Portfoglio

To several friends who unbeknownst to me have read this blog.  This is long-winded and poorly edited, but another adventure none the less.

“Journeys are like artists, born and not made…” If Lawrence Durrell is correct, then I have certainly discovered a journey.  Saturday morning my adventure-bound vacation quickly became an investigation.  I am packing a bag for my first day of kite surfing when I notice my wallet is missing.  Not truly panicked, I shuffle through my belongings.  Each pocket of my bag is methodically emptied, then a press through my clothing in the cupboard, a floor check, a bed check, and a mental check of the previous night’s events.  No, my wallet is not in my possession.  The next step is to contact the taxi company; this was the last time I used my portifoglio. 

~~~~~

For many what I am about to confess may be unfathomable, but all I can do is shrug my shoulders.  I have been living abroad again for the past 20 months with a few opportunities to travel--a few trips throughout Tuscany, a vacation in Italy and of course my adventures along El Camino in northern Spain.  Last December I went to Brussels for a few days at the end of the winter holiday.  I found my hostel quite easily, rang the bell and sat down at the kitchen table for the usual scoop about the city.  While I was checking-in, a young couple, not yet twenty years old, were doing the same.  Their eyes glowed with excitement, anticipation, wonder at the newness of the city.  All I could think of was the numerous times I had once felt that and how now, I just don't.  Some aspects of travel have become so routine, so predictable; nothing exciting ever seems to happen...no real challenges.  I thought, “Maybe I travel too safely; I am too planned.  Maybe I need to throw caution to the wind a little more.”  

~~~~~

Embarking upon a new type of travel, adventure travel, I arrive at the Peschiera Train Station at 9:30 with hope for renewed excitement.  I cross my fingers as I walk down the corridor. Yes, the bus stop.  Okay that wasn't too difficult to find.  Adjusting to the ever-changing arrangement of the schedule, I read 19:39.  I knew I would be arriving too late for the last bus.  Although, then why is that man sitting on the bench?  "Tu aspetti per la autobus?" I ask in undoubtedly poor Italian.  He mumbles something I do not understand and directs me to the bar across the street.  Always hopeful for an answer in my favor, I speak to the barista about the bus schedule.  From a convenient drawer, she pulls out a timetable.  My hopes are dashed; my only option is a taxi.  With a number in hand and my cell phone, which I don't know how I ever traveled without, I call a cab.

Forty-three euro later, I find myself in the dark parking lot of a restaurant paying the driver, yawning and only thinking of the strange pillow that I have yet to see tonight.  Twenty minutes later, I am picked up my kite surfing instructors and driven to the hostel.  It is an immediate sigh of relief when I see the spacious hostel, clean and buzzing with energy.  I am shown my room and an unconcerned remark about checking in tomorrow is spoken. Relieved, I quickly stuff my backpacks into a locker and crawl into bed eager for sleep.

~~~~~

When we think of crossing the great blue into a foreign land, we think about the beauty of the new.  I had pictured the cobblestone streets for which I would have to discard even my 1-inch heels (forget those 4-inch ones that clutter the racks these days).  I pictured the golden hues of the quaint winding streets and the uniform green shudders. I tasted the freshly baked pasta and creamy gelato that could only be found in Italy.  We expect difficulty, but difficulty is merely a vague arrangement of letters that can easily be shrugged off and replaced with the new life and artistic possibilities that await.  The galleries of the Uffizi will be at my fingertips.  On a whim, I could wonder the halls after work for an afternoon.  Ah yes, what a life!  Yes, of course, language will be a challenge at times.  Naturally, I will go through a period of cultural withdraw.  This is all to be expected, but the trade-off of the new, the unknown, the adventures:  It is worth it.

~~~

Such are the thoughts before an adventure. But remember those vague letters that spell DIFFICULTY, significance seeps in as unexpected trials creep upon us.  So here I am defining the meaning of DIFFICULTY in my attempt at a life abroad.  My wallet is missing and here are the difficulties that I face.  My Permesso di Segorno is tucked into the inside pocket, a single card that says I am legally allowed to live here beyond three months because I am permitted to legally work in this country; my temporary health document, which provides me with socialist health should I get injured while trying to kite surf this week; my ATM card in the United States and in Italy; a museum pass worth 65 Euros, permitting me to enter state museums in Florence free of charge; a bus pass with 10-15 rides left; point cards from a few local stores that I frequent; my favorite picture of my adorable niece and over 500 Euro in cash.  My stomach churns with the thought of the total worth of my wallet.  I try not to think of it, as neither my options nor hope is yet exhausted. 

Step one:  I call the taxi company.  “Parle inglese?” I ask doubtfully.  As expected the operator responds, “A little.”  In broken Italian I communicate my problem, but I am deferred to a later time.  The driver is still sleeping and will not start work until 2 PM.  All I can do is wait.  The other location that my wallet could be is the parking lot of the bar, but that won’t be open until the evening.  Still hopeful, I wait clouding my mind with the theories of kite surfing.

During the lunch break I am driven back to the bar to take a look around.  I speak to the kitchen staff that look at me with confusion.  They really cannot help me and indicate that a customer likely took it if I had lost it.  Grasping at straws, I ask when the waiters will start work; perhaps they may have found it the previous night.  I must come back in the evening. Promptly at two, I call the taxi company.  My first shred of hope shrivels.  The cab driver has cleaned out his taxi.  There is no wallet; however, he is certain that he saw me take it with me last night.  My memory places that wallet on the backseat of the cab as I am collecting my other belongs.  I begin to wonder if a dishonest client later in the evening didn’t take my wallet on the way out of the cab.  If this is the case, it could be anywhere.  However, I still must return to the bar.

Worried about multiple withdrawals from my cards, I decide to cancel them.  Advised by a coworker, I call my Italian bank.  I am pleased to report the USA is not the only place, in which major businesses communicate with clients through automated tellers.  I try to navigate the system in Italian, but quickly give up and hand my cell over to one of many generous people who would assist me throughout this journey.  Within minutes my Italian bankcard is cancelled.  A new one will arrive in 7-10 business days.  It is funny how in the mist of a crisis following the commonly known steps to handle such events makes one feel better.  Yes, the wallet is still missing, but at least one account is safe.  Next step, contact my bank in the States.  I am happy to share that the international number that I made a point of inquiring about before moving abroad does not work.  I checked the website and scavengered through the official site before giving up and sending a desperate message to my mom to cancel this card.  Honestly, I don’t think it would have been possible for me to live abroad all these years without my mother.  All home business is always conducted through her and canceling my missing ATM card is no exception.   An hour and half later, I have taken all necessary precautions.  All that is left is to return to the bar; and if luck fails me, check at the local carbinari.  Kite surfing did not happen; there was no wind.  At this point, I cannot decide if this is a blessing or not.

In the pouring rain, perhaps fitting for this now dismal experience, I return to the bar.  I introduce myself to the waiter, who I had seen the previous night.  Surprisingly, he speaks English quite well.  He explains to me that cleaners come to clean the bar at six in the morning and nothing has been turned in.  We check with the manager on duty as well, who shrugs her shoulders.  The wallet is not here.  They leave me with a glimmer of hope, suggesting that I return in a few days in case it turns up.  Next stop: The Carbinari.  The operator who cancelled my card had given me a number to report to the carbinari, and so eager to take necessary precautions I went to the police to report this number.  However, true to Italian culture, the buck was passed to the department in Florence.  They were not interested in dealing with a foreigner’s missing wallet.

During the few days that followed, I sought distractions and reasons to believe that this trip was not simply one huge mistake.  I attended kite surfing theory classes and even flew the kite a couple times from the edge of the motorboat.  One evening I went out to dinner with the other kite surfers on the other half of my cash, which was not in my wallet, thank God that I used some common measures of travel precautions that evening.  I took long walks along the lake path, trying to enjoy its beauty and forget the fact that I had been here four days and only had two pokey attempts at what I came here do.  I read the book that I had been trying to finish for the last couple of months.  I chatted with the other people in the hostel.  Anything to pass the time and ignore that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach; that feeling of failure that always leaves you nauseous when you know that your fate is your own careless fault.

Tuesday

Tuesday morning we had the morning off.  We were unable to kite surf on Monday because the wind did not come again.  So, without need for new theory we were free.  I hiked into the historical district Castletto; truly just a few steep winding lanes with a couple B&B’s, a restaurant and an ethnographic museum tucked in between apartments of the local shop owners and farmers.  Also I had my Italian-language-confirming experience at the bank.  I wanted to withdraw money from my account using only my account number.  It would have been a simple process but I was missing my codice fiscale, which is basically a number that is asked for in most major business transactions; and of course one that I did not have with me.  However, I was not about to give up.  Even though the number was not in a computer system that is accessible by all branches as it would be in the States, there is a binder in my home bank that contained it.  I suggested contact.  To be brief, a fax, a phone call, and several printer glitches later, the surprisingly patient teller, who kindly withstood my bad Italian and spent over half an hour with me to make this transaction possible, handed me money.  She certainly has good karma heading her way.

Back to the kite surfing school, the wind gods were playing and we had our second attempt at kite surfing.  A couple of the students tried the board, one did some body drags and I sat on the edge of the boat trying once again to maneuver the kite and discover the magic move of maintaining “zenith”.  The plan was to drop me into the water when the motor started to squeal:  The boat broke.  We waited in the middle of the cold lake for the rescue boat.  Always trying to stay pleasant in what is an inevitably frustrating and uncomfortable experience for everyone, I couldn’t stifle the growing doubts of my decisions to go on this trip in the first place.

~~~~~

One thing that kept me going throughout this ordeal is a belief in yin and yang.  When something awful happens, something wonderful must be on the way.  So far, I had lost my wallet and had proven to have inadequate kite surfing skills.  I had a whole lot of yang, and no yin.  Some good must be coming from this trip.  This was the only shred of hope I had to cling to by the time we boarded the dock.  Shivering and waiting for the others to finish chatting in German and move toward the hotel bar for something warm to drink my cell rang.

“Hi Evita.  It’s Amy,” Amy is my coworker who I had called about canceling my Italian card.  She is an American who has lived in Italy for about ten years and speaks Italian.  “How are you?”

Always honest, I tell her that my wallet is still missing and that frankly I am not having that great of a time. 

“Well, that is why I am calling.  A man from a bar called me and says he has your wallet.”  There is my yin!  

~~~

Several months later and I still couldn’t tell you the point of that trip.  In all honesty:  It was a bust. My wallet and all aforementioned documents were found, but the money was gone.  I never did successfully kite surf. I spent much of that trip praying for a phone call, and wishing for perfect weather.  Did I throw caution to the wind?  Not really, perhaps I was just a bit careless on that tired first night.  Are there things I could have done differently?  Most certainly.  I guess in the end I come away with a mere cautionary tale that could be read in many ways.  And maybe that is all that travel leaves us with-- a collection of tales interpreted at the whim of their reader.

Natale Blanca

I would like to preface with a note that this is an old blog I wrote back in December and never posted.  Upon request I will try to maintain this blog more regularly.  Thanks to my family and friends for continuous encouragement and support.  It was great seeing you this summer. 

It was a picturesque start to the winter vacation. As the children ended their holiday performance with choruses of “Shout”, the air reconciled itself to the coming snow.  Hugs, greetings, and well-wishes warmed the church, while outside eager drivers warmed their cars in hopes of beating the promised winter storm.  My colleagues and I drove toward the center just as the first flakes floated down.

Back in my apartment, I dug out my camera and set off for a day of market shopping in the snow.  It was a glorious sight.  Passing the Arno, the sky was grim and the air blurred with snow, but people filled the streets with delighted anticipation. Italian women clad themselves in fur from full coats to shaggy boots and motorcyclists walked their bikes while buses skidded to a halt several feet past the stop.  “Exscusi,” they said to the boarding passengers.  The youth improvised using slick jackets to sled down the steps leading up to Piazza Michelangelo,

Escaping the crowded bus, my blue umbrella popped up joining the myrad of others. The rust-colored roof of the Duomo whitened and flashes swarm the vicinity as tourists try to capture a rare Florentine day.  Behind the Duomo, a quaint Florentine paper shop became a convenient haven from the cold.  My eyes darted over the expensive floral-printed paper as the shopkeeper’s chatter bought me “thawing” time.

Markets are always intense experiences.  Vibrant colors and patterns attract the eyes.  Haggling.  Bargains.  Clutched bags. Shopping lists. Other single-minded people with a purpose just like you.  On a snowy winter day, the San Lorenzo Market continues business as usual, however, deals seem to be easier to come by and more stimulation adds to the intensity.  I dodge a pair of young boys throwing snowballs at each other across the walkway.  They are quite conscious of the tourists, but I can’t suppress a moment of anxiety when passing through the crossfire.  The snow now layers the cobblestones, which adds new meaning to “Watch you step.”  Small children are dragged along on toboggans and vendors beat their tarp roofs to relieve the pressure of the snow.  The winter market is no place for the absent-minded.  Snowmen spring up in the aisles adorned with used drinking cups and other scraps and soon a new tourist attraction is born—pictures with Frosty!

After a successful market day, my dead camera and numb toes sent me homeward. The story-filled sculptures in Piazza Signoria seemed to sleep under the blanket of snow—frozen in an agonizing lunge or vicious grasp.  Walking through the archway, the Arno met me moving in spite of the slumber that surrounded it.  Snow clung to the river walls, the rooftops of the architecture, and across the bridges.  Every twig donned white and the black pavement of the roads was no longer visible.  The busses had given up and rested along Ponte Grazie.  Restaurants and stores that were normally open were closed--likely because the workers were stuck in traffic. A white blanket weighted my umbrella and accumulated in the fingers of the bare trees.  Concerned about my numb toes, I call a colleague to see if I can’t defrost in her apartment for a few minutes.  The tiny blessings and anxiety ridden inconveniences of the snow…I can’t decide if I want it back or not.  And yet, it is not really for me to decide.

Weather Wonders

   October brought a cold that made me wonder if I would make it through the winter.  However, I am happy to report that the weather is as finicky here as in other places.  Don't get me wrong, the skirts and tank tops are hibernating soundly, but I just might survive the winter.  November has brought a new meaning to the word rain.  I believe the Italian word is piege.  We experience a deluge of rain almost daily. Sometimes I wake up to a shower on Monday morning and my will to crawl out from beneath my covers wanes (I refuse to turn on the heat.  A colleague of mine shared with me that once she had a 500 euro bill--Ouch!).  The rhythm of rain drops trampling upon my landlords' cars consumes by thoughts and soon I find myself in that space between dreams and wake...it is a dangerous situation.  However, I find that I must embrace damp November or I may never leave my apartment again.  My Peruvian hiking clothes have become a daily after work assemble.  I know one's fashion is assumed to improve when living in the country of Gucci, but the weather supersedes any fashion ambitions in my opinion.  So, to ballet and Italian I walk in comfort in white sneakers, loud black waterproof pants, an equally loud green windbreaker, which is one size too big and undoubtedly a scarf.  I have this theory that if my throat stays protected, I can avoid getting sick--This theory has not been researched in anyway. :)  However, each wet walk is blessed with the beauty of fall.  There are these gorgeous locations along the Arno, in which the water stands still to reflect the beauty of Florentine architecture and the yellow and orange leaves that cling to the trees.  There is another piazza along my walk that honors one of many marble statues.  The significance or details of this statue I do not know, but the park benches filled with people and the yellow leaves that frame their peaceful moments is stunning.  For right now, I endure the rain and when it begins to snow I will probably wish for piege to come back.  Ahh...I guess I am still a California girl at heart.

Florence Came to Life

As a traveller, one can walk through city after city.  Some have wide modern streets with leveled sidewalks--easy on the feet.  Others have dirt roads and a sense of an untamed life.  In these, my mind is comforted by the fact that humans have not tainted this corner of the world with industry.  Then, there are the quaint cobblestone streets overflowing with charm and limited by an ever growing population of pedestrians, bicycles and cars.  After years of traveling that initial sense of wonderment begins to wear off as one steps off the train into a brand new city.  It does not seem brand new; it seems familiar, and yet how can that be?  You have never been there.  In these moments I wonder if my spoil of experience has stifled my appreciation.  Have I outgrown traveling? Has my desire for this long-time passion waned?

There is nothing like history to renew a passion for travel.  Buildings can be charming, the scent of waffles irresistible, the clanking of church bells magical, but without history it is lifeless.  Why does that eloquent palace stand there?  Are the waffles native to this town's palate? To whom does the story of the church's bells belong?  Just as you and I may have like interests or jobs or evens faces, our personal histories make us different and such is the case of a city.

A few weeks ago, I was privileged to take a city tour with the administrative assistant at my school who is also a licensed tour guide of Florence.  I had been wandering the streets of Florence for several weeks at this time.  I already discovered Perche No?, a gelateria with decadent straccetella ice cream.  I found the famous two fifty euro sandwiches at the counter top shop owned by a couple of brothers.  I knew that around 9 PM the cobblestone streets of Florence empty, and the street musicians in Piazza Signoria strum familiar melodies that only echo so sweetly in the square's silence.  I knew that the shadows of the statues in front of the Uffizi emphasize their movement in a way that brings to life these marble ghosts.  Beauty and charm, tastes and smells had revealed themselves to me, but I wandered through these magnificent streets awaiting the magic.

On Sunday, Florence came to life.  We began in Piazza Republica, home of the forum in the days of Rome.  I was standing over old Roman Baths.  My mind plummeted below the cobblestones to this city beneath me.  What conversations were had here 2000 years ago?  What business deals were had?  Had any of these decisions affected the present world that I belong to?  Traveling toward the surface to the nineteenth century, Florence was a neoclassical city.  Today, we see evidence in the thin structures squeezed between much grander buildings.  These are the casatores or homes of bankers and merchants who wished to live within the safety of the city walls.  What happened to those that could not afford such safety?  What must it have been like to live in such a loosely structured world lacking unity and order?  And yet, does such division still exist?  I think back to my life in Los Angeles and to my students who shared moments of their lives of bullets piercing through their windows when curiosity got the better of them and they dared to look out the window at an inopportune moment.  Here, order and laws seem to be disregarded as well.  I wonder if they long for the invisible walls of suburbia.  Would not they like to live in a banker's casatore?

Returning to the modern cobblestone streets, we walk to a neighboring piazza, Piazza delga Strozzi.  Its landmark is a white stone palace built in the Renaissance style with large protruding stones at the bottom that flatten as you look toward the sky.  The facade is symmetrical  and ornate but the sides create our saying "cutting corners" as the Strozzi family strived to save some money.  Life is born in this building with the painting of the fourteenth and fifteenth century women.  These elite women whitened their skin with arsenic powder, bleached their hair with horse urine and created a receding hairline all to conform to the social expectations of their aristocratic status.  The door of the palace opens and I expect one of these women to emerge.  I am ready to compare notes.  What women do in the name of appearance.  A long held tradition which only evolves with its methods of pain...

To be continued

Benvenuta

I know many of you want me to talk about Florence and I think in time I will be able to speak of Florence's numerous charms and mysteries, but for now the immediate impressions that I have embraced relate to the selfless hospitality of my new co-workers.

Currently, life is visual expression of a symphony--one that only Disney could create.  The many pieces of my life are floating about unsettled, but to a merry melody.  When will I know my permanent address and be able to hammer nails into the walls?  Will I have a set carpool to work next week?  What is the best Internet plan for me?  To what should I commit my time?  I wonder when I should begin those Italian lessons?  Are any of these Yoga Studios open?  Will I have enough planning time at school?  Am I teaching this new curriculum as intended?  I wonder if I just bought dish soap or laundry detergent...Normally, this would drive me insane, but each day I tell myself and those who identify with me that it will all work out...this is highly uncharacteristic of me.  However, this is "mia vita in Italia".

My one explanation for this uncharacteristic complacency is my co-workers.  Everyone I have met has simply gone out of their way to help me.  Each concern is answered with patience and each favor is granted with selfless hospitality.  Our (meaning the new faculty) main concern right now is transportation.  We have been receiving rides up to our school from a number of different co-workers.  Even the academic dean goes out of her way to pick a couple of us up each morning.  In the afternoon, we pack up our belongings blindly and make our way to the gate trusting that someone is going our way.  One afternoon one of the teachers drove me to the local bus station.  We both were staying late.  I thought she would simply drop me off and go home, but instead she said, "Let's have a coffee until your bus comes." 

Let me interrupt my ramblings here to talk about the Italian coffee.  Not being a coffee drinker myself, I did not actually know what the coffee looked like until she ordered one that evening.  The bartender (in Italian bars are more like cafes in the states that serve alcohol in the evenings as I understand) set a small white porcelain tea cup and saucer on the counter.  It may have been as deep as my forefinger.  However, more shockingly was that he filled it only half way.  My co-worker  took one sip, said something to the bartender, and then a second sip.  It was gone!  The bartender did not even have time to open my juice bottle and pour my glass of peach juice before the cappuccino was finished.  What a contrast to the venti cappuccinos that one can order at Starbucks!

In addition to these services, some of the faculty has already made efforts to invite us into their lives.  One co-worker invited the staff to go to the beach near her parents' house about 1 hour out of Florence.  My mentor teacher went and offered to drive.  So yesterday, I had my first experience at an Italian beach.  Apparently, there are two types of beaches in Italy private and free beaches.  We went to this incredible private beach called Eva Bagno.  It was immaculate.  The sand was actually raked and we were told that children cannot dig in the sand. It was as soft as powder; I couldn't help digging my toes into the sand and allowing the fine grains to slide off my feet.  Striped tents sat in perfect lines parallel to the shore.  Each tent containing two chairs, two lounge chairs, a reclining lounge with a shade and something that I could only describe as a massage lounge chair.  The horizon was lined with paddle boats and sailboats that congregated randomly around each other.  Opposite the horizon were gorgeous mountain peaks.  We were told that the white at the top, which appeared to be snow is in fact marble...Wow!  It was an amazing day.  The sun was out cooking the tanning oil...yes, oil, not sunblock.  What a contrast to the skin conscious country of the states.  My co-workers were laughing in Italian and English, translating when possible and giving me my first Italian lesson.  I now know that spiaggia means beach. 

We drove home that evening and as I watched the countryside blur by and typical towns pass out of sight, I couldn't help but smile at my Italian Benvenuta.  God has blessed me with many new experiences all ready, but never had I experienced such a welcome.  I know that these people have their own families, daily chores, and lives, and yet they still make time for us newcomers.  I can only hope that I find the same selfless attitude when life puts me in their shoes.

Sometimes the Stomach Eats the Heart

To family and friends who have requested to visit, live vicariously or just wanted a little encouragement for their own plunge--this is for you.

I will begin with the end.  I am here in Italia.  English is scarce and Italian is abundant just as I had hoped.  The streets are plated with ill-fitting cobble stones, which makes me think I should have packed different shoes.  My ignorant pallet cannot detect the potent flavors of my first pasta di volge (NOTE: Please forgive all Italian errors until further notice.), but lets just say, "Seconds, por favore!"  Humidity and jet lag has embedded the Italian siesta into my new lifestyle already. And yet, as my senses attest that I am in fact here, a part of me could not believe it until just this evening.

For those who were not aware of my Visa escapade allow me to begin mia viaggio in Itaia there.  I have been waiting for August 20th 2010 since January 3rd 2010 (you do the math it is 23:54, right now).  However for about 3 agonizing days in August I thought my nightmares had come true.  I thought was not going to Italy.  While perusing the Internet for bureaucratic issues regarding apartment rentals, I stumbled bureaucratic issues regarding Visas.  I will admit right here--I was naive.  Waiting for my nulla osta to arrive, I envisioned a few hours at the consulate and a same-day departure Visa in hand--I know, I was naive.  As it turns out, once the documents have been submitted the VISA process could take up to two weeks according to the website.  Two weeks!  On this dismal day two weeks was August 19th, the day before my departure.  My mine began to race.  What if I don't get it in time?  Well, I guess I could just delay my flight...what about the cost...who cares, you've been waiting for this opportunity forever...what if all the seats are taken?  You can see the world spinning chaotically in my head, can't you?  Well, research takes me to even more devastating discoveries:  "By appointment only."  Okay, let me make an appointment I think to myself while deep down realizing the inevitability following the click--a red August calendar.  There are no appointments available until September 8th.  A new wave of irrational thoughts swirl in my mind.  September 8th!  School will have already been in session for a week... I only have a preliminary contract, I think...what if they cancel it and hire someone locally to replace me...how could those poor kids show up the first day without a teacher...even if I do keep my position...gaining respect and rapport will be an even more delicate feat...if I don't get to go, I will need a job, which there aren't any...where will I live...how will I support myself...will I have to work outside of my field--stepping backwards...failing...STOP THINKING.  My mom and I drove home the next day, which was an eight hour adventure and between calling the consulate and my silent rants--let's just say my stomach ate my heart.

Outside of these pessimistic predictions, an amazing friend of my mother's saved me or God sent her to me.  She happened to have an Italian speaking neighbor who translated the documents that were sent to me and her sister worked for the courthouse allowing her to seek inside advice.  With my persistent calls, her fax and both of our emails, a glimmer of hope appeared on Saturday that read, "I can probably see you on August 9th or 10th."  A thousand bricks had disintegrated and my mom and friend were ecstatic.  I would only allow a huge smile and a deep breath...the word "probably" was illuminated in my mind.  What did she mean by "probably"?  

I spent the next two days diligently preparing documents for my meeting at the consulate and trying not to entertain other chaotic rants in my head.  To do this, I kept busy, but I wasn't myself and I was fooling no one.  From day one of the whole escapade I refused to take any step toward preparing for Italy until I had a Visa in my passport and my passport in my hand.  My mom asked me about my suitcases, my International Driver's Permit, toiletries and all I would say is "not until I have my VISA."

The morning of August 9th, Mom and I drove forty-five minutes to the consulate arriving just after 7PM.  We fiddled around a bit knowing that we were insanely early for my appointment, until I finally decided to just stand outside the door until it opened.  After what was less than five minutes, a women approached me to inform me of the consulate hours.  "I have an appointment," I interjected.  She immediately knew me by name.  She sent me away for coffee until my appointment time.  She was warm and friendly, which was a relief.  She could very well have been rude and irritable as she was doing me a huge favor.  I felt better and the meeting went without a glitch, fifteen minutes, my paperwork was more than acceptable, the consulate had my passport.  Now, I had to wait.



Well, it is late and as I could go on for several more paragraphs, I won't.  I will tell you that my passport arrived Friday afternoon much to my delight, I had received the address of my apartment that following Monday and my planes arrived early at each destination negating my other irrationalities of missed flights.

Tonight is my second night in Florence.  I wandered around a bit discovering this hilarious mime with a burlesque hat diving into the crowds of Florence pulling startled tourists to engage in his comedic acts of magic, nothingness and at sometimes I must admit inappropriateness, but it all came off quite well.  My favorite moment was when he started blowing up a red balloon and tempting a three year old away from his father to the point where the kid was actually running after him to get the balloon.  The comedian must have ran 60 feet back and forth with the little boy running into his father arms in tears.  The red balloon was handed to Dad and all was well.  I guess the uncertainty of a moment or a few days makes anyone a bit scared, but in retrospect it always realized that the fear was irrational and was bound to pass.  I walked away from the outdoor performance finally believing that I am living in Florence, Italy...at last.