Saturday, November 20, 2010
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.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
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.
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
Sunday, September 5, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
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.
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.
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