ask my mother deeper questions about the act, she regrets she cannot answer them, because she just does not know, and those who did are no longer living.

Nuccia, who grew up in the next town over from my mother, knew enough to answer my questions.

“Only when a woman tells a woman it must be during midnight mass. A man can tell a woman or a woman can tell a man anytime;” she said.

The day the tradition was passed onto me I wrote down the words to the prayer and hid them in a secret place. I asked Nuccia if I could only read them on Christmas Eve.

“You can read them to yourself anytime you want,” she said

Some people may read this with doubt that evil spirits lurk or that people can throw a curse on others. And that is fine; everyone is entitled to their own opinion. When I was little I sometimes questioned the belief, but my father told me about the ceremony to remove il malocchio in his village. It changed my opinion.

“My aunt used a belt and wisps of my hair. If I had the malocchio the belt would grow. If it is not true, how did she make the belt grow,” he said

A Homemade Surprise

2008-12-29T11:39:00.000-08:00

I have been spending the holidays with my cousins in Milan. Each day I wake up around 10 or 11 a.m. I sit by the fire to drink my morning cappuccino that my cousin Nuccia has prepared for me, think about taking a shower and after an hour I eventually follow through on my thought. Today things were different. She and her daughter Veronica were gathered in the kitchen when I woke up. As I approached the kitchen door, Veronica shut it and politely told me to stay out.

I figured something was up. So I went to take a shower. They were still toiling in the kitchen when I returned. I sat again by the warm fireplace. The glowing flames of the fire shrank and rose in a tempo that almost always puts me in a trance. I stared at it while I waited to be summoned. After about an hour they called me into the kitchen.

I walked in and found a homemade birthday cake iced with Nutella and decorated with my name and a birthday greeting written in English. Nuccia had made the cake from scratch while I was eating dinner at a relative’s home the night before. Veronica frosted and piped the chocolate greeting on the vanilla cake this morning.

I thought back, and the last time someone baked me a cake was too long ago for me to remember. I was touched that my cousin’s took the time to make me a cake and remembered my birthday.

Growing up, my birthday was lost among the Christmas and New Year celebrations. Usually most of my friends were out of town or busy with visitors. This year was different. I was shocked to receive so many phone calls from my Italian relatives. Not only because my birthday is usually forgotten but because I have only met some of them two or three times in my life.

Nuccia reminded me that in Milan there were a number of people who cared for me. She told me the ingredients she used to make the cake. The most important ingredient she placed in the batter was amore.

Natale e Tutti i Giorni

2008-12-24T13:52:00.000-08:00

After dinner, while my cousins and I waited for midnight and Christmas my cousin Gino recounted the traditions of la vigilia di Natale when he and my mother were children living Sicily.

Not even considered a town yet, Maniace, a feud in the Dukedom of Duke Nelson had several fractions including il Boschetto, that was made of several small stone dwellings grouped along a common path, along with a community forno a legna (wooden oven), a horse stable and chicken coop. That is where my mother’s and Gino’s families first lived.

At the time, the inhabitants worked much and earned little. Gino and his brothers and sisters waited in anticipation for Christmas day, not because they were eager to unwrap gifts, but because they looked forward to eat a good meal.

They did not ask for toys like I did when I was a child. Rather they expressed their affection for their mother and father. They would write a letter to their parents promising to be a better person and telling them how much they cared for them.

“We wrote a letter to our father that said I am sorry for what I did . . . I promise to be a better boy . . . Ti voglio bene pappa,” said Gino.

They would place the letter under their father’s plate. When they finished dinner and his mother took their father’s plate away he would find the note. After he finished reading his children’s letters, their mother would bring out the Christmas gifts.

“Dry figs, almonds, walnuts and biscotti were placed on the table for us to eat. That was our Christmas gift,” he said. “Your mother and the other women, would make biscotti days before, using the wooden oven that was shared by everyone. They would give biscotti as a Christmas gifts to their relatives. Then we would kill the pig all together so it was ready to eat on Christmas day.”

As a little boy he was excited to have the fruits, nuts and biscotti that were eaten only during that certain time of year.

“Now Christmas is everyday,” said my cousin Nuccia.

“Back then we had nothing. Biscotti were just for Easter and Christmas. Now people have pork, biscotti and roasted nuts anytime they want,” said Gino.

Everyone cooked together, prepared the meals together, and after dinner was finished they celebrated the birth of Christ together. The children would go around and visit all the elders and kiss their hands as a sign of respect, he told me.

He described a Christmas like the ones people long for, the ones that make up the scenes in Macy’s windows, the ones that Andy Williams sings about, the ones that make the romanticized scenes on a Thomas Kinkade Christmas card.

A Man is A Man is A Man

2008-12-22T08:57:00.000-08:00

This week I have met two men who have straight up admitted to being unfaithful.

Maybe “admit” is the wrong word. In order for one to admit an act, they must first feel shame, guilt or embarrassment. There is some type of acknowledgement that what they have done is wrong and may reflect badly on them and as such they try to cover the truth or go to some length to defend their behavior.

In each separate encounter with both of these men, neither of them showed any signs of remorse about their act, and although it was each one’s first time meeting me, neither of them hesitated when answering my curious questions about their infidelity.

Both men are Sicilian — one from Palermo, the other from Messina; one young, the other old; one single, the other a widower.

It takes a lot to leave me speechless. This guy accomplished that in one second with one word.

“Do you have a girlfriend,” I asked him.

“Yes.”

I did not even know what to say. Just like that, “yes” no doubt, no problem, with out blinking, normale. How do you respond when someone tells the truth, even if the truth is a bit ugly?

“Apprezzarmi,” he said.

The rest of the conversation consisted of him trying to convince me that I should appreciate him for telling the truth. As if he just performed an act of nobility that deserves respect and admiration.

The other man, even though wrinkles gathered around his light blue eyes, which at times reflected his deep sorrow over the loss of his wife, had a commanding presence and a sex appeal that left no doubt in my mind he had his share of women during his 70+ years of life, yet those adventures did not change his deep affection for his wife.

He advised me not to get married because in the end, once the person dies, you are alone and in awful pain missing them. He met his wife when he was 18.

“She lived across the street from me. We would see each other from the window. But you know, I had other girls,” he said.

He recounted his younger years with pride and content.

“But then, after you got married . . .” I interjected hoping he would finish the sentence.

“Also, when I was married. This is how I was made,” he said.

I have no doubt that he truly loved his wife and enjoyed his life with her. At the same time, I am trying to understand how this is possible, that a man can be capable of loving only one woman while sharing himself with other women.

The only answer I am left with is the one that both men indirectly told me: “I am a man and this is how God made me.”

Stopping to See the Lights

2008-12-19T08:32:00.000-08:00

Today was one of those days, where I had time to do nothing, and in the end had no time at all, which presented the opportunity to stop and see the Christmas lights in Piazza della Signoria.

I only had three appointments, pick up money from a client, stop at the Feste della Legalità, Festival for Legality, at 6:30 p.m. and eat dinner with a friend.

I was convinced that I had enough time during the late morning and early afternoon to do nothing but pamper myself. So I moved the appointment with the client to pomerrigio; however when 6 p.m. rolled around, I was not ready to leave my apartment.

I mentally canceled the appointment with the client. I figured that she would have gone home by now. I decided to be late to the Feste della Legalità since I had just wanted to check it out and assumed my friend could meet me in the center or the place where we would be eating dinner.

I climbed on the bus that goes into the city around 6:30 p.m. Once on the bus, I realized it passed by my client’s office. In a last minute decision, I hopped off the bus and rang my client.

“Ci sei ancora,” I asked her if she was still in the office.

She was. I told her I would be there in one minute. Once inside the office my friend rang and told me he was making me dinner; an unexpected and nice surprise.

In my head it was only 7 p.m. I told him I would arrive at his apartment in about an hour and a half, around 8:30 p.m. after I stopped at the Feste. He sounded a bit confused. He told me he lived near Ponte alla Vittoria and said it was not far from the city center.

When I hung up I saw the time on my phone’s display. It was 7:30 p.m. No wonder he was confused. I had overbooked myself.

I asked my client if she knew where Ponte alla Vittoria was. She did not. I took out my portable map. We both stood next to her desk, hovered over the map, intently studying it for the bridge. We finally found it. It was one of the last bridges west of Ponte Vecchio.

“You will have to find a bus that goes there. Did you bring your bike,” she asked

I explained to her that for many reasons my bike annoys me, so often I choose to walk or ride the bus instead. In this case we both agreed that by time I found and waited for the bus that goes in the direction of Ponte alla Vittoria, it would be 8 p.m., so it would be better if I walked. Either way, the Feste della Legalità did not fit into my schedule.

I briskly walked through the center choosing the streets that connect with Lungarno. December evenings in Florence are tranquil and the streets were unusually void this night compared to the bustling crowds of people that occupy the roads during the summer nights. For that reason I had a clear view of Piazza della Signoria when I looked to my right at the Via dei Neri crossing.

The piazza was lit up. I squinted to get a better look. I stood there for a minute debating if I should continue on or if I should turn right and walk through the piazza.

That is when it hit me. I had spent all of these weeks walking about the city, without taking a moment to see the festive lights that shine over some of Florence’s most famous monuments.

I decided to stop and admire the lights. Once closer I saw that a great silver blue light illuminated the arches and platform of the Loggia della Signoria, where the dramatic marble statues stand, such as the Rape of the Sabine Women.

What fascinated me was the exaggerated shadow cast by the statue of Perseus with the Head of Medusa on the back wall of the Loggia. The best part was that I did not have to fight through crowds to reach the piazza nor did I have to politely wait for a tour group to pass in order to get a pleasant view. Tonight the piazza had a few visitors scattered about, allowing me to imagine for one minute that it was all mine.

Rushing River

2008-12-11T00:34:00.000-08:00

It has been raining in Florence for what seems like weeks. The sky is gray. The city has a tinge of brown. The air smells muddy. My bike, attached to the same pole I locked it to days ago, remains untouched. My polka-dot umbrella accompanies me to the center instead. When possible I ride in a packed bus, with fogged windows.

This day I was sick of waiting for the overcrowded, unusually delayed pullman, so I braved it. I walked along the Arno into the city.

The river, normally unassuming, usually a prod for romantic rendezvous and social gatherings, was attracting local residents, such as myself, to stop and stare at its increasing rapids and speeding current.

A stroll past Ponte San Niccolò, I joined other observers on a landing that is used as a spot for an outdoor bar during the summer. What attracted me was not the scene of the river flowing, but the constant loud crash made when the river collided into itself. I peered into the river just at the point where the level drops; the river flows over, landing in the riverbed below with fervor.

It was strange to see the river so alive and vocal, practically swallowing the trees on its banks. It called to mind the flood of 1966. In town, in places that I cannot remember specifically, I have passed black and white photos showing Florentines navigating the streets by boat and lines on buildings marking the highest point the water reached.

A couple of weeks ago, I came upon several lines on a wall with years scribbled next to them. I don’t remember where this was exactly. Someone stood beside me as I tried to figure out what the lines represented. They explained to me that these lines recorded all the times the Arno overflowed. They assured me that the floods have a rhythm and the river would one-day flood again.

Two Helpings of Thanks

2008-11-30T06:52:00.000-08:00

Fourteen heads turned in my direction. I felt a flush of embarrassment. My host and the only other American at the dinner table stared at my plate with astonishment.

She had just outed me with a loud "No way," that caused everyone to stop eating and stare. She was shocked to see my plate filled with corn bread stuffing; the same stuffing that the other guests had asked her for a second helping of only minutes before and to which she politely said, "no, there is no more."

I, being the curious and cynical type, did not take her word for it. Although she believed there was none left, I believed there was still some to be scraped out of the fantastic bird. It's not my fault I was brought up to always check the inside of the turkey at least twice for extra stuffing.

The rest of the dinner guests were Italian and I think it is safe to assume they were not aware of the holiday practice – stealing the stuffing. My brother and I usually fought over it, so my mother has learned to make a bowl of extra stuffing on the side.

But at this dinner, my friend could not know that the stuffing would be such a hit, since the guests were not accustomed to the beauty of Thanksgiving – predictability.

Yes, Thanksgiving is about Pilgrims and Indians putting aside their differences to give thanks for the abundant harvest they reaped after a long difficult winter. But the excitement that surrounds Thanksgiving dinner, is knowing that what graces your plate this year, will grace it the next and the one after that. There is comfort in eating your Mother's stuffing, drizzled with gravy and all the sides she prepares in a special way just for Thanksgiving Day.

Before I snuck into the kitchen to excavate the internals of the cooked beast that fed 18 people, I was thinking of how lucky I was to have been invited to two Thanksgiving dinners for my first time celebrating the holiday away from home.

Each dinner I was one of only two Americans. It made me happy to see people from Italy, Wales and Germany, excitedly partake in the traditional dinner that is shared by every person living in the United States.

For this dinner, I actually helped my friend prepare the intricate menu she had planned weeks prior. Just before the guests arrived, her husband and mother-in-law set up the dinning room table and called us downstairs to get a look at it. It was decorated just like autumn. China plates, candles and a warm fire added to the perfection of the meal. But what made both Thanksgiving dinners memorable was the chance to spend it with friends.

I Am What I Am

2008-11-29T03:54:00.000-08:00

I have often struggled with my identity, being brought up by two Sicilian parents, in America; however this past week, I was reminded twice that I am American, and I am happy for this.

I was blatantly told that I am American, when I took two paper cups to hold my coffee at Mama's Bakery. When the owner confronted me about it, I explained that the coffee was seeping through their cups, so naturally the thing to do is to take two.

I thought that an owner would want to know about a problem with their service, but I was wrong. It turned into a heated argument that ended when he yelled at me in Italian "this is what's wrong with you Americans."

My immediate reaction was to remind him that he is also American.

“You’re American,” I screamed back.

I took that label as an insult and left the coffee on the counter, cursing him under my breath and vowing never to go back.

"He is acting like the Florentine owners, where they think you should consider it a privilege to be dinning in their restaurant, instead of vice versa," said my Tuscan friend.

A couple days before that, my Tuscan friend gave me unsolicited advice about dating. She said I should let someone call me and not respond to a message I received from a Tuscan man, for the risk of being thought of as "a woman dying to go out."

It is natural for me to respond to a message, even if it is a guy who I have a slight interest in. I do not think of how to entice a man into falling in love with me or conjure up some mind game in order to have him chase me. Nor do I think of how he will perceive my behavior.

"Florence has always been filled with foreigners, so for the girls to differentiate themselves, they have to act the opposite of the American girls," said one of my American friends who is married to an Italian.

The Florentine women have to invoke this feeling of being unattainable, like a luxury car or label, in order to attract the Florentine guy, she explained.

I do not think about how much money a proprietor makes or loses on my business and use of tableware or if a guy considers me pushy instead of polite when I respond to his message.

I can only do what comes natural to me. If people are insulted or find it desperate, then I cannot frequent their bar or restaurant nor would we be a match for friendship or love. I can only be my American self.

Deleting

2008-11-14T01:50:00.000-08:00

This month I canceled two people from my life. Many of my friends keep in contact with their past loves or people they have dated, but I cannot. I get so disgusted that I just need to delete them completely from my life. It is all or nothing.

I was casually seeing someone who was good looking, sweet and very available. But each time I saw him, I was thinking of someone else. So I had to end it. And that someone else made it clear to me that we would never be again.

I saw him twice in the past two months because he had contacted me while I was in Sicily and I needed to know if the door was open or closed. Each time we met, the conversation was unbearably superficial. He should have just said “blah, blah, blah” that would have had more meaning. I was holding out hope, but since our last meeting I have become sick of crying and trying to figure out what went wrong.

It is upsetting to me because I rarely meet someone who captivates me, emotionally, mentally and physically. Why is it that one person can change you, yet another who should spark something, does not even make you wonder? Chemistry is complicated, yet the outcome is so simple. He made me smile. But if it happened once it can happen again.

For some reason, autumn seems to be when most break-ups happen; or maybe it is the end of summer. Several of my girlfriends are experiencing heartbreak. I am trying to be patient with them because it was just a year ago that I was in the same situation. Although I am upset now, I feel lucky that I am not suffering as I once did.

My friend and I were discussing our disappointment in the search for men who are true. During our conversation I thought, “where are the real men.”

Thankfully drinks were present.

“At least we have something to talk about, and we are dating,” I said trying to find the silver lining in our situations.

She agreed and we toasted to our future and to our fortune for having prospects.

An Exotic Brew: American Coffee at Mama's Bakery

2008-11-12T01:41:00.000-08:00

“I am going to walk through the streets with my cup of coffee and I don’t care if any Italian judges me,” I said to a fellow expat who was also looking forward to drinking a freshly brewed cup of American coffee at the new bagel and bakery shop, Mama's Bakery.

I had heard that a pastry shop serving real American treats such as muffins, chocolate chip cookies and brownies had recently opened in Oltrarno, but thought it only sold sweets.

My friend Emily has continuously raved to me about the lunch she had eaten at a new bagel shop today. She gave me the red and white blocked card with the address. That is when I realized that the new bakery and the new bagel shop are one in the same.

I took her advice and grabbed a bagel to go for lunch. Once inside the modern and inviting locale, which she describes as a café one would find in San Francisco, I was delightfully surprised to I discover that they also serve American coffee.

I was hesitant to believe the label at first, since many Italian bars call espresso with additional hot water caffè Americano.

“How is it brewed? I mean is it really American or is it just espresso with water,” I asked Cristina who owns the shop with her husband Matt Reinecke.

She is originally from Milan and he grew up in the San Francisco Bay area.

She showed me the coffee maker. It looked American. “But does the coffee taste American,” I wondered as she prepared a new pot. It did.

Italians do not eat or drink on the go. I once dragged two friends for a meal at McDonald’s during my stay in Florence last year. I finished my meal, but still had some Coke left. Naturally, I took my drink with me when we left.

I am not exaggerating when I say that they died of embarrassment and scolded me for bringing food outside the restaurant.

Today, I am no longer ashamed to practice my American habits in Italy. I carried my warm cup through the streets of Oltrarno thinking of the winter days when I fashionably sipped Gingerbread Lattes while rushing through the crowded streets of NYC.

La Raccolta delle Olive

2008-11-08T12:03:00.000-08:00

If God created the world in a week, he must have spent the first day perfecting the hills of Tuscany.

Francesca drove us through the town of Casaglia, in the province of Siena, to help her family with this year's olive harvest.

Cypress trees stood with a firm stance on the edge of the roads, marking the division between earth and pavement, like guards protecting the kingdom of the fertile olive groves and the grapevines which were bare and exposed from the latest vendemmia (grape harvest).

As we passed estates that sat on a patchwork of fields atop gently rolling colline (hills), I could not help but wonder what it must have been like to grow up here. Now I know why Tuscans have an inate knowledge for food and wine. The land breathes appreciation for the finest that nature has to offer. One cannot live here without assimilating the aura.

Picking olives in the heart of the Tuscan countryside, with San Gimignano serving as the vista, is indescribable. The view is breathless.

Although the raccolta (harvest) was draining, I would do it again in a heartbeat. Because each tree was planted on a slope, we had to balance ourselves on the slippery slanted ground. Agility was required to reach in between branches and leaves, when trying to reach that one plump black olive, without breaking a precious branch.

When we returned to her town Poggibonsi, there was a festival being held in the square in celebration of the first wines and olive oils of the season. Sommeliers served me Vino Novello while her brother filled my head with information about how to distinguish a quality wine.

Sometimes I get angry with Italy for not providing me with all my requests at a snap, but a day like this does not exist on the other side of the Atlantic.

Fall in Fi

2008-11-08T11:36:00.000-08:00

Rice Pudding and Grandma's Cake

2008-11-07T10:35:00.000-08:00

There is something about your local barista or owner of the coffee shop that you frequent, recognizing and greeting you, that makes you feel like you finally belong in Italy.

Last summer I sat in the bright wood panel dinning room dipping fruit filled pastries into gently steamed cappuccinos at La Loggia degli Albizi, a coffee and bakery shop that also serves lunch located on Borgo degli Albizi. At that time I was hesitant to greet Walter Penna (pronounced Valter), one of the owners, who skillfully made me drinks from cappuccinos to frothy café shakerato.

Positioned on a street that gets a good amount of foot traffic, customers are a mix of locals, American students and others who are passing a definite time in Florence. I was in the last category. So I did not feel comfortable joining in the conversations that took place at the counter among the patrons and owners.

It was not until the end of my stay, that I finally broke the ice. Normally I ordered from the selection of dough-based pastries and would ignore the case displaying gorgeous cookies and cakes. One day I decided to switch it up.

I ordered a slice of torta (cake) with fig mixed between the layers. When I tried to say fig, I mispronounced fico, vulgarly asking for a piece of cake flavored with a part of the female body.

The person with me unnecessarily died of shame and left me at the counter to deal with the mishap. I did. I made him smile. Since then I have felt like Norm entering Cheers, except no one shouts out my name.

I knew they made everything on site, but did not imagine the elaborate operation that I saw when Penna took me into the laboratorio. I followed him through a door into a small hall that was the gateway to the bakery. Machines were mixing; dough was rolling and wafts of sweet scents swirled in the room.

Penna’s mysterious, never seen before by me, mentor was happily preparing the days sweets. An artisan, Franco Iandelli learned the craft of baking from his father who in turn was taught by his father. Three generations and possibly more are behind the sfoglia (puff pastry) filled with ricotta, cornetto con albiccoca (croissant with apricot) and custom favorites such as, Torta della Nonna (grandma’s cake) and Budini di Riso (rice pudding).

Torta della Nonna begins with pasta frollo (shortcrust pastry). The dough that serves as the base is rolled flat, stamped out by a round cookie cutter, and pierced to prevent swelling.

Once baked and cooled, crema (custard) is spread and smoothed over it to resemble schienna d’asino (donkey’s back), or a mound. The filling is covered with another piece of circular dough — making no difference if it is pierced. That is impressed with the bottom of a pastry bag tip, sealing the contents and making a unique design.

The torta is glazed with egg for color; a handful of almonds are placed on top and it is ready to bake.

The cake is placed in an extremely high hot oven, between 210-220 degrees, to only bake the top. When the cake cools it is dusted with powdered sugar.

The Italian version of rice pudding, Budino di Riso is also prepared with pasta frollo. The pasta is pressed into oblong molds to create the shell.

In a separate bowl, prepared rice — cooked in milk with just a pinch of salt — is mixed with egg, sugar, butter and heaps of crema. After those ingredients are evenly stirred, they are piped into the molds and placed into the oven at 190-200 degrees Celsius for 20-30 minutes.

When cooking the rice, it is important to continuously stir the mixture so that it does not stick to the pan. Although no flavoring is used in the milk, lemon zest or liquore could be added if one prefers, Penne said. La crema, which is made with lemon zest, contributes the smooth texture and sweet taste to both desserts. The recipe could also be followed to make, Torta di Riso, by following the steps described in Torta della Nonna.

Originally from Rome, Penne’s family has been serving Florence dolci for 25 years. When their baker retired in 1988, Penne was required to fill the position.

“I had to do this . . . because of life circumstances. Not like Franco who comes from three generations of bakers,” he said.

Although he was formally trained he credits Iandelli for what he knows.

“He has been my teacher,” he said.

Making confections since he was 10, Iandelli shared the vitals of the profession.

“There are four basics one must master,” he said. “Crema, lievito (dough made with yeast or sourdough), bigne (the cream puff shell) and sfoglia; if one can make all of those they have learned the art of baking.”

Experimental Electronics

2008-11-07T09:24:00.000-08:00

Francesca, her friend and myself attended a concert at EXFILA connessioni metropolitane (EXFILA urban connections) before she and I drove to Poggibonsi to help her family with la raccolta delle olive (olive harvest) Friday night.

I met the both of them and several other friends for a drink in Piazza San Ambriogio earlier in the evening. Even though it was chilly outside, there were people drinking and socializing in the square rather than inside the bar that faces it.

We left the piazza around 12 a.m. and headed to the concert. I did not know where we were going. The only information I had was that there would be electronica music.

We drove out of the city center, past Sachshall and made a left, somewhere. Out of the darkness appeared a large Essalunga supermarket. The buildings on the bordering streets looked abandoned.

We could not find the concert at first. Francesca drove around the perimeter streets a couple of times. She noticed a couple of people straying into an unassuming building. I did not think anything of it, but her parking near there was the signal that it was the spot.

A bar and a spin table were set up in two separate adjoining rooms inside. I was fascinated by the small decorations of orange and purple plastic bones piled in a reverse pyramid over the lights that casted an orange shade over the bar.

Once upstairs we walked through a couple empty rooms to the end of the hall. I pushed aside a black curtain and entered the concert. It was held in an average room draped in black curtains with folding chairs facing a large screen.

The artist, Anna Bolena, sat behind a computer, adjusted the tones, sounds and beats as music and a black and white fuzzy film played in the background.

Scenes of women being gunned down, sexed, used and abused by a conspicuous top-hat-wearing male, were accompanied by distinguishable sequence of sounds and underlying rhythms. Although the characters of the film wore clothes from the ‘40s and ‘50s, the position of camera shots and their vivid expressions suggested otherwise.

The concert turned out not to be what I had expected, but it was interesting to watch and listen.

Later downstairs around 2 a.m. the dj started spinning. Just as others were catching his vibe, Fra decided it was time to head towards Siena.

Obama's Night

2008-11-04T13:53:00.000-08:00

My American friend and I attended election night hosted by the Tuscan American Association at Saschall today. I was surprised to see more Italians walking around the concert hall than Americans. Tables that served up Barack pins and banners as well as wine and McDonald's were set up along the parameter walls and a band played average rock music till about 4 a.m. the next day.

I did not come across any McCain propaganda, but that was expected. Every Italian I have met in Florence has voiced that they want Obama for the next American president. Often times, that vocalization is said with a touch of Tuscan snobbery. It frustrates me to continuously hear people, that have admittedly never been to America, express with arrogance and entitlement who should be the next president of the United States.

It is one thing to have an opinion, but it is another when someone believes they know more about a country than a citizen of that country. I have had the ability to vote in Italy for several years now, but do not. I do not know the ins and outs of the country and thus could not possibly determine who should lead it or what is best for its people. It is not my place to vote yet. I feel Italians should reciprocate that gesture.

I have experienced this superiority when discussing other topics and stereotypes besides American presidential candidates; such as what Americans eat, all Americans are fat, Americans cannot cook, Americans are superficial, Washington D.C. is a state and has a star on the flag, America and Canada share the same government, people in Texas are called rednecks . . .

I spent about 20 minutes speaking to a local that founded a network of Italians that support Barack on Facebook. He was explaining to me why Italians are obsessed with American politics rather than their own. I thought he was well informed and impressive until I heard this. "Any American who votes for McCain is anti-American, because they do not want change," he said.

I quickly stopped him and informed him that all Americans, no matter who they vote for and no matter if they are Democrat or Republican or Independent, love and want the best for their country. After that conversation, I decided not to speak about American politics with random Italians.

I am not convinced which was the better choice, Obama or McCain, but I am convinced that both want America to prosper and maintain its lead in the world. I am proud that a president was chosen by democratic means and that people that affected to impact the government exercised their freedom of choice and voted.

It is amazing that nations all over the globe intently watched the United States tonight. I do not know if Americans realize how much the world considers America. And I do not know if the world realizes how comparatively less Americans consider it.

Tonight Italy celebrated Obama and his promise for future. I hope he is greatness.

Gelmini's Decree

2008-10-31T02:53:00.000-07:00

When I started my blog I decided to avoid politics, but I cannot ignore the demonstrations, against il decreto put forth by il ministro della pubblica, that are taking place in city centers throughout Italy.

In the past couple of days, La Repubblica, a reputable Italian newspaper that I characterize as being slanted far left, has reported on confrontations in Rome between communist and fascist students over a decree that will cut public school budgets, and essentially privatize the Italy’s national public school system.

Article 77 of the Italian Constitution permits the government to circumvent the Parliament and issue a decree in extraordinary urgent and necessary cases. Maristella Gelmini issued il decreto that, according to La Reppublica, will impose financial cuts on schools, reduce teachers per class in elementary schools from three to one, and decrease universities’ budgets by €1.5 billion over the next three years.

“First they said that three teachers per classroom was the best way to educate. Now they are saying that having only one teacher for all the subjects is the best way,” said my friend Barbara who is a mother of three and also the director of Europass, an Italian language school and cultural center.

She told me that as I was reading the bylines of pictures that clearly captured physical clashes between generally left wing protestors and the right wing supporters of Gelmini’s law in Rome the day before. Students and Italian citizens are holding demonstrations and marches to revolt against the decree in cities such as Florence, Milan and Catania.

The gatherings in Rome seem to be more passionate probably because the city is the seat of the Italian government. Also, many have tried to personally confront Gelmini about the decision, resulting in Berlusconi calling the State Police to control the crowds.

Attending university in Italy is in my opinion free. Because the government foots most of the bill, students pay a low rate based on how much money their family makes. Italians have told me that college costs approximately €500 - €3,000 year, correlating to ones economic status.

If university budgets are cut, it will force administrators to look elsewhere for financial support of research and instructors. With Italians earning lower wages compared to their European Union counterparts and the United States, this could put a large financial burden on families who have children attending university.

Several Italians have expressed to me their disappointment in the legislation. They are against the reform and believe it is contradicts democratic ideals because it was not discussed in Parliament among the varying political parties. Moreover they feel that the decree has not been created for the better of the country, but instead because of politics.

"Italy has large debts. So when the government is in desperate need of money there are three choices it can make; It can raise taxes, lay off the work force, or change the school system from public to private,” said my cousin Veronica.

She gave me a small lesson on the political system so I could understand how this legislation was enacted:

Parliament’s two sections, la Camera dei deputati and la Camera dei senatori, have the power to propose legislation. There are six steps for an idea to become law:

1. Proposta di Legge - Parliament propose a law.

2. Discussione - the law is discussed among the members in Parliament.

3. Approvazione - members of Parliament review the law and make changes as necessary; a final version is submitted for ratification.

4. Promulgazione – Parliament’s approved law is submitted to the Presidente della Repubblica for his signature. If he feels the law needs revisions, it is sent back to Parliament and begins again at step 1; it can only be sent back once.

5. Pubblicazione – La Gazzetta Ufficiale, an official record of the government’s activities, publishes the new law.

6. Entrata in Vigore – After the law has been published, a 15 day grace period follows before it is fully enacted. One can violate the law with impunity during that period.

Gelmini’s decreto avoided those steps. The decree did eventually go through the process explained above, but from what I gather and have heard from the other Italians, it was only as a formality. I say that with caution because I do not completely understand the Italian political arena and that is the vibe I receive when I speak to others.

Within the allotted 61 days that are given for Parliament to decide if the decree will be canceled, the governing bodies submitted it to the Italian president for his signature, making it official. I told my friends that maybe once Berlusconi is out of office they will change things back to the way they were.

“No. In Italy things are always done because of politics, the Mafia and the Camorra are behind this,” said a Milanese youth.

View La Repubblica's photos:
le proteste degli student i and
l'assalto agli studenti in piazza Navona

The View from the Back

2008-10-26T09:38:00.000-07:00

Today my friend Antonio picked me up on his moto to go to the Festival Della Creatività. I hopped on and placed my feet on those little peddles on the side and held him tight as we zoomed through Fi. I always feel a bit funny riding on the back of a moto or Vespa because you have to put on a helmet. As a pedestrian I watch the Italian girls maintain the bella figura and admire thier abilty to look sexy even though their hair is being crushed.

Instead of worrying about my appearance, I enjoyed the sceneray behind me instead of ahead as the wind blew my scarf and hair back. It was a bright afternoon and everyone seemed to be out riding their own vehicles, whether it be a BMW convertable or a bike. The tree lined streets blurred past and occasionally a person would wave to me, as Antonio weaved in between cars and lanes.

The festival was held in the Fortezza da Basso. It was filled with several different types of exhibits, from computer generated T-shirt designs to body art. They also had a special section dedicated to design and technology in Brazil.

One display of digital art did disturb me. Several peices protested the United States, George Bush and the countries economic system and corporations, specifically the pharmaceutical companies. There are alot of Tuscans who are constantly questioning me about Bush and the countries belief in capitalism. It gets old after a while, because Italy has just as many problems as the U.S., yet that is never a topic of conversation.

Whether I agree with the artwork or not, I do appreciate a persons voice and the festival for giving them a venue to proclaim it.

Procrastination's Revenge

2008-10-24T14:29:00.000-07:00

I have put off updating my blog way too long, specifically the months of August and September. In between looking for a job, drinking cappuccino's, spending one full week in bed because of the flu, and another week touring Fi because of a friend's visit, I have become accustomed to procrastinating. And now, my computer has shared in my past time. Just when the writing bug re-birthed itself on my fingertips, my computer decided to take a vacation.

I spent all day talking to some girl in far off India about the "blue screen." Damn that screen. I have heard of it, often thought I would die if I ever saw it, but never dreamed it would appear on my computer.

When my computer would not allow me past the error message, I frantically called everyone I knew in Fi to see if they knew a technician. I found one, and as soon as he found out that my computer was a pc instead of an Apple, he cut off the conversation. He was nice enough to tell me the closest Hp certified technician is in Prato, the next town over.

Now that I think about it, I have never seen an Hp or Apple store in Florence.

I am happy I renewed my warrenty. I am not happy that I did not put all my fabulous pics on a disk. The words, I can always write again, maybe not in the same way, but words are not completely lost. The pictures are irreplaceable. Those moments will never happen again.

Because I lost a day trying to fix my computer, I decided against attending a concert tonight at the Festival della Creativitá. I was supposed to see Tricky perform live with my roommate Francesca. I am dissappointed to miss it because, one I love music and also I assume the festival is a contemporery forum that celebrates vision in the fields of thought, art, music, food and design. As a writer, it is good to keep up to date on what is coming around the corner.

Ironically last night I was trying to explain to Francesca the meaning of the phrase "freaked out." I did not know how to describe the meaning to her. Today gave me the perfect opportunity to clue her in on what it means. I called to tell her I would not be attending the festival tonight because my computer is broke. Then I switched to English and said "Francesca, I am freaking out!" she got it.

I will try to attend the festival tomorrow even though I am upset with my computer for keeping my journalistic material hostage and myself for indulging in the bitter-sweet sin of procrastination.

A Bit of Grease

2008-10-23T15:30:00.000-07:00

I would kill someone right now if I knew it would result in a greasy, hot, juicy piece of ground beef with crispy oil drenched fries on the side. Yes I said "kill." I am a woman with PMS and I am not afraid to use it.

I just got home and fried myself a tuna sandwich, but it just was not the same. I love Italian food and I love the fact that it is healthier than American, but sometimes you just need a big bowl of nachos smothered in chunks of meat from various unknown and possibly repulsive origins, topped with onions, fake aged moldy milk that in the States is known as cheese, a whopping dab of sour cream, all stuck together by dripping grease.

About a month ago when I had this same undying yearning, I went to a Danny Rock for a hamburger. It was good, it was healthy. But it was too good, too perfect. The beef did not have the fat that makes a burger stick together and ooze juice when you cut into it. Don’t get me wrong, I frequent that place all the time, but you cannot get proper American food in Italy. You just can’t. Maybe I am wrong and it exists, an American burger in Florence. Maybe that will be a future article — THE HUNT FOR RED BEEF!!!

But until then I am left with watching episodes of The Hills, drooling while toothpick blonds, whose every and only emotion results in a sunny California blinding white-tooth smile, nosh at the hottest restaurants in L.A., with their big fat glasses of water decorated by a lemon hanging on the side (I only watch it because MTV is one of the only Web site that allows people outside the U.S. to access episodes).

Of course there is an occasional person who asks me “what do you miss about the States?” It is then that I make the burger confession and it is then that they suggest McDonalds.

I had a date two days ago with a southern Italian and upon hearing that I missed hamburgers, he insisted on bringing me to the yellow-arches. In the States I would dump a man for this and thinking of that made me laugh while we were eating. He asked me why I thought it was funny to be brought to McDonalds on a date. I tried to explain but the answer got lost in translation.

No, Mickey D’s did not satisfy my craving. For one, it tastes different here; they may change the recipes for Italian tastes. Secondly, when I asked the cashier for a cheeseburger, she said that they did not have any made. Are you kidding? This is the difference in countries, Italians do not share the moto “customer first” with the States. I used to work at McDonalds and I would never, never, never tell someone “no.” I would rush the people working the grill to fill an order ASAP.

Lastly, McDonalds is much more expensive. Customers have to pay for mayonnaise and ketchup. Unbelievable. So here I am writing in my bed, wondering when. When will I be able to afford a ticket to return to the States and gorge myself on fast food?

Lead Photo: My last meal before boarding the plane to Italy.

Seven Times is not a Charm

2008-08-30T08:25:00.000-07:00

I have been to the Comune di Maniace seven times in order to receive Italian residency.

The first time I visited the comune, the person behind the desk could not help because in three days a festival was going to take place in the town.

The second time I visited, I was basically refused service. The person who handles residency requests could not begin the process because he "did not know my history."

Research had to be done in order to understand who I am and what took place before, he said. I told him that the comune has all the necessary documents. In fact, it was them and the Comune di Tortoricci, my fathers birthplace, that confirmed my Italian citizenship.

Several years ago the Italian Consulate of Detroit sent all the necessary documents to both communes in order to verify my genealogy and issue me a passport. At that time, my sister personally visited the comune to investigate why it took them over two years to respond to the consulate.

The third and fourth time I visited was due to them arguing about how to register me in the system. Since I was, or probably still am, written as an Italian citizen through the Comune di Tortoricci, because I claimed citizenship through my father, the Comune di Maniace insisted that I go there in order to claim residency in the town of Maniace.

"Why would I go to Tortoricci to claim residency in Maniace," I asked.

No one had any answers. Instead, both times, they sent me off telling me to return in two days while they would speak to the Comune di Tortoricci.

A detailed discussion about how to process my papers took place the fifth time I visited the comune. In the end they assured me that they figured it out.

"Can I still get domicile in Firenze," I asked.

"Natalie don't confuse things. Don't ask any questions. Tutto a posto," said my friend Pippo, who works in the office, and thankfully took it upon himself to smooth things along even though it was not his responsibility.

"Tutto a posto? You are sure, because if I have to come here one more time . . ."

He responded to me with "tutto a posto." That phrase means that everything is in its place or taken care of.

Several days later my aunt told me that she ran into Pippo and he said I had to claim my Italian residency through the embassy in Rome.

My response to her and them when I went to the comune for the sixth time was, "that does not make sense. Italy does not have an embassy in their own country. And the United States Embassy has nothing to do with my citizenship here in Italy."

Another long argument ensued. First they told me to claim residency in Tortoricci and then transfer it to them. Then they told me that on my way back to Florence, to stop off in Rome and visit the American Embassy. As if I have all the time and money in the world to just change my train ticket, get a hotel and spend a couple of days in Rome.

I told them that this could all be resolved in five mintues. If they would make one phone call to the American Embassy they would discover that the United States has nothing to do with my residency in Italy.

A half an hour later, I made the phone call. In one minute the kind woman on the other end of the line assured me that my American residency is seperate from Italy and they do not have the authority to grant me residency in Italy.

That is when my friend said he would personally visit Tortoricci the next day to see how to grant residency to an Italian who was formerly living abroad. It was obvious that they created non-existent problems because they did not know the procudure to change a person's status from an Italian living abroad — specifically outside of Europe — to an Italian living in Italy. I think the most confusing concept for them was how to transfer the city of my citizenship from Tortoricci to Maniace. Confused yet???

The last time I went to the Comune di Maniace Pippo told me everything was taken care of and I would recieve my residency certificate in a couple of days. It could not be printed at that moment due to the computer sytem being down. Translation: they do not know how to register me in the system and so I will need to visit the comune when I return to Sicily in December.

Run Away Love

2008-08-27T11:00:00.000-07:00

When I arrived in Sicily, my cousin Francesca filled me in on chi si ni fuiru, who has ran off together.

“Giampiero ran off. His wife is cute, she is 16. And so did Antonia, she is four months pregnant,” she quickly explained the details of the latest fuitina while she down shifted gears as the car climbed the steep and winding hills that lead home.

In my head I counted, Antonia was born the year that I was . . . and she ran off with a 23-year-old guy in November . . . so that makes her about . . . 15!

I could not believe it. When I first came to Maniace I was 7 and that time I had met girls who were 13 or 14 years old, “married” and pregnant. I could not believe that in the 21st century this was still going on, couples running off together in secret to a different town or a relative’s home and when they returned to Maniace they were considered husband and wife.

That cultural phenomenon seems contrary to the dominating Catholic culture in a town draped in religious mementos. Every bar (café), pub or club displays an honorable photo of the revered saint, Padre Pio; there is a festival that commemorate a saint about every other week and crosses or crucifixes are hung above at least one doorway in each home.

At a family dinner months before, my cousin Pina, herself a fuitina, said that way back when, a man would kidnap a woman and force intimacy or bring her to a house and when she exited the other men, upon seeing her, knew that she was “deflowered”.

“The other men would not want her if they knew she was no longer a virgin. But they do not kidnap women anymore,” she said.

Considering those and the drama that ensued when I went out with x., I could not believe that families passively accept a false marriage created under the premise that since the couple has had sex they are now physically, mentally and spiritually tied to one another.

In the States, a person 18 or older having relations with a 14 or 15-year-old is considered borderline pedophilia and a crime I told Francesca.

“It is the same here, but if the mother and father accept it . . . eh,” she said turning her palms up as if to ask me “what do you want.”

Well there must be someone who can explain why this practice still takes place today. That is when I sought the only priest in Maniace — the man who married my mother and father and looks unbelievably younger than them both — Father Nunzio Galati Giordano.

I interviewed Father Galati twice and each time there was someone calling him away or some ceremony he had to perform. Understandable since he heads the parish. Those interruptions prevented the interview to flow into a deep conversation. Nonetheless, I did get his perspective on how the church deals with la fuitina and why his town is one of the few that practices it.

From his clear and calm demeanor I could tell that Father Galati was a well educated and compassionate person. He emigrated from Tortorici to Maniace, like most of the inhabitants, with his parents and grandparents in 1967. It was then that he discovered this situation— half of the town was married in the church and the other half were fuitina.

He compared the relationship to convivenza, a couple living together without a church or public act formalizing the relationship, which is quite common in Italy. Today, the convivenza is made in accordance with the family. In 1967 however, families often interfered with their children’s relationships, and restricted their child from dating if they disliked their choice for fidanzato/a.

At that time that was one of the two main reasons why a couple ran off together. The other was financial. Sicilian families are expected to have elaborate and large weddings, but many families could not afford a proper ceremony and reception, so couples avoided marrying in the church.

While that may still may be the case today, he said most young couples make the decision to run off because it has become a custom or because the “wife” is pregnant. In the old days, that situation was unlikely due to the shame attached to premarital sex.

“Today there is more liberation. People have sexual experiences before marriage. Before, if the other men knew a woman had rapport with another man, the other men would not want her for a wife and usually the first time la fuitina had sex was when they ran off,” he said.

He noted that society is experiencing a scristianizzazione, becoming less Christian. The sacraments are no longer considered sacred. Back then, the Christian culture was instilled by the family — mother, father, grandparents and relatives — would continuously pressure the couple to recognize their commitment to each other in the church. Couples would visit him and he would perform a private ceremony normally days or weeks after they “eloped.”

There is not so much less respect for God, but an indifference towards the religious observances of the Catholic Church. The family no longer encourages the couple to marry. The couple may wait, one, two, three years before they stand on the altar and sometimes they never make it to the church.

He does not entirely dismiss la fuitina from the Church, but will only baptize the couple’s first child and does not accept confetti from them nor will he perform any blessings for the family. When he addresses the town at public gatherings he reminds the residents of the church’s disapproval of the act.

With breakups and divorces increasing in Italy, one may question the importance of two people being joined by holy union.

“God helps a couple stay together. This is the doctrine of marriage. A wife and husband cannot stay together with love only, because love is limited,” he said.

He explained that love is natural, but love is also weak. With the grace of God two people in love can overcome their weaknesses and troubles that life brings. With God’s help, the relationship evolves into more than a physical emotion, but one that has the potential to rise above human inadequacies.

“There are so many divorces because not everyone understands that marriage is more than love. There are 50 percent more divorces among couples who get married in the commune compared to those who marry in the church,” he said.

He recognized that the institution of marriage is in crisis, that the family has changed values.

"They do not speak the same language as they did a time ago. For example, here in Maniace more women ask for a divorce, then men. The economic situation has allowed them a voice and in some cases the man is the victim of infidelity or abuse," he said.

Father Galati recognized that many men in the town go out at night without their wives.

“This is not right, marriage does not mean you are only together when you are alone in the home,” he said. “If a man is married, why does he find the need to go to the festival or piazza alone?”

My Sicilian Crush

2008-08-22T07:05:00.000-07:00

Granita is one of the reasons why I look forward to summer in Sicily. When the night train touched the city of Messina, the conversation amongst the others in the compartment turned to their want of the flavored crushed ice. Eaten for breakfast, it usually served in a tall glass with a sweet brioche on the side. Some people like to put cream in between and on top. It is a cool way to begin a dry sun drenched day on the island.

I wanted to see how granita was made. I asked Nunziatina Galati if I could see how they made theirs. She, her husband and family own and operate Bar Destro, located in Maniace’s main piazza. Their granita is the best in town and one of the best I have ever eaten.

It took a couple of weeks and conversations between her and, my aunt and my cousin until I finally got a sneak peak of the bar’s kitchen. It seems that some bakers in Italy may be protective of their recipes for competitive reasons. I did not get that feeling from Galati. I think she had never come across such a request, especially from an outsider.

I arrived on time at 10 a.m. even though I had returned home from an all night festival at 6 a.m. I do not know how I did it. Sometimes the town of Maniace pulls me back to the person I would like to leave behind.

Before the interview began she offered me granita. I chose my favorite, limone, which unfortunately was not being prepared at the moment. In the kitchen Nino Russo, the pasticcerre (pastry chef), was hand rolling freshly made pasta for the brioche while Galati prepared batches of almond, strawberry and peach for the next day’s sale.

Patting down the dough.

Rolling the top.

Cutting the dough into a circle.

Little tops perfectly placed.

It seemed easy. She scooped out almond paste from a container and hand mixed with water in a basket until the paste completely melted. She tasted the mixture for sweetness and then added the right amount of sugar. “The right amount of sugar,” she learned from Russo. He had been making pastries for thirty years, since he was 15-years-old.

Almond paste made from whole almonds at Bar Destro.

After the sugar was hand mixed and melted in, she poured the liquid into a sieve to capture any remnants of almond skin. The mixture was placed in a steel basket and refrigerated overnight before pouring into the machine that turns the liquid into slush.

Sifting out the almond particles.

Next she prepared fragola. Made using fragoline from the town of Maletto, known for their strawberries, the mini berries are a sweeter and juicier than a strawberry. The mixture was made in the same manner as the almond flavor; however she added a pour of aroma di fragola, strawberry flavoring, before mixing in the berries with water. This is when I discovered the secret.

Fragoline added to water flavored with arome di fragole.

The berry mix.

“We make the almond and strawberry pastes ourselves. We have a machine downstairs which cleans and crushes the almonds. We only add sugar as a natural preservative,” she said.

Whole almonds used to make the paste.

After she finished making their two most popular flavors, she grabbed several peaches. She cleaned, skinned and cut the fruit, grown in Maniace, for the pesca flavor. Sugar was added before she hand crushed the peaches and added water. Does it get any fresher than this?

Just picked peaches.

Stirring the peach mix, making sure the sugar dissolves.

After the mixes were made she recounted stories of her and my mother when they were children. When she and my mother were little the people of the town were closer. Everyone would get together to eat and dance. Also the owner of the restaurant Il Casolare delle Balze, she spoke of how restaurants operated when she was younger.

“Everything was fresh. The restaurants would kill and clean the chickens right before serving, because there was no refrigeration. They would place bottles of soda and drinks in the river to keep cool,” she said.

Judging from my mother’s age, this had to be around the late 1950’s and 1960’s. It is hard to believe that when America was experiencing an economic boom, areas of Sicily did not even have common amenities like electricity and refrigeration.