Florence, and my new amaro obsession

I spent a little more than 2 weeks in Florence about 10 years ago, taking classes in Italian and living with a couple of younger students.  When I arrived, I had no knowledge of Italian, and the roommates insisted that we only speak Italian (one girl was German and the other Japanese) and since i already spoke Spanish, i was able to talk to them in about 3 days' time.

Confident that I would be able to do the same this time, I had been listening to audiobooks before I went on this trip.  It's helped, but most of the time I feel like maybe I don't really know what I'm saying at all, maybe that word was actually Spanish or actually Portuguese, and only regain confidence when I get back to the apartment and look up what I said.

And everyone who works in Florence takes one look at us, or hears my pathetic Italian, and just speaks to us in English.

The classes I took in Florence was right next to the leather market, and my lasting memory of Florence was that it was very pretty, but annoying as fuck because it is PACKED with tourists, and the worst kind of American tourists, the ones who have never left the country but only go to Italy because they think it's going to be accessible to them.  I'm talking out of my ass, because i certainly didn't talk to any of these people, but I swear that's how they acted... Loud and loudly confused and obnoxious. 

So I found a place that was on the other side of the river that separates That area of Florence from other parts, hoping to be a bit away from all of that, at least when I slept.  The apartment was underground on one side, kind of like living in a wine cellar, and the owner filled it with all sorts of curiosities... Art, vintage appliances, and a shit ton of weird lighting.  Cool place.  And the neighborhood was spectacularly beautiful... All terracotta colored buildings, relatively few tourists.  A 10 minute walk from the apartment was a plaza where we had a decent meal and engaged in what's always been a favorite pastime: laughing at other tourists and trying to imagine where they're from.

What can I say?  We're horrible people.

Justin's already making faces because this was the first place we've been to together where it seemed like everyone is a tourist.  We heard barely any Italian, even being in this spot far from the center of town.  (It turns out that we were in another touristy part, near the boboli gardens... It just wasn't by the duomo, so it is less traveled.). There's a table of 6 next to us where one guy is speaking heavily American-inflected Italian, but the rest of the family is speaking in southern drawl, which all sounds ridiculous to us.   

There's a German (?) family where clearly the approximately 8 year old kid has never successfully eaten spaghetti before... He's sticking his fork through it and the individual strand of pasta he's trying to pick up keeps slipping away through the tines.  So he tries to lift it and shove that one strand of spaghetti into his mouth before that happens.  Over and over again.  And he's not remotely getting frustrated... And even when mom shows him how to twirl it around the fork, he doesn't get it, and just keeps trying to spear the spaghetti.  That kid had tenacity.  

That mom should have spoken to the American couple who sat next to them... The guy orders spaghetti as well, and asks for a spoon so he can twirl his spaghetti on it.  I think that's when our very good natured, English-speaking waiter lost it... We watched him completely make fun of the guy to his face.  "Why do you need a spoon?" And explains to him that the spoon is completely unnecessary.  I think I'm imagining this, but he may have actually taken the fork out of the guy's hand to show him.  The guy looks at the waiter like he's crazy, but the waiter eventually gives in.  When the waiter comes to us, we said "a spoon?  What the hell does he need a spoon for?" And the waiter says "it's better than when they cut their spaghetti with a knife," and rolls his eyes and walks away.

Tourist hell aside, Florence is gorgeous and their Duomo (church and bellflower) are spectacular to look at.  We didn't make it inside, because there's a huge line and it's hot as balls outside, and justin (thank god) has as little patience as I do for waiting in a line to see shit.  

We didn't see The David, either, making this my second trip to Florence where i didn't see David.  There's a fake david outside the Ufizzi museum, and Justin is kind of built like The David anyway, so that was enough for me.  There was of course NO WAY IN HELL I was going to climb up 400-something steps in the tower or the duomo to get a view of Florence, either.  Did I mention it was hot as BALLS?  I didn't want to exert all that energy, especially crammed in there with a zillion annoying tourists.

One night, I chose ristorante Dino, a quick walk from the apartment.  I emailed my reservation request, for 18:00, and felt really stupid when she emailed me back and said they didn't open til 8pm, because clearly my being a calculus teacher could not prepare me for the real-life skill of ADDING 12 for military time.  I meant 8pm.  Seriously, I fuck that up more than the month and day being reversed everywhere.

We arrive at 8, and we're one of two couples there.  8pm, even on a weekday, is very early to eat.  I've finally acclimated to eating this late (teacher dinner time is 5:30-6pm!) but it's so hot that it kills my appetite, so I'm basically eating nothing but one small cup of gelato until dinner time.  And then I'm starving!

We're greeted by Sonia, the owner, after her waiter nephew can't figure out that "phillips" was a last name, needing help finding our table.  He's adorable, and looks and sounds a little like an Italian Michael Cera... Very young and trying his best at his first job.  Sonia walks up to me with a huge smile and says "Cindy! 18:00 reservation!" And laughs at me.  I already love this place.

Absolutely wonderful food.  Justin got pasta with tomatoes, garlic, and basil.  Again.  This is a big difference between us... I have to taste EVERYTHING, and he is so happy to order the thing that he knows he likes over and over again.  And selfishly, I want him to order different things so that I can taste as much as possible!  Luckily for us both, the utter joy of Italian food is that they have an almost magical way of extracting an extraordinary amount of flavor from few, simple, uncomplicated ingredients.  That pasta, tomato, and basil (with I'm sure a healthy dose of good olive oil, salt, and cooking water) was so much more delicious that you'd ever expect it to be.  It's because all of the ingredients have FLAVOR.  Ask anyone who has been to Europe and knows anything about food... Their food just tastes BETTER.  We passed by a vendor selling lemons.  They were huge, misshapen, ugly, dirty on the outside, leaves attached.  THAT SHIT WAS PICKED THAT DAY.   justin almost couldn't believe it was a lemon.  

I got the wild boar cooked in chocolate and wine.  CHOCOLATE AND WINE.  It's her grandmother's recipe and traditional in Italy.  Maybe a little sweeter than I wanted it to be, but delicious.  It was garnished with very green, very strong leaves.  I picked one up and rubbed it between my fingers.  It was an amazing smell.  I didn't know what it was.  Sonia says it's laurel.  A bay leaf.  A fucking bay leaf.  I'm immediately going home and throwing out the industrial-sized canister of dried bay I've been using for zero reason for the last 5 years. Fuck.

Everyone else in the restaurant is a foreigner.  Mostly American.  Whatever, at least they're quiet, and even the girl who asks what literally everything is on the menu, even when it's written in English, is polite and quiet about it.  And Sonia doesn't seem to care, so why should I?  She is so friendly to everyone.  Two couples order the "florentine steak."  It's about 45€ and is for two people.  She tells them they don't need to order anything else.  She also explains that florentine steak is only served rare, and is that ok?  The European girl with a serious case of resting bitch face says "um, that might be too red for me" and also sends back her wine because it "wasn't cold enough."  Asshole.  Sonia brings this steak out on a big wooden platter, and it's basically a T-bone steak with twice the thickness of an American t-bone, which is already pretty fucking huge.  This thing was enormous, and every time someone brought one out, it was a total spectacle, because everyone has the same reaction: "what did we just do?" And "does anyone in the restaurant want some of this?"  It's carved into thick strips table-side, and it is rare as hell.

Resting bitch face girl does a fine job eating her steak, and stops complaining.  Well, at least, in English.  We're laughing at them, and I go off to find the bathroom.  I go to the back of the restaurant, where I think it is, and there's one sequestered table of about 6 60-year old women surrounding a portly dude of the same age.  One woman in a southern drawl says "oh... She's looking for the bathroom," and the gentleman screams out at me in his strong accent, "honey if you're looking for the bathroom, it's back there, you missed it."  I laughed and said, "how did you know to talk to me in English?" And he very loudly laughs and says, "honey, that's the only language I know!" I turn around and his friend applauds and compliments my (practically backless) dress.  Well, if they're going to be loud and obnoxious, at least they are nice. And Sonia was smart enough to hide them in the back.

We've at this point in the trip realized that we really like ending a meal with an aperitivo, more specifically, an amaro (literally translates to "bitter," but it's more herbal than it is bitter), and the brand of amaro is different depending on the restaurant, and depending on the region.  The amaro at Dino wasn't even on the menu, but when we asked, she perked up and brought us what she had, and just called it "amaro di Firenze."  Delicious.  Also exceptional was the chocolate torte, which had no sugar, no flour, and so amazing that justin, who doesn't like sweets, ate half.  Sonia comes over and re-fills the amaro glasses gratis, which was more than appreciated.  

Italian Michael Cera breaks a glass in the background.  Sonia laughs.  What a tremendous meal, and excellent service.

We happened upon another excellent meal the next night at Il Santo Bevitore Ristorante after the pizzeria justin really wanted to go to turned out to be closed.  This is hilarious, because it's a running joke that ANYTHING justin likes closes.  This one closed even before justin had the opportunity to like it.  Also, the one time justin researches a place to eat (that's my domain) it's a no-go.  So I make the poor guy wander around, because once I get something  stuck in my head it's hard to unstick, and all the pizza places look like crap.  After about 20 minutes, justin just looks at this random place, which looks a little nicer than I was dressed or prepared for, and convinces me to eat there.  (This scenario occurs a lot more often, traveling and at home, than I am comfortable to admit.)

It's Really awesome.  I have a pasta with a rabbit ragu, and justin gets a very spicy pasta dish and an AMAZING carpaccio dressed with capers and something that seemed and looked like small pieces of a sweet tomato jam.  The waitress tells us that it's egg.  It must have been some kind of marinated and preserved yolk situation.  She really didn't know how it was prepared, but when I told her how great it was, she said, "yes, our chef has many fantasies."  I didn't tell her the word she was looking for was "imagination."  Besides, maybe he does have many fantasies. 

The place also had a comprehensive dessert wine menu, and justin and I randomly chose two amaros... Stabilimento Chimico Farmaceutico Militare di Firenze's Anetolo for him and Villa I Cipressi's Amaro di Miele di montalcino for me.  He liked that it sounded "pharmaceutical" (Justin loves laphraoig whisky because of it's medicinal taste) and I chose the one with the word "honey" in it.

I smell mine, and I am instantly obsessed with the smell.  Sweet, herby, flowery, very fragrant... I know nothing about wine, and I don't know anything about amaro, but I drink this so slowly because I can't get myself to stop smelling it.  The fragrance company Tokyomilk, fragrance company I really like, is known for fragrances that mix odd herby and floral scents together to smell like something out of an apothecary... Like tobacco, vanilla, and fennel together, and is is what this amaro smelled like.  A Tokyomilk perfume.  And it tasted exactly like it smelled, whatever that meant.  I get back to the apartment and google it... Of course the company is some small, local operation and I'm likely to never find this shit again in my life.  I am really sad about this, but now am committed to buying a vintage beverage cart for the living room and stocking it with various amaro from all over the world.

Poor Justin... His was a straight-up, very alcohol-ly, very clean, very crisp anisette.  He HATES that.  After making fun of the resting bitch face girl who returned her wine yesterday, though, he was committed to finishing it.  Refused to order something else, refused to let me finish it for him (I don't mind anisette.) It took him a half-hour, grimacing at each tiny sip, but he did it.  My man is no quitter.

The only other sightseeing we wound up doing was going up to the piazza michaelangelo for this spectacular view of Florence. 

 On the way up, we are confronted by yet another young "activist" asking us to sign an anti-drug petition.  They approach you with a pen, try to guess where you're from and speak to you in your language, and tell you to sign a petition, and I'm assuming, ask you for money after.  

"hey, are you English?"

"No." 

"where are you from?"

"Does it really matter?"

"Ah, you're American."  He rolls his eyes.

A day with the down-and-out of rome

Screw this damned lake.

I slept in and decided to take in some sun at a park, reading one of the guidebooks at the hostel on Germany and Austria. Hey, next summer's only 13 months away...

The Gypsy
I am fascinated with these people, as I think I've mentioned before. These women, carrying their young dirty children all day long.

Their biggest scam, I think, and a successful one at that, is at the ticket machines.

I can't believe I haven't read about this is a guide book. It's incredible.

There are these ticket machines at every metro. The machines are very easy to figure out... instructions are given in 5 languages. You choose from 3 types of tickets, insert money, out comes change and a ticket.

But at Termini, most of the people using the machines are tourists, often bedraggled from the flight they just got off.

The women stand at the machine, ask you how many tickets you want, punch the buttons for you, take your money (they don't steal it), insert it into the machine, and hand you the tickets. Then they hold out their hand for a tip when the transaction is finished.

BRILLIANT!

When I am on line, I watch as EVERY SINGLE TOURIST ponies up a tip.

Except for me.

"No besogno aiuta," I say angrily. I'm faking.

This one was pretty clean, and not too aggressive. The other day, I saw two, at two neighboring machines, being aggressive with this American man who was buying tickets for his family. He was confused and tired. so I say quite loudly to him "don't give her money. She doesn't work for the station. I will help you." She and her friend run away.

The Cat Ladies of Rome

So I get my bearings, and at about 1:00 I decided to get a sandwich for the park, because if I've learned anything here, you have to get food or drink BEFORE you're actually hungry or thirsty. Everything takes a longer time than you expect.

So, on the bus, I read that the Torre Argentina bus stop, location of a completely excavated site, is also home to a CAT SANCTUARY, and they are "always looking for volunteers," even for an hour or two.

So I get there, and sure enough, there are between 200 and 300 cats. They look very healthy, well taken care of, and basically live in this part of the ruins. I decide that instead of the park, this is a much more productive thing to do with my day.

So I go to the woman who runs the place, tell her I'd like to vounteer for a few hours (in my icky Italian) and that I do this at home.

She says, looking very unenthused, "I speak English."

She then says, in the same unimpressed manner, "How long are you here?"

I tell her it's my last day. She looks pissed. She basically starts saying that if I were here for a week, maybe, but now, eh...

Now I don't really care. But I thought it would be a nice thing to do. Maybe brush the cats, play with them...

She says, "I guess you could clean the litter?"

Of course. How silly of me. Poop duty. I say sure. She asks me if I know how. Now, I can't imagine that Italian cat poop is any different than the American variety, or its cleaning method. But maybe the litter is different, or of different quality that we use at City Critters.

She leads me into a room that must have 40 cages of cats, and another 10 cats mulling about, with one particularly vocal ocicat-looking one. She shows me how to clean the litter.

So I open the first cage, and pet the cat who very obviously wants attention.

She yells "Don't touch the cat! These cats are sick!"

How I'm supposed to get the litter box out of the cage without laying my hand on the cat it beyond me. Of course, all the cats that aren't in cages (are they in recovery?) are climbing the cages and harassing the ones that are locked up, so I don't know how the cats are being protected from spreading germs. Oh, and there's no soap in the room. So I can't wash my hands.

I start cleaning cages, doing my best not to touch the sickies. After about the 8th cage, she comes in and tells me I'm doing it wrong. I was wasting too much litter, scooping too much, and they didn't have any money to waste. Oh, and I didn't put the litter boxes in the correct place when I returned it to the cage.

"why are you puttng the box in the middle?"

I told her she wasn't so specific. Really, I just was afraid to touch the cats, and I just put it in so she wouldn't yell at me for accidentally touching the cats."

She shows me on 3 more litter boxes how to clean.

No one is talking to me. The other volunteers are not friendly. They are not nice. they do not smile. I can't wait to get the hell out of there.

I'm sweating like mad, but can't mop my brow because I'm probably covered in sick kitty excrement.

I finish.

Now she tells me to sweep the front of the sancutary.

I really can't wait to get out of there. I ask if there is a bathroom, and there is none. This will be my out (although, true to form, I really did have to go.)

I sweep, and I'm about 50 feet from one of the other volunteers, who comes over, coughs, and says "Please, can you sweep in the other direction?"

Hmph.

I am certainly more trouble than I am worth.

I finish sweeping, I grab my bag, and luckily, the 1st lady isn't there to give me another job. I say "I need to leave... I am assuming you accept donations?"

I give her 5 euro.

She smiles.

Money talks, everywhere. And crazy cat people are everywhere, too.


Men on Crowded Busses
I get some incredible pizza at some random place. The Roman pizza has a very crispy, very thin crust, with lots of topping. Sort of a cross between foccaccia and pizza.

I wait for the number 40 bus, the best bus in Rome because it hits all the major sights, goes to Termini, and is Express. So it's pretty fast.

Which means it's usually pretty full.

So, I'm crammed into this bus, sweating like a pig. I'm next to a bunch of Koreans, and they're mext to a pretty clean-looking older man, but there's evidently something worng. He's wearing a sweater, topped with an overcoat. It's 90 degrees outside, and about 200 degrees inside the damned bus.

I am remembering now what the guidebook said about pickpockets and gropers on the 40 bus. Because it's so crowded. I hold my things closer and keep a watchful eye on the man. And the koreans, who looked like total targets.

Sure enough, I see one of the korean boys pull his things closer, and the old man makes a big commotion and gets off. I on't know if he was successful.

Thankful that I purposefully moved away from this old man, I notice that a rather tall, youngish man is now stading next to me. Perhaps he wanted to get away fro the geezer, too.

We're packed ike sardines, so much so that I think to myself that this young man must have very thin pants on, because I totally feel his package pressed up against my hip. Ick. I turn a bit.

And so does he. I must be imagining this. It's just crowded.

The bus comes to a complete stop, and so do I. I hold my breath so as not to move, because I am now imagining that he is carefully, methodically, rubbing himself against me, up and down.

No, I am imagining nothing.

I make no eye contact, but I say "scusa" to the person in front of me so that I can squeeze myself to a different part of the bus. As I walk away, I can feel the springboard-like action of his now erect penis.

It's not my stop, but I get off.

Just before he could.

I felt that thing on my hip for at least the next 10 minutes I had to wait for the next bus.

Oh, Rik, why did you have to go?

I'm pooped.

I have not slept well since I've come to this hostel. It's pretty hot in the dorm room, so it takes me a good hour to fall asleep, and I wake up a couple of times in the middle of the night. It's an 8-bed dorm, and right now it's got me, three retirement-age teachers from Seattle, and a couple from I don't-know-where.

This is my second night here, and the people have actually been very quiet and respectful. When they come in late, they tiptoe around, as opposed to the drunken stumbling and giggling that I've endured before, and I'm sure is prevalent at more partying-youth hostels.

But the SNORING. I can't STAND it. Right now, it't the teacher in the bunk above me.

When it's your significant other, or your sister, you can give 'em a quick jab to roll 'em over. But I really can't do that to a complete stranger, can I?

Bah.

Yesterday was kind of a bust, as Rik's 5-year old guidebook gave me incorrect information about how to get to Lago di Brancchiano, a lake about an hour outside of Rome. I went to this metro station, and asked a bunch of people were this bus terminal was, and they told me I wasn't remotely close. I'll try again tomorrow.

But I did manage to find this AWESOME bar/sandwich shop... it was called Bar Herbera uner some arcade next to the Colonna Gallery. It was what I'd consider a panino: Crispy and pressed on the outside. The first one. Usually, when they heat up your sandwich the outside is still soft. Not as satisfing. They had a lot of sandwiches out of the ordinary... which at this point of my trip is welcome. Anchovies, zucchini flowers, and fresh mozzerella on a braided roll. Yum.

Also, now that I've figured out the busses a bit better, my feet aren't ready to walk away from me by the end of the day.

Why is it that you only find the good stuff right as you're leaving?

All Roads Lead to Termini

When I was booking out hotel in Rome, I asked Rik where we should stay. He recommended agains staying near Termini, the Grand Central Station of Rome. It's not a cool part of town, nor is it really central to stuff.

Now that rik has gone, I changed from the Red Rose B&B to The Beehive, a self-described "Hotel and Art Space." The B&B system here is not nearly what it is in the states. The Red Rose was a floor-through apartment owned by someone who lets out a couple of rooms. The room was clean and small, with a pretty decent bed. All I really care about. I chose this one because the site Cross-Pollinate, a rental agency owned by the same people who own The Beehive, said that they had A/C. The A/C was a stand-alone unit with a huge tube that lead out the window, which had to be kept open for this purpose. Kinda kills the A/C when the window is open. And the breakfast provided was lackluster. But it was cool and comfortable. And the woman who ran the place let me keep my huge suitcase full of yarn there, no charge, for 3 days. So it was well worth it.

I am staying in the 8-bed dorm of the Beehive for a measly 22 euro a night. The hotel is really special. It's a hostel, full of young people, but it is clean, pretty, has free internet access, a lounge, a cafe that serves up healthy and cheap alternatives to what is otherwise available in Rome. It also has a fat, affectionate cat named Ingmar that I have taken a liking to. She's an outdoor cat, so she's kinda icky, but last night I enjoyed sitting in the lounge, Ingmar cuddle up next to my lap as I tried to get a better look into what I wanted to do for the next couple of days.

Unfortunately, there is no A/C in the dorm, and when I walked into it after a ridiculous game of scrabble I played with two Navy officers, a 9th grader and her mom (I won, by the way), I could TASTE the stuffiness. And then I realized the one thing I forgot in the huge bag full of yarn and crap my wonderful boyfriend offered to lug back home for me... EARPLUGS.

Dammit. I brought a small cache of earplugs just for the 6 nights I'm staying in a dorm full of people. And I forgot them. Luckily, not too much snoring last night... I was much more concerned with the slight allergy attack brought on by Ingmar, I'm sure, and the fact that I could feel the heat rising up from my body as I tried, in vain, to sleep.

Bah.

I am tired this morning. Very tired. So much so that my breakfast included a cappucchino with an espresso dumped into it.

So, back to Termini. This station is glorious. The bus terminal is right outside the station, so whenever I'm somewhere in town, I can just look for any bus that says "Termini" and I know I'll get home. The station itself is like an airport; it's got a mall underground (the -1 floor. That's right. In europe, the main floor is called "0" and underground is represented by negative numbers.) and cafes where you don't get charged 2.5 times the price for a cup of coffee if you want to sit. Score!

There's a supermarket that has Total greek yogurt, which I am so happy to have for breakfast every morning. Even if it means luggin around my own jar of honey.

Also, last night I found myself very tired when it came time to eat. All I really wantd was pasta, as I didn't have anything really significant during the day. I just wanted a simple, filling meal. And I didn't want another panino (I'm fully bored of them) and to sit at a restaurant alone was not really something I wanted to do. I woman alone in Italy is not alone for long, and I'm not interested in making any friends. So I walk the 2 blocks to termini, and it turns out there is this place called Chef Express, a chain of caffes and self-service places that has its own self-service restaurant. It's like a big cafeteria that has a pasta station, a meat-grilling station, a salad bar, a dessert bar! And it was incredibly cheap: I paid 3.70 for a heaping plate of baked pasta; a nice cut of steak, grilled to order, was about 7. Unbelievable. and it's self-service, which means that there's no "cover" or "bread" charge just to sit down. I'm sure Rik is going to be sad about misssing this one. There was a garden and a piano player. he wasn't even that cheesy, especially compared to the Casio-playing dude at the NICE restaurant in Positano we were forced to listen to. It was perfect.

I'f you're living in Rome, live in Trastevere. If you're visiting Rome, stay as clost to Termini as you can get.

Even if you don't know the language, there's no need to be RUDE.

Rome is full of tourists. More tourists than actual Romans, I assume.

I have gone to a number of places in the world, and it's always the same. Foreigners are RUDE.

I completely understand the embarassment of not being able to speak the local language. I have only traveled to countries where the language is a Romance language: French, Spanish, Italian, Portuguese. And the most basic of English is generally understood...uh...EVERYWHERE.

I also understand not wanting to make yourself heard when you DON'T speak the native tongue. You don't want to make yourself a target for rip-off. And I hate these people who just speak English as though everyone can and should understand them. Speak softly, or slowly. And look apologetic because you're speaking your mother tongue.

But, you know what? "EXCUSE ME" or "I'M SORRY" IS NOT THAT DIFFICULT TO LEARN. And, if you step on someone's foot, and say "I'm sorry" and look like you mean it, I can guarantee you will make yourself understood.

I can't tell you how many times I've travelled and someone has walked into me, jammed their elbow into my boob, stomped on my foot and PRETENDED IT DIDN'T HAPPEN, just because they don't speak whatever language they don't speak.

I realized this today, when I was on line at the store, underneath the train station, to buy a skirt. I get in line, there's a line (big sale), about 3 people in front of me, and this Asian woman gets behind me. She looks as though she's in a hurry, and I see her trying to get on the side of me insead of staying completely behind me.

The next person goes, and the next. she's looking at her watch. She looks a bit anxious. When the person in front of me is being checked out, I SHIFT MY WEIGHT to my right foot, and she looks at her watch, takes a slight step forward to my left, reaches in her wallet and pulls out 20 euro.

At this point, I am fully aware that she thinks she's going to go ahead of me. 'Cause she's in a fucking hurry.

So now it's my turn, and she plunks down her sweatshirt, and I say to her "Scusa, sono devanti de te." Angrily. She turns to me, and in Italian, says "Non capito." so I say in English, "I am ahead of you." The cashier looks at her, explains to her in Italian that there is a line, yadda, yadda... I say, in Italian "go ahead." she starts apologizing, apologizing, in broken Italian, how she was on the phone, she didn't know.

This woman was completely full of shit.

Now, I don't know where she was from, or if she lives in Italy, or what. but her move was completely calculated. And there was no way I wasn't going to give her some shit for it.

On a completely different note, Rik has left and I am here navigating Rome on my own for a few days more. I am ready to go home. I have eaten all the gelato I wish to eat (although I am sure I will have some more,) the clothes are too damn expensive, even the crappy summer ones that are on sale. In fact, the stores don't really even carry too much non-summer stuff until they get rid of the old stuff. I spent all day trying my damndest.

I also went to a gelato place that supposedly has a wonderful variety of gelato- 100 flavors! 100 flavors indeed. But that't the problem. There's too much, the whole place is FULL of tourists. you get to one part of the counter, and the gelato you want is another 18 gelati away from you, and all the tourists do is cross this huge bar back and forth, back and forth, till they figure out what they want. Then the guy gets to you, and he's in a foul mood. I can't really blame him. At that point, you totally forget what you want. So you piss him off even further. Today's flavor: glazed chestnut and Irish coffee. And totally overrated.

When in Rome...

WALK. At least, that's what Rik has convinced me is the only option. As I've said, Rome is HUGE. The streets are huge, the ruins, speckled throughout the city are HUGE, and the monuments are HUGE. The map, is deceptively small. It fits in your pocket!

There are tons of busses, and to add to the intimidation, they aren't numbered 2, 6, even 34. They're called 492 and 517 and the like. And there are no maps on at the bus stops. Just a linear depiction of where the bus goes with the names of the stops. So if you are going somewhere, you just have to find the bus that has that stop, or suck it up and buy the 6 euro bus map. Which seems equally confusing.

There is a metro, but it only has about 15 stops throughout this great city. There is also a tourist bus, which stops at the same 15 stops (?!?)

So last night, Rik says we should have dinner in pretty Trastevere, and it would be much faster to walk.

Much faster meant about an hour and 15 minutes.

Holy crap.

Now, I like to walk. I often walk to SOHO from 27th street. It's nice. Takes about 1/2 an hour. But I really don't want to walk for over an hour after I've spent the entire day walking. So I finally say, "Rik, I think you're mistaken about how big this city is." He finally agreed.

Rome is awesome. But I've decided that it would be much more awesome on a Vespa, which I am not inclined to try to rent.

Anyway, we saw St. Peter's Basilica at the Vatican before I pooped out again. Did I mention how HOT it is? You totally don't realize it. It's a very dry heat, you don't even sweat. All I know is that I am drinking water, water, water, and I hardly have to pee. And that's sayng something. All of a sudden, I fell light-headed. And then it's too late. Of course, then you have to walk home...

Trastevere was really nice... my favorite part of Rome so far. It's a more residential neighborhood tucked away from the grandeur of ancient Rome, with lots of cute shops and restaurants. It's the kind of place I might like to live if I were here.

Rik leaves tomorrow, which means that all day tomorrow will be dedicated to shopping to quelch my sorrow.

Gelato of the day: Caramelized fig (holy SHIT!) and zabaiglone.

Positano - Home of the Gigantic Lemons

Rik and I arrived in Positano, a popular resort town on the Amalfi coast, a couple of days ago. It would have been a real royal pain in the ass, too, if the nice proprietor of the Red Rose B&B in Rome we were staying at didn’t let me store my ginormous suitcase full of yarn there for a couple of days.

We took the most expensive (and thusly fastest and most comfortable) train from Rome to Naples. That was only an hour and a half, versus the three hours it could have been if we were one of these poor backpackers trying to save 10 euro. Woo-hoo! Almost there! NO. We then have to take the Circumvesuviana train to Sorrento. Pretty ghetto- hot as hell and what we didn’t realize was that it was ANOTHER HOUR AND A HALF on that crappy train. Then from Sorrento, a 45-minute bus ride that skimmed the rails of a very high cliff. Left, than right, then left… ad infinitum. And the driver was having a very heated conversation with some other bus employee the whole time. Scared the fuck out of me. ‘Cause you know, Italians talk with their hands. I saw this guy with his hands off the wheel and not looking at the road many, many times. My palms are sweating and Rik is taking a nap. We took a trip on a bus like this to Puerto Escondido in Oaxaca, Mexico a couple of years ago, and I just kept reminding myself what he told me then, “The driver doesn’t want to die, either.” Strangely enough, that was very helpful.

We get to Positano, and we have to walk down this hill, also meandering left and right so as to make the road less steep.

It was all worthwhile.

Positano is spectacular. It is said to be an “impossible village,” one of the few in the world built vertically rather than horizonally. And that’s totally true. I overheard some American woman complaining that it was 100 steps up to her hotel. It is an Italian resort town, full of Italians and some others strewn about. Quite a difference from my time in Florence. I hear a lot of English, but a heck of a lot more Italian. Except the wait staff. They all speak to us in English. It’s a resort without being resort-y. They only thing to do is wander about town, eating saltimbocca panini (prosciutto and cheese), gelato, look at all of the very old-jew-in-Florida-esque resortwear stores that Positano is evidently famous for, and sit on the beach. And listen to little kids talking in Italian. Kids are really cute when they’re speaking Italian.

Oh, by the way, our hotel is awesome. It’s Villa La Tartana. It’s reight on the beach, even thought it doesn’t have one of those beachfront restaurants or its own area for guests to take in the sun. We have a room with a partial view of the sea, but it does have its own sun room, killer air-conditioning, and complimentary breakfast service in the room. It’s really cool to have someone knock on your door in the morning and bring you your cappuccino and a continental breakfast, That you can eat in your sun room.

We have had a couple of really nice al fresco meals. We’ve eaten a nice amount of grilled fresh fish and seafood. Even if tonight’s meal was accompanied by a cheesy Italian lounge singer and his Casio. “Volare… whoa….” No kidding. The restaurant was at the inside of a turn, and every time a bus turned the corner, we thought the bus might hit the guy. But no such luck.

Last night’s meal was ended with a complimentary shot of Limoncello, the popular and stong lemon liquor that is made along the Sorrento Coast. It was a hell of a lot better than the bottle of 5 euro LimonCETTA I bought at the supermarket just to see if I liked it.

Rik and I spent a great day at the beach, reading and knitting, respectively. (on an aside, I have to come home soon. I have two knitting patterns with me, and I have already made this sweater three times. I’m really sick of this pattern and need to learn how to do cables before I can make all the patterns in these cool Italian knitting magazines I bought. I figure I should learn how to do it in English first, so that it will make some sense in Italian.) You rent an umbrella and beach lounger for 10 euro, and you get it the whole day. Well worth it, because without that umbrella the southern Italian sun with fry you to a crisp. And the beach is made of black sand and pebbles, which is very uncomforatble. We’re looking forward to doing the same tomorrow, followed by the belated birthday dinner I’m going to take him to.

Gelati of the day: caffe and banana. Subpar, but necessary and refreshing. Followed up with a “coda del aragosta” – a “lobster tail” - sfogliatella pastry filled with chantilly crème. Delicious.

All Rome in a Day

Rome is huge. Or at least it seem s. I mean REALLY FUCKING BIG. Rik says it’s not as big as I think it is, and he’s right, I’m sure, but everything in town is built to a gargantuan scale. You’re walking throught town, and, oh, over there is the Coliseum. The coliseum is basically a big, old, crumbling Shea Stadium that fits 70,000 people. And there it is, just hanging out in the middle of the street, next to everything else. You walk down another street, and there are some ruins. And all the while I’m trying to imagine my cousin Michael frantically running through the streets as I hear he did, looking for American ham and Wonder bread.

Rik and I decided to skip the coliseum for another day (as the line when we got there was so, so long. Insead, we saw the Roman Forum, basically ruins of the center of life in Ancient Rome, before I suffered a small heat stroke. I don’t know what happened. One minute, I’m fine, then all of a sudden, I’m tired, and I go to drink some water and almost barf. I forgot that in Florence I wasn’t really walking around too much, taking busses everywhere. Walking 2 hours in the blazing heat was just too much for me. Forget what I said about “no problem… dry heat.” So I passed out in an air-conditioned bookstore for a while, then headed back to take a small nap in the B&B. I felt much more refreshed. So we threw some coins in the breathtaking Trevi fountain (ensuring a visit back to Rome, as the story goes), stopped by the Piazza Navona, and watched the sun set on the Spanish Steps.

Truly, all of Rome in a Day.

Remember Life without a cell phone?

I have to say, it's really NICE not having a cell phone. When I walk in someplace, I don't have to worry about it ringing, or be embarassed when it does. The Italians are not on their cell phone as much as one would imagine here... unless it's just because, as I've mentioned before, THERE ARE NO ITALIANS in Florence.

Except, the one or two times I've promised to meet someone. I was to have dinner with Smadar. I was supposed to meet her at her place at 7. We even made alternate plans to meet somewhere at 8. I showed up at her place at 7:15 (which, in Italian time is about right) and she wasn't there. And then I couldn't remember what our alternate plans were. It's much harder to blow someone off, even by accident in this case, with a cell phone.

Anyway, she lives in a really pretty part of town, next to the Piazza della Signoria. So I walked around, saw some really nice restaurants I would be going to with Rik if he wasn't going to be here for just a day. I walked past some small church that had an choral performance by a large group from England. Did I mention that there's some HUGE youth choral festival here? Everywhere and every night around the city there are performances by youth opera, orchestra, and choral groups from all over the world. It sounded really beautiful, the melody of voices and instruments resonating in the diminutive church, even though I am not generally into classical music.

And then I stumbled upon "The Festival of Gelato." How did I not find this Florentine treasure before? Typical.

(By the way, it's Festival DEL gelato, evidently. On an aside, the Italians are the KINGS of prepositions. They have different preposition variations that agree with the noun. It's INSANE. So, the word "of'' is different if you're talking about something feminine singular, feminine plural, masculine singular, you get the point. Oh, and also one for if the word begins with an '' s + consanant."' It's ridiculous. Thank god I am leaving before my lessons were all about the use of the word ''from.''

Perhaps it's because it looks like a cheesy porn shop on 42nd street. The portal is ellipsical, and is lined with a couple of stripes of ugly, loud, neon. Totally out of place. But they had some nice gelato. Today's selection: Green apple with rose. (That's right. Rose. It tasted like a rose.)

Big Fat Quitter

Ugh. I'm a quitter. I quit. The little bastards win.

Yesterday went to Siena, which my guide book calls "One of Italy's most enchanting cities.'' This required quite a bit more effort on my part than I planned.

Class end at 1. I went to my favorite pizzeria for a slice, and then took a bus to the train station. That took about 1/2 hour. The train for Siena wasn't going to arrive for another 1/2 hour. Unfortunately, the train to Siena is the Regionale, which is the local, HOT, smelly, HOT slow train. It took an hour and a half, no A/C. Did I mention it was HOT AS BALLS?

Right as the train was taking off, one of the young gypsy girls, no more than 16 years old, that flock the streets here was begging a pair of young Italian boys for money. The normal Italian response is to look away and pretend they don't hear these people. I have no idea where these ''gypsies'' come from, but they were long skirt, are dirty, have long hair and overly tanned skin, and are very persistent beggars and petty theives. It's quite a phenomenon all throughout western Europe, I believe.

Anyway, the strange part this time was that she kept getting on her knees and pressing her head against the legs of the boys in a very strange fashion. They still didn't move, and just continued to look away. Now the two other people I am next to on the train are staring in disbelief and wonder as to what's going on. She just kept getting up, showing her "give me money" sign, and then getting on her knees and pressing herself on these boy's legs. I might have told her to fuck off if I didn't know these boys were Italian.

It turns out that she was trying to steal one of the boy's cell phone.

Anyway, this elicits a conversation between me and the girl next to me, and the boy in front of me figures out I speak English and seems pleased by that. Turns out Gregory is Belgian (which means he's OK to talk to,) and is traveling with 5 other people from Belgium. They have rented a car, but only 5 fit in the car, so whenever they go to another city, one of them has to take the train each time! They rotate turns.

Anyway, he was very nice (Nicole D.... I thought about it and he was a little young and tall for you. About 6' 5'' and 21. Still lives with the parents. I'll try harder next time to find someone for you...) and we decided to walk to the center of town together (as he was a poor student and 1 km didn't seem too far to walk.)

OK. 1 KM IS A LONG WALK!! I NEED TO GET THIS INTO MY HEAD! This is the second time that someone has suggested I take a bus and I said I'd walk. It was quite a nice walk, but about 1/4 way through, Gregory gets the call to meet his friends at the train station anyway, and I am still walking. About 45 minutes later, I get to the center of town, but now I am a little worn out.

Siena is indeed pretty, but pretty spread out. I'm not so interested in all the cultural stuff, but I do really enjoy looking at all the beautiful old buildings and villas. So I walked around for an hour, had my gelato of the day (nocciola and crema) a cup of coffee, walked around for another hour, and decided I was too pooped to walk any more.

BTW, the bus ticket was only 90 euro cents. About a buck.

That train ride home was UNBEARABLE. Hot as hell. I got back and just about passed out after a not-too-exciting dinner, about 10:30. I didn't even wake up in the middle of the night as I often do here to scratch at the mosquito bites.

This morning was the first morning I didn't wake up before my alarm. Ugh. I am pooped. And my allergies have kicked up a bit. I barely took any pleasure in my morning Greek yogurt and honey. I get on a crowded-ass bus to town, go to my classroom, which has a fan but is hot and stuffy, and within 10 minutes of being there I get the sniffles, and my head is throbbing. I can't think. I can't even muster the strength to tell the teacher in Italian that I am not feeling so well. I guess the heat, my headache and exhaustion, coupled with the idea that I would have to be sitting in a class that I deplore was just too much for me.

So I quit. I excused myself and left. I'm not really learning too much there, anyway. Nothing I can't teach myself from my book.

I am saddened that my experience at that school was spoiled by an administrator and a teacher who had no control over a small group of kids. They both just allowed them to be crazy, disrespectful, and difficult. Yesterday afternoon, the teacher asked the Austrian boy what he eats for breakfast, and the kid says, ''ham and eggs.'' In english. He just doesn't care, and neither did the rest of them.

I don't blame of hate the kids anymore... it's not their fault. If I were 15 or 16 years old, away from home, away from my parents for two months, and I were required to be in a hot classroom for four hours a day (with only a 20 minute break), and no one stopped me from behaving inappropriately, I would probably be nuts also. But I am quite annoyed that I was not allowed to change my class. Perhaps if I pressed further, it might have happened, but with only a couple of days left, it would have been hard to do.

I killed my headache with a couple of advil, a cappucchino and about an hour in this air-conditioned internet place. Tonight I am going to Smadar's (you were right on the spelling, mom, btw) appartment to cook some dinner.

Tomorrow I pick Rik up from the airport (hopefully that will all work out) and we're going to spend all of Thursday waiting in line to see Michaelangelo's David, with everyone else in the planet.

Italy Wins!

Holy shit.

Barbara and I truly had a very unsuccessful day. She had spent all day walking the 5 towns of Cinqueterra the day before, so she really didn't have it in her to go out to see the final. She's German, so this game hardly mattered to her at all. I convinced her that it would be great to watch with the Italians. Even for a while.

The busses are infrequent on Sundays, so we luckily caught a somewhat empty bus to the center of town. The streets were empty. We went to this nice bar next to the school, and it was packed with people wearing blue jerseys (Italy's called La Azzura for the color of their jersey). Turns out they were all american. And YOUNG. So we leave.

We find a crowded park, where there's a big screen projecting the game. We can hardly see anything. We're surpised to see that the snack bar at this park is serving INDIAN food. We look around, and aside from Americans, there were a lot of what I guess were North African or Middle Easterners. Dark skin, speaking Italian, but with accents.

I like to consider myself unracist, but to be in Italy, in a park to watch Italy be the best in the world, and see very few Italians was WEIRD. The first goal was scored very quickly, and everyone started to cheer. We were even more surprised to learn that it was FRANCE that scored the goal when people were cheering.

Needless to say, we got the hell out of there.

We meander to another park, also dirty and crowded. This park had a greater proportion of Italians, but more of the same. And there was no room.

Where are all the fucking Italians in Florence??

Barbara and I decide that Claudia was right... better off watching in front of the TV. And so we did.

11:00 comes, Italy wins, and there is no noise in the street. That is, until they all got in their cars from whatever party they must have been at (what other explanation could there be? The parks were full of immigrants and friendless Italians). They were honking their horns until 4 in the morning.

None of my housemates slept. Except me, completely used to the noise from living in Manhattan. I fell fast asleep.

On an other note, class was better today. 10 minutes into class, the rude-ass 16-year old Swiss girl started talking to her friend right next to me when the teacher asked me a question. I sighed, said to the teacher "Scusa."

Then I turned to the girl and yelled "DO YOU THINK YOU CAN BE QUIET WHEN OTHER PEOPLE ARE TALKING? IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO THINK WHEN YOU WON'T BE QUIET. DO YOU THINK YOU CAN BE QUIET??"

That about did the trick.

Underwhelming Firenze

I was feeling very lazy Sunday, yet I somehow got the energy to see one of the Medici villas just north of town. My housemate Barbara decided to join me.

The bus leaves from just across the street from my apartment. The bus system in Florence is comprehensive... you can get everywhere in town, there are many busses. They're a bit like New York... there's no indication of where you are, there's no map on the bus; the driver doesn't announce where the hell you are. I am forever openin up my big bus map to figure out if I'm going in the right direction.

So we get on this bus, and we ask if he knows where this Medici villa is. He says, "sure, sure. I'll tell you." At some point, Barbara says "I think it has passed." We look confused, and some of the old men on the bus say they think it is time to get off. They tell the bus driver to stop. He doesn't stop for 3 stops even though we pressed the light to get off. Turns out he was totally wrong, and he was listening to his ipod.

So we walk a nice distance back, and up some big hill, to get to this villa that didn't seem open. The ticket window had no one in it, and now there was a sign that said "Free entry." A guide is required, and we arrived just at the time when the next guide was.

So this old man, looking quite the bit a janitor, opens the door and says "you want to go in?" So Barbara and I, followed by some random English couple, go into the villa, and this man takes us around IN COMPLETE SILENCE, even though we made it known that we understood Italian.

It was very strange. But it was free, so we couldn't complain.

The villa was very opulent. Not very impressive, considering the villas I have seen elsewhere. The walls were all covered in reproductions of Florentine wallpaper (that sort of flowery, swirly print) or were completely painted in Trompe l'oeil frescoes. It was O.K. Once again, as for most of what I have experienced in Florence, underwhelming.

I am not unhappy here. I like it well enough. It's hot, and sunny, and not humid. This is enough to keep me happy, really. New York is unbearably humid as of late, so just being comfortable (albeit hot) is great.

I look forward to preparing myself meals from what is available here. I have "Total" greek yogurt, ($2 a container in the US so I've never tried it) thick and creamy and topped with honey is like ambrosia.

I have a salad once a day of rucola (rocket) greens, fresh tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, anchovies, and balsamic.

I have made orriechette with pesto, tortelli with a sort of vegetable caponata I invented. And one time a cutlet of beef stuffed with taleggio and sage.

Whatever I don't finish, I try to push off on my housemates, as they are poor students who I often catch eating bread and butter. That makes me so sad.

There's a wonderful patisseria below my apartment where they sell the most beautiful miniature italian pastries, and make a fine macchiatto (my favorite version of coffee thus far.)

But I digress. I cannot seem to figure out why people fall in love with this city. Before I came, everone told me, "oh, FLORENCE." It's my favorite city.

It's FULL of tourists (not that I have any right to talk.) You hear English more than Italian. It is thoroughly overpriced. The markets that take up all the piazzas in town are full of overpriced, crappy leather. I don't know how any of these tourists are fooled by this "vera pelle" label that is all over town. You can get better leather at Century 21 in the city for 1/2 the price.

There are hardly any green spaces. The parks are dry and dirty, and anywhere you want to sit costs $.

And most of the students I have spoken to feel the same. Two of my housemates are here for 2 months, and one poor girl signed on for 2 years. She is not too happy about it.

Sure, it is the opera and classical music capitol of the world. There are tons of museums, classic art, if you feel like paying through the nose and waiting in a line for three hours just to catch a glimpse of David, a naked, pre-pubescent boy you've seen 1000 times.

It's fine, but not nearly what everyone said it would be.

Yucky Italian men

Ugh.

So, I'm in the cafe right next to the school, and this Italian man says to me in English, "This guy here makes really bad coffee.''

I tell him I'm from NY. Turns out he is a leather designer across the street, and sells to some places on the upper-east side. He starts complaining about starbucks... about how they could possibly get away with selling a very bad cup of $4 coffee.

Then the conversation goes like this:
''Oh, my store is right across the street. You have to see my work.''
''OK, but I have to go to the bathroom.''
''I have a bathroom in my store. Come.''

So, in broad daylight, I go to his store. It's about half the size of my living room, full of gorgeous leather. There are pictures of him with some famous american women... Mariel hemingway, Calista Flockhart, I think...

''Your leather is beautful,'' I say. ''So much better than that shit on the street.''

Now he hugs me. Tight. And I am very uncomfortable. I realize he has closed the door. I do not hug him back.

''This is why I like you! You know!''
He does not like my lack of hug. ''In Italia,'' he says, ''you give big hug.''
''In American, we don't hug so fast.''
''You know why I talk to you in the cafe? I like your nail polish.''

Another hug.

I say, ''Give me your card. I will come back to visit.'' Trying to get the hell out of there.
''Why are you leaving? I want to take you to dinner.''
''I am meeting someone. I cannot. I will come back. Give me your card.''
''What are you waiting for? Huh? Are you waiting to go out when you are an old lady and cannot walk?''

I laugh (painfully) and go to give him the obligatory kisses on the cheeck goodbye, and he gets so close to my mouth I am completely creeped out.

Yuck. Not only are the Italian men persistent, they are AGGRESSIVE. This particularly sucks, because now I don't want to go to my favorite cafe anymore.

But he does make a glorious leather coat.

Mario Romano. Via Pellicceria, 10R, Firenze.

Bologna

Bologna is an hour away from Firenze on the fast train. My guide book really didn't say anything about it, but it's in another province, a less much less touristy one, so I thought it might be cheaper, that the sales might be going on there, and it might be nice.

Was I right. Bologna is a really nice city. Not terribly crowded, totally walkable, and hardly any tourists. Imagine an Italian city with actual Italians! Go figure!

The sales were in full force, although I was uninspired by what there was. I basically spent hours strolling the beautiful city, where almost every sidewalk is arcaded. The buildings are old, a bit dirty, but a lovely shade of reddish-terracotta. It's a big university town, so there's a lot of cheap food and cool bars. I plopped myself down at some cafe that looked onto one of the cute streets lines with mopeds for a while. and I had the BEST gelato I've had here, and a place called gelateriagianni. Today's flavors: Fig and Pistacchio. The pistacchio was this unsettling shade of khaki, so I knew it had to be good. And damned if I was right. Holy gelati.



Of course, all this gelato left no room for what might be best idea in theory and worst idea in practice:
That's right. Nutelleria. This is not a joke. Bologna is the home of Nutella. And just look at all your nasty nutella-rrific options.

Anyway, it started to POUR. I had an umbrella, but my feet were killing me. I had already purchased a ticket home, so I go to the station, and decide to change the reservation which can easily be done with a machine. The less you have to talk to an Italian official, the better, boy. So I change my ticket, and I realize that the time was still an hour away... there was a train departing in 10 minutes. So I wait on line to talk to the customer service representative (a misnomer) and he yelled at me, in Italian (there is nothing worse than getting yelled at in Italian) that the ticket I had WAS for the next train.

I of course, am completely confused. So I wander around for a while, and asked a different customer service rep for help, and he said I had to go back to the 1st guy. Bah. Well, anyway, I soon realize that I had been looking at the ARRIVAL time as opposed to the DEPARTURE time. And I had just mised my train.

So I go back to the nasty Italian, wait in line for another 10 minutes (waiting in line is like their national hobby) and the guy yells at me that train already left and I have to stand in ANOTHER line to get it fixed.

Well THAT line had about 30 people on it, and there was only one available teller.

So I decide to just buy a whole new ticket.

Stupid American Tax paid : 13€.

And well worth it.

My Italian is coming along nicely... I just really hate the people in my class. With the exception of this Isreali girl named Smedalr (sp?) who is my age and immediately picked me out as such.

So, today is Saturday, and I am pooped. I had plans to travel again, but I think I am just going to spend the day looking for bootleg soccer jerseys for Rik and for the big game tomorrow. And I have to make sure to get to the market today, as everything is closed on Sunday here.

I managed to contain myself

But I did make my first yarn purchase of the trip. Campolmi Filati, an ''outlet'' shop that sells their own production of yarn at very reasonable prices. I am excited about this shiny mercerized cotton, in the bright blue and green. I am more excited about this shiny, shiny, silver, which cost only 5€ for 50 grams. Thank goodness I brought a big suitcase.

Worse than ''ugly american''

The Duomo, a glory without tourists.

A reproduction of a Da Vinci machine at a very small museum of repros. (My first, and probably last, museum in Firenze.)




Lunch... foccacia with roasted tomatoes, peppers, and artichokes.


Leather Market... view from my classroom.

So, this morning I got up at 6 in the morning. No reason. Just couldn't sleep. I decided to take advantage of the situation and go to see the gorgeous Duomo at a time where there were no tourists. It was beautiful in the morning light. And completely empty. Kinda like the East village in the morning... you can hardly believe that it could ever be peaceful.

Classes start at 9 in the morning, so after a much needed cappucchino, I headed off to change the level of my class. In the beginner class, we spent three days learning how to say "what's your name'' and ''where are you from.'' Basta. No one spoke any Italian at all.

So I changed my class. It was fine... I was on page 13 in the other class and in this class I'm on page 101. So, I taught myself how to conjugate verbs in the present tense last night, and today we learned the simple future. No problem.

Then things took an ugly turn for the worse. Across from me was sitting a 15 year old Austrian boy who seems to have ADD and had forgotten to take his meds. He spent the whole time drawing fancy script of the band AC/DC (are they even still alive?!?) and making sure the teacher saw it. He kept rocking in his chair, making jokes, not paying attention and responding in English when asked a question. I really wanted to slap him. In the last hour of class, which is supposed to be conversation practice (which everyone seems to hate but I love), he would talk loudly to his friend when someone else was speaking. The teacher really didn't do anything to stop it. So there's this old Brazilian man trying his best to talk, and this kid is yapping with some austrian girl, so I yell at them, in English "WILL YOU SHUT THE HELL UP?" and they did.

Then there's the australian boy, living in Barcellona, 16 years old, who could not be more holier-than-thou if he tried. At some point in the lesson, the teacher gives some instructions, and leaves the room for a few minutes. No one seemed to understand what we were supposed to do. I didn't either, which was pretty much the first time since I arrived. So this kid, [insert lofty English here] says ''**SIGH** You don't UNDERstand? **SIGH**. What we're SUPPOSed to do is ask a question, and the other person is TO ANSwer it. And then we're SUPPOSed to guess what the person is. NOW do you get it [rolls eyes] ? ''

There are very few times in my life I am at a loss for words. In English or any other language for that matter. I was flabbergasted. It was the single most obnoxious, condescending, insulting comment I've ever heard from another person in my life.

Of course, he was wrong.

There comes a time in one's life where you recognize that you have become an adult, the one you made fun of as a kid. I was that person today. I am that senior citizen in the back of a college classroom, trying to better myself, where everyone else is on mommy and daddy's dime (in this case, euro) just waiting for class to be over. I always hated those old people, showing off, truly interested and better than I was. Now I am that person.

On the other hand, I may just beat the shit out of those boys tomorrow.

The World Cup

Holy crap!

Italy just beat Germany last night.

I am not into soccer, but I watched with my Austrian apartmentmate Claudia over a very long dinner I made myself (prima piatta: rocket salad with fresh mozzarella, anchovies, tomatoes. Segunda piatta: thin beef cutlet stuffed with talleggio and rosemary. Accompanied by some lovely round zucchini sauteed in olive oil and shallots.)

To be here when Italy is in the world cup is amazing. Every time someone came close to scoring, all of my neighbors screamed. And when they won, let's just say that it's a good thing I've got earplugs. It seemed like all of Italy was driving around honking their horns and screaming until 2 in the morning.

Sunday I'm going to some big open-air screen, where everyone in town will watch the big game. It's really quite a spectacle.

I think I'm going to buy myself a bootleg jersey (found on every street corner) to wear at the game.

Arrivata a Firenze

I arrived in Florence yesterday a sweaty, nasty, mess. It's really hot here, but it's no Cuba, so I'm doing OK. I just showed up at my apartment, and my roommates let me in despite being not aware that I was arriving. I have my own room with a long (yet narrow) balcony overlooking a very small piazza that's a 10-minute bus ride from the City Center. No air conditioning, but if I sleep with the French doors open, I get a nice cross-breeze (plus 5 new mosquito bites). My housemates (3) are from Japan, Austria, and Germany. They were very helpful to me, helping me get around the city and showing me where the school was.

The school seems nice enough. My class has about 15 students. No Americans, but everyone speaks English. Even the threee Spaniards perfer to speak English. The only one who doesn't is this poor, young Brasilian girl who doesn't know any Italian, no English, and only seems to understand a bit of my Spanish. Pretty little thing.

So, the drama of the day is that the big Italian sales, although in full force in Milan starting July 1, doesn't start here for 2 weeks. WTF?

The duomo is the coolest looking church I've ever seen. Not the biggest, but it's green, pink, and white marble. It looks like the Italian Flag!

Today's flavor of gelato: pistaccio and hazlenut. Yum.

Oh, the SHAME.

I am an ugly American.

I ate at McDonalds.

I NEVER eat at McDonalds. And nothing burns my ass more than seeing Americans come to Europe, where the food is delightful and fresh and local, and they run straight to coporate America to eat HORSESHIT.

But let me 'splain. I finally get it. I was in Como, which is small-town Italy. The only American chain here is McDonalds and Jean-Louis David salon (?!?) If you aren't going to eat at a sit-down restaurant, which is expensive and takes a long time, you have a couple of options. There are cafeterias, which serve the 4 P's: pizza, pasta, panini, or piadine (glorified quesadillas.) These options start at about 4€, and the cafeteria also has a cover charge per person, which is anywhere from 1 - 2.50€ per person. Also expensive. The panini and pizza (here in Como, VERY thin crust) are great, but really, you can't eat that three times a day.

There's also the bakeries, which did serve me up some mean focaccia by the kg (rosemary and potato. Yum) and a sfolliatella.

But the McDonalds is open until midnight, even in this sleepy little town, and is very cheap. FULL of Italians. Less than 4€ for their biggest burger, the Big 'n Tasty. And as much as I'd like to admit, it was true to its name. Big, AND Tasty. I have to say, I ate it as quickly as I could, so my karma would not catch up to me.

Bellagio (the original Bellagio)

Bellagio, view from boat

I took a 2-hour boat ride to Bellagio, a town up the lake. Very pretty. More of what Como is, but I made some friends, Jody and Matt, at the hostel. They're much better liars than I am, so when we met some couple having lunch, and they told us what a lovely hotel + pool they had, we decided to crash it. I am such a bad liar... I choke crossing the Canadian border even when I've got nothing to hide. Jody just talked real fast to this poor young Italian boy checking room keys, that he just ran away with his tail between his legs. We spent a couple of hours swimming in the lake and diving off some board right in the middle of it. We befriended some really cute 9 year old boys and Matt totally kicked their collective asses in a cannonball contest.

Tonight we're going to watch Italy kick the Ukraine's ass in Soccer. Uh, I mean gelato.

Today's gelati gusti: Tiramisu + Melon. A blasphemy of a concoction- Fruit and Creme. Stupid, yet satiated American.

Villa Olmo, next to the Hostel


Puppies used as a ploy to earn money by a panhandler at the lake. I was so overwhelmed by the cuteness I donated 22 cents. I felt badly afterwards that I supported this abuse. What is he going to do with them when they become dogs?