Today, I got sandwich #1 at I Frattelli (prosciutto, goat cheese, and arugula) and sat in the Piazza dei Signoria to eat. A pigeon arrived as soon as the first crumb dropped. I watched him while I prepared to engage in the dance. He moves a little closer, then a little closer still. I shoo him away. He jumps three feet away and starts again. But something is different this time. The pigeon is hopping towards me. He gets to a point where he knows he is pushing it so he stands for a minute. That’s when I see that my lunch companion has a peg leg. That’s right, a leg, but no foot. It seems inappropriate to shoo the disabled, and he could see my weakness. He got to within a foot of me (excuse the pun). I shoved the rest of my sandwich in my mouth, being sure to leave more crumbs, and got the hell out of there.

What has 8 legs and must have its teeth removed before cooking?

I should tell you that I still have not received my ATM card. Mike shipped it via Fed Ex on Thursday so I expected it to arrive at my school on Monday. Of course this expectation was tempered by the fact that I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it would not. So Monday afternoon arrived and I walk with purpose, as all Americans do, to school. No card. I checked my email and Fed Ex notified me that they had the incorrect address. I called the Italian number; gave the correct address, and the lovely woman promised that it will be delivered on Tuesday with such certainty that I almost believed her. Well, not really. As I rode my emotional financial roller coaster, I went to cooking class. In the regional Italian cooking, we studied Sardegna, Sardinia to you and me. Why do we change the names of locations? I really don’t think that Firenze is any more difficult than Florence. And Italy versus Italia just doesn’t seem worth it to me.

Sardegna is an island off the coast of Italia, which has changed hands more times than the family fruit cake (which they love here). Therefore, Sardegna has a more varied and global culture. I’ve never been there so I have to believe the handout. We make mac and cheese with saffron, whipped ricotta, and pecorino. It was lighter and fluffier than the American version which is more smooth and rich. We used a pasta shape that most resembles maggots. The recipe actually suggests that we call it gnocchi, which I think is an insult to the potato cushion of goodness that is gnocchi. I have always wondered why we don’t have more food that looks like parasitic larva. Despite the maggots, it was delicious. It was mac and cheese, what’s not to like? Secondi (second course) was octopus salad. I was dubious, but it was wonderful. I’ve never had such tender octopus. We boiled it with potatoes, carrots, onions, celery, and half a lemon for around 20 minutes. The octopus skin turned deep coral and dyed the potatoes a pretty salmon color. We added olive oil, lemon, and parsley and let the flavors meld while we enjoyed primi, the first course after appetizers, of mac and cheese. Fresh and not too fishy, I highly recommend it.

Divinity in a size 7

I was sitting in mass at San Lorenzo church this morning asking God why he is testing me with this money stuff. A thought spontaneously popped into my mind. I should stop worrying about money. I’m spending it, but I feel so guilty about it. It’s similar to devouring a chocolate covered, custard filled doughnut. Even while I’m licking the sugary goodness off my chin, I am feeling irresponsible, weak willed, and generally subpar. Change “sugary goodness” to “my new leather boots” and it’s the same with the money. I chose to come here and I knew I would be spending this money so why am so worried about it all the time? Today, while the priest prattled on about something in Italian, God told me to spend and enjoy it. Not just in Italy, but in my life. There are a couple of businesses that I have been thinking about starting when I return, but I have been scared to invest my meager divorce settlement in my future. Those businesses are back on the list of possible careers for my post-Europe life. I hope that really was God talking to me and not the little devil on my shoulder telling me that it would be a sin not to buy an Italian leather purse while I’m here.

Here's my VH1 "Behind the Music" third quarter drug addiction

Friends, it has been a difficult week. It began on Monday in regional Italian cooking class. We cooked a classic dish from Liguria, located in the folded over knee portion of Italy and most famous for the Cinque Terra area. Liguria is stunningly beautiful with terraced farms of grape vines and olive trees and steep cliffs diving into the Mediterranean. However, I can tell you from the traditional local dish of mackerel poached in a tomato pea sauce that we cooked, bring plenty of prosciutto from Lucca to Liguria.

Italians do much more home processing of their food than Americans, especially meats and fish. Because of this, the mackerel arrived complete and I had to gut and clean the fish. There are several reasons to celebrate womanhood. I never have to help anyone move. Actually I should, but I am excused from actual work if I bring brownies. I am not expected to maintain a car, and I don’t have to clean fish. This was always the rule at my house as a kid. The men cleaned the fish. My poor brother Geoff would twist his face up from the smell of the lake fish that we caught that morning. With guidance from my father, he would perform the disgusting task of removing the guts. I never fought for that opportunity. Let’s not take women’s rights too seriously.

As I cleaned the mackerel, I realized how terrible this particular fish smells. It’s the kind of fish you throw back or use as bait, not make into a local delicacy. I removed the intestines, but left the bones, head, and skin. Apparently, it’s prettier that way. As Victoria (instructor chef) and Addie (good sport) served each of us an entire mackerel, I was determined to be an adult about this meal and enjoy it. I really tried, but I found myself regressing to my 5 year old self, pushing fish and peas around my plate so it looked like I ate more than I did. God bless the meatball sandwich I had before I came.

Then, I lost my ATM card, and it is impossible to live in Italy without cash. I could have used my credit card, but it costs around 25% of the amount to get Euros from a credit card. That is insulting and I refuse to accept this usury. So I have been pinching my pennies until my new ATM card arrives, which was shipped to Mike in Dillon who FedEx’d it to me here. It has left Tennessee but that is all FedEx is willing to say, and I don’t blame them. I’m hoping it arrives on Monday, but Italian mail is as reliable as an architect’s paycheck in a building slump. Although FedEx does not use the Italian mail system, I believe the Italian postal system can impose its will on corollary delivery mechanisms, even a mighty international corporation like FedEx. The best I can say is I have hope.

However, since then I was robbed by the Duomo. Before I get overly dramatic, I should clarify that it was a pick pocket, and I didn’t even notice until later. Only my wallet was taken, but it included $200, credit cards, driver’s license, insurance cards, a Victoria’s secret gift certificate, and my checkbook. I promptly canceled my cards, bemoaned the fact that I can’t rent a car without a driver’s license, and closed my checking account. Now, even if my ATM card arrives, the new account won’t be available until Tuesday, which means Wednesday for me. The banker swears the card will transfer to the new checking account, but I’m feeling 60/40, not in my favor. If that doesn’t work, I may have to look into the local brothels for income. Don’t even get me started on how I’m going to get my credit card here before I leave and how I’m going to pay all my bills online when I don’t have a credit card or checking account.

As always, there is a silver lining to this tragic tale. I already lost my ATM card so it will be here sooner than if it was in the wallet. Also, I have carried around significantly more than $200 in the past, although I always remembered to zip my purse then. However, the really amazing thing about this week is that my friend Stacey decided on a whim to come visit me. She arrived on Thursday (mugging on Saturday). We have been wandering the streets of Florence, enjoying the good life together, and discussing our futures. We climbed the dome, strolled through Boboli Gardens, toured the Castillo di Verrazzano vineyards (yes Mom, it’s the same family as the NYC bridge), and prayed at mass in San Lorenzo church. Actually, I prayed. She sketched the marble relief on the wall in her service program. She is loaning me money so I have my very own sugar mama in Italy. It has been wonderful to have her here.

Verrazzano is not just a bridge to Jersey

I can’t believe I about to say this, but I took a tour. Addie, Sheila, Stacey, and I got on a bus with a group of people and rode to Chianti. Not usually my style, but it was free to Apicius students and included lunch. Gino from Castillo di Verrazzano met us at the entrance, and I liked him immediately. He reminded me of an Italian Chris Berman. (For those who don’t know, he is the anchor of ESPN’s football highlights show.) Within the first five minutes of the tour, Gino promised to share the wisdom he has acquired through his long life, and I was even more enchanted. These days I’ll take free wisdom wherever I can get it. I was surrounded by undergraduate college students that looked like teenagers. Stacey and I were even older than the chaperones.

I was expecting Gino to discuss how they made their wine, what made theirs different, etc., but got a youth oriented alcohol lecture instead. Drink for enjoyment, but not to excess, because wine is the key to food, friendship, and happiness. I was quietly amused by the speech, thinking he must have hosted hundreds of American 20 year olds through the years. Then I proceeded to “taste” a few too many times at the wine tasting myself. I guess you really have to watch out for the 37 year old divorcees.

Gino feels that wine should be enjoyed with food, and one should enhance the other. He then asked if anyone wouldn’t eat cured pork, and I knew the lunch was going to be good. We tasted three red wines from the vineyard. He gave a lesson on tasting as well as how to look cool while drinking wine. He was that kind of guy. We tasted two Chianti wines as big family style bowl of pasta with tomato sauce came to the table. The accoutrements were the true genius of the pasta was. There was house made olive oil, fresh parmigiano reggiano, and a dried spice concoction of oregano, garlic, and pepperoncini. The dried garlic was so delicious that I’m not even going to mention my breath. Next, the plate of cured meats arrived, including salami, mortadella, prosciutto, and cheese (aged goat, I think) along with a bowl of white beans, salad, and grilled bread with olive oil and garlic. After two bowls of the pasta, I was already stuffed, but filled another plate with meat, cheese, bread, and salad and tasted the third Chianti. One must take advantage of a free lunch. The prosciutto melted in my mouth, the salami was spiced with pepper and fennel, and the salad was fresh and crisp butter lettuce drizzled with the home grown olive oil. The tasting ended with biscotti and a shot of Verrazzano dessert wine, which all of the kids hated, but I loved. Food coma commenced on the bus ride home.

Gino says, “You must live life with your passion, not with your head.” I like that. Now, I just need to find my passion. Do you think I need to use my head for that? Regardless, the day at Verrazzano was wonderful, until the robbery…

Boboli, it's not just for pizza

Stacey is taking a botanical illustration course and hopes to be a garden designer eventually so she was really interested in Boboli Gardens. I love green space, and Florence is severely lacking in public open space so I was totally on board. It was lovely to stroll through the gardens. The Italians are big into tree lined paths, and so am I.

Some sculptures were recently commissioned to show the juxtaposition of modern versus renaissance sculpture. I like the idea, but the sculptures were thin, pointy, abstract interpretations of the human form. The original sculptures are traditional, carved from white marble both substantial and elegant. The new sculptures are sinewy and violent. Personally, I think they should have been either substantial or elegant to harmonize with the existing sculpture while insert modern ideas. Why can’t we all just get along?

The Main Attraction

The climb to the top of the Duomo in Santa Maria del Fiore is 496 steps, according to the older English gentleman that took our picture at the top. He counted all of them, and his wife was behind him the whole time checking his work. Sheila, Stacey, Addie, and I took to the Renaissance stairmaster at 9:00am to beat the crowds. The stairs are definitely in the authentic Italian style of my apartment, but we all made it safely. After maybe 375 stairs, we found ourselves on a small ledge at the top of the dome with a great view of the fresco called painted on the dome’s ceiling The Last Judgment by Vesari. It was a depiction of heaven and hell, as almost all of the art in Florence is. This one was especially graphic, with Satan and his minions sodomizing naked men with flaming torches. I mean, that is a tough definition of hell. Those boys weren’t kidding around.

The Duomo was built by erecting two domes, one within the other to create a crescent moon. The inner shell holds the timbers to support the larger dome, a feat of engineering at the time. We left the internal dome and climbed the stairs to the outdoor terrace of the external dome. It had great views of Florence and we were lucky to be there on a beautiful morning.

A giant energizer bunny has taken over the Duomo...

PS. My apologies to Addie for misspelling her name. In my defense, I am a shitty speller.

Where are we going?

Addy, Lara, Sheila and I had plans to go to Lucca Friday morning. We finalized the plan to meet at the train station the next morning during dinner at Lara’s Thursday night. Lara’s dinner was outstanding. The meal started with sautéed eggplant, wrapped in prosciutto, and sautéed again. Next, she created a beautiful ragú, made from a sofritto, beef, and pureed tomatoes. A sofritto is the beginning of many sauces here in Italy. It is simply sautéed onions and carrots in olive oil (with or without butter). It cuts the acidity in the tomatoes and has a subtle sweetness that is amazing. I brought the desserts, of course. I stopped by Gilli, a shop on the Piazza della Republica that I have been dying to try. I got 7 different offerings for the four of us. We ate them all, along with 3 bottles of wine.

Needless to say, 10AM turned into noon. We bought our tickets and boarded the train for the 1 ½ hour trip to Lucca. It is on the west coast of Tuscany and it supposed to be really beautiful with amazing cured meats, which was driving my desire to go. I brought panini (sandwiches) for everyone from I Frattelli (The Brothers), the BEST sandwich shop in all of Florence and right next door to my apartment. I get a panino from there every day for breakfast. I can’t help it. The bread is amazing. I think the prosciutto, goat cheese and arugula is my favorite, but the sundried tomato with pecorino and basil is also fantastic. One morning I got the fresh sausage and eggplant and was surprised to find that fresh means raw. I have never had raw sausage. Carpaccio? Yes. Steak tartare? Yes. Raw sausage? Not until this week. It was surprising good, if a little strange. I still have not been able to try the trippai or lampredotto. According to dictionary.com tripe is the first and second divisions of the stomach of a ruminant, especially oxen, sheep, or goat. They actually put at the end “used as food”. Lampredotto is the forth stomach. And by forth, I mean intestines.

Back on the train, we are munching away on our sandwiches and the ticket guy comes to check our tickets. He looks at Addy who was the first to hand over her ticket and says, “Where are you going?” Well, a more appropriate question could not be asked of these four women. None of us really know where we are going yet. That’s why we are all in Florence. Addy looks up at him sheepishly and says “Lucca?” I’m sure you know the end to this story. We were on the wrong train, going east, not west. We gave the ticket guy our best smiles as the entire car is laughing and asked, “Where ARE we going?” Arrezzo. OK, so we are going to Arrezzo. Thank god, Sheila brought her guide book. We exited the train and hiked to the historical center.

Of course, it turned out to be a wonderful day. Arrezzo isn’t a tourist destination so it was pretty authentic. We actually saw a barrel shaped 80 year old woman on a scooter, with a helmet. She was simply adorable. With no itinerary, we wandered around, saw some frescoes, went to the park and the town duomo. We also found a French market, which had the best croissants I’ve ever had. It was like I was eating a flakey stick of butter, in the best possible way. For apertivo, we went to an enoteca and had a bottle of wine outside. We used our new wine tasting skills and got some interesting results. I said moldy, Addy thought “exhaust” and Lara decided that our wine had secondary aromas of “burnt poop”, a very inauspicious beginning. But it opened up and we now know none of us really like Sauvignon Bianco Trentino DOC 2006.

Spices at the French market

I love this type of stone work. It's rocks from the site fit together to make a wall.
A couple of architectural moments that I enjoyed.

Dinner at a local osteria included wild boar in red sauce with homemade pasta, grilled vegetables and chianti at 4 euro a bottle. It was homey Italian food. I’ll give it the good and cheap rating. We caught the last train back at 9:45 and read our chick lit the whole way.

I've been to the dark side and it wasn't that bad

I've lost my innocence. I’ve deep fried. Tuesday is Tuscan cooking class, same room, same teacher, same students, with the addition of two women from New York City. They were mother and daughter and a bit negative about the conditions of the kitchen, but as I said, it is in line with the cost of the school. The daughter was typical Type A and insisted that the ravioli be in a stack and fixed them when they fell. With her hands. But she also used that Type A ass of hers and cleaned the whole kitchen for us so I guess she can paw my food all she wants.

We focused on the town of Chiusi and made fried vegetables, Gnudi (naked ravioli), and Cicerchiata (fried dough balls drenched in honey, almonds and candied fruit). It was the day of balls. The naked ravioli was the most interesting thing we made. After steaming and chopping fresh spinach, we added whole milk ricotta, parmigiano reggiano, eggs, nutmeg, and flour. We rolled the mixture into little balls and then floured again. One ball was tested to make sure it didn’t explode in the water and then we boiled the rest. We made a butter sage sauce, garnishing with parmigiano reggiano. It was delicious and easy. I’m definitely doing that again. I have been using the baby spinach from the bag for things like this and man, fresh adult spinach really makes a difference. So does butter sauce.

We chopped the soon to be fried vegetables. We just dipped the zucchini, mushroom, and onions in flour while the fennel and cauliflower got flour, then egg, then bread crumbs. The difference was due to the water in the vegetables. Wetter veges don’t need the batter (but may be good with it). About ¾ inch of vegetable oil was heated in a large sauté pan. Once it sizzled, the vegetables were fried and salted.

But that’s not the only frying I did that day. We also fried dough. As an annual visitor to the Ohio State Fair, I have had my fair share of fried dough, but never made it myself. This dough had lemon rind, flavored liqueur, eggs, and olive oil. We kneaded it and rolled it into long tubes. We cut the tubes and made small balls, the size of a lima bean, floured them and then deep fried them in hot vegetable oil. After frying we mixed in caramelized honey, almonds and candied fruit. It reminded me of this popcorn tree my mother and I would make every Christmas because I loved it. Ours was marshmallow and popcorn shaped into a tree and stuck with toothpicks of juju beans. This was honey based. Too sweet for me and I don’t think the frying brought anything special to the table so I think I’ll stick with the tree. As I’ve always said, I’m into rich, not sweet. (Sorry, I don't have a picture.)

Give me a guitar and I'll give you pasta

Regional Italian cooking class Day One focused on the Abruzzo and Marche regions of Italy. It was exactly what I wanted. Maybe a little too laid back, but I will definitely learn new techniques and become a more capable chef. We made pasta from scratch, which is surprisingly easy. Just make a well in a pile of flour and add the eggs to the well. With a fork, slowly take flour from the sides of the well and incorporate into the eggs until the dough has formed. If it is too dry, wet your hands while you knead the dough. If too wet, add flour. Knead the dough for about 10 minutes and you’re ready. We made fettuccini pasta by putting the dough through the counter mounted dough machine, turning the crank on the first setting to flatten it. Then you move up the setting, lightly flour the dough and put it through again. Fold it, flour it, then do it again, and again, and again. Now you have a long wide sheet of thin pasta. We used a device to cut the pasta into fettuccini sized strips that looks like a lyre. You put the wide strip on the strings (like guitar strings) and rub. Eventually the strings cut the dough and the pasta is ready to cook. I can’t imagine why anyone would use this when the counter mounted pasta maker would finish the job in minutes, but it was an interesting method and cool to try. Now, if I am ever without a pasta machine, or knife, I can make pasta with a guitar.

We made a tomato sauce with lamb to accompany it. Start by sautéing carrots and onion in olive oil until caramelized. Add the lamb and ground pork and sauté for several minutes then add the red wine and reduce. After a while, add a bottle of tomatoes, pureed I think, and simmer for 20 minutes or so. We finished the sauce with a little parsley and parmigiano reggiano. The fresh pasta was so wonderful. It really made a difference.

We also made lamb in white wine sauce. First, sauté rosemary and whole garlic cloves in olive oil then add the lamb. After searing the lamb, add white wine and cover. It was really delicious. When I make it at home, I will use better cuts of lamb and cook it to medium rare rather than medium well, but really a wonderful way to prepare the meat.

Finally, we made little cheese empanadas, which is not the official name, but I have lost my recipe. We made another batch of dough, this one with olive oil. Using fresh whole milk ricotta (to die for), we combined ricotta with egg yolks and then folded in the beaten whites. Using a biscuit cutter, we made little pasta circles, filled them with the egg/ricotta mixture and sealed them with egg whites. After brushing them with egg yolks, we baked them for 20 minutes or so. They all exploded, but it seems like that was inevitable since the filling was essentially a soufflé. They were a little bland, and we all agreed that bacon would have been an excellent addition to the filling, and a nice tomato dipping sauce.

After cooking everything, we all sat down to a great meal and everyone explained what they did. The amateur kitchens only have two stoves. We have our tasks to complete so we need hear what everyone else has done, but it is pretty low key and everyone usually gets a chance to do a little of everything. I will say that cooking without wine and music seems like a sin.

Every good trip has characters, here are mine

It is Sunday, and I haven’t posted since last Sunday. To my friends who are checking in, I’m sorry. I have been so busy that I haven’t had time to write. Good for me. Bad for you. So let’s take a walk back in time to last Monday evening to my first cooking class here in Florence. I arrived at Apicius (sounds like - A pee shus) for my orientation 45 minutes before class as requested. Five minutes later, I had completed my orientation which included a tour of the facilities and the “gym”. Apicius offers both amateur and professional courses, and I have enrolled in one month of amateur classes. The professional school is a semester long at least and classes are Monday-Friday, which is way too much of a commitment for me. The amateur cooking classrooms are decidedly less professional than the others at Apicius, but functional and fitting the level of the classes. I donned my apron that proudly displays the school logo and introduced myself to my fellow classmates.

Victoria is the instructor. She is kind and funny with a pinch of frustrated. Despite the pathetic cooking metaphor, it is true. Victoria’s area of interest is macrobiotic (healthy) cooking, although you wouldn’t know it from the menus or her significant smoking habit. But she is Italian and smoking is a national pastime.

The Lees were helping Victoria measure ingredients for today’s menu when I arrived at 2:57. I’m already behind, and class hasn’t even started. I believe they are from Korea, but they have been surprisingly cryptic about their home and their first names. I have found out through the underground information railroad that her name is Helen, but he is still a mystery. They don’t seem to have basic cooking skills, but it may be a cultural difference in cooking styles. Anyway, they seem nice enough, but not particularly friendly. I won’t be enjoying an apertivo with the Lees anytime soon.

I pretend to look busy when three women walk in with the casual demeanor of people who know what they are doing. Addy is sweet and charming in a sophisticated way, though she says she can be terrible. I haven’t seen it, but I have seen her strength, and I wouldn’t want to be on her bad side. She is an elegant beauty even in her youth with intelligence and a caring heart. Addy is the kind of woman who will tell you the truth even when it’s difficult, but still support you if you ignore her advice. I like her very much. She finished her undergrad and got a job in a law firm, planning to apply to law school that year. However, she soon realized (as all of us do) that the law is not her cup of tea. I don’t know that anyone would become a lawyer if they worked in a firm before school. Maybe the American Bar Association should ban all internships. Just think how many good people they lose every year to the discovery that practicing law kind of sucks. (My apologies to any attorneys reading this blog. [Bob] I really like most attorneys, and I’m impressed with their professional drive. I even thought I wanted to be one until I worked at firm for a few months.) Addy then decided to leave her family and boyfriend in San Francisco temporarily to spend a couple months in Florence, learning the language, cooking, and appreciating wine. She took an international time out to define her next step without the influence of the people she loves, and that’s inspiring.

Lara is American with Italian citizenship, which opens Italian employment to her without the hurdles that most of us would have to endure. Hoping to stay in Florence for 6 months to forever, she has been looking for work. She has a warm and welcoming smile with a quick wit and infectious laugh. Her striking Italian features mix with American freshness and optimism with beautiful results. She is open, honest, and barrels of fun. Lara is from the Washington DC area, but went to undergrad in Charlotte, South Carolina, where she met Scott, the man she loves, but left to come to Florence. It is a complicated and personal story so I’ll just say that she is incredibly brave to demand a better life for herself. She is the best Italian speaker of the bunch and a total foodie. Her relationship with food is fun to watch and I’m glad I found someone who knows that food can be better than sex. Sometimes. When the food is really good and the sex is really bad. She has a blog and takes pictures of everything we put in our mouths. It’s pretty adorable.

Sheila is a fireball with black hair and amber eyes. She has some Persian blood and her dark features and light skin give her an exotic beauty. But Sheila is American through and through and the play between the two is fascinating to me. I would say that she was a little rock and roll and a little country, but she would probably hate that, and think I was as old as a dinosaur. She is from San Diego, but went to undergrad in Nashville at a Baptist school. I can’t imagine someone less suited to a Baptist school environment, but they offered her major, music management (or something like that), so off she went. It is one thing to have strength of character, but to understand it and believe in it at her age is amazing. She worked for a couple of years in Nashville as the tour manager for a pretty major country artist and even hung out with John McCain during the 2008 campaign. She can’t be more than 24, but has accomplished a great deal. However, talent management is a 24/7 job, and her firm was a little unorganized. She worked all the time with little support, and as almost all women find, the injustices of talent management were great. She has decided to move to London to find a job with an agency there, with a one month stop in Florence to cook. I have a feeling it will all work out for her. She will make sure of it.

So these ladies are my new friends in Florence. They are young and optimistic, but we hold a common bond. We are all a little lost. The road we expected to take has fallen apart to varying degrees. Of course, I am the most lost (figuratively and literally) of all of us. We are all searching for our new highway to happiness. (I apologize for that last sentence, but I couldn’t resist. If I had an editor, I’m sure it would have been removed.) I feel blessed to have met such great women and I know they will make my trip way more fun. Hell, they already took me to the Lion Fountain for karaoke night and everyone was under 25, except for me of course. And no, I did not sing.

A few pics of Firenze

I thought I would add a couple of pics for good measure.

The Duomo is the architectural icon of Florence and it is enormous. Here is a view of the dome from a city street. It's my favorite picture of the Duomo (that I've taken). I love how something so old and amazing sits among everyday life here.

A view of the Arno River and the Otrano section of Florence in the distance. And yes, that is yucky algae on the left bank, but it's still pretty.

Don't you just love an arcade?

Fresh

Ladies, I have some good news. It seems like everyone is always trashing Americans for everything but our work ethic. Well, here is another victory for the lazy, fat, loud American. American women are better looking than their Italian counterparts. (In general and in my opinion and all other disclaimers to that effect.) Italian women tend to look older than us and still wear somewhat cakey makeup. It leaves them looking matronly. With their sexy clothes, they just look tired. Of course, there are stunningly beautiful Italian women, but I think we may have one on them. I feel like I look “fresh” here. I haven’t felt like that in years, no decades.

I'm reading Ayn Rand's The FountainHead again, and I wonder what Ayn would think of my superficial opinions. Maybe she could appreciate that I have the strength of character to remain superficial despite her constant sermons demanding otherwise. Really though, I love Atlas Shrugged, but I find the FountainHead a little tiresome, and I'm an architect. Not legally, I don't have a license so technically I can only call myself an architectural intern. Of course, Ayn would hate that. Actually, I do too.

Peeping garden tourist

I went on a garden tour of Florence last week. I can’t seem to bring myself to go to a museum yet. I’m still settling in as I wander the streets of Florence with no real purpose except maybe a panino or piece of chocolate. The city is bigger than I expected and I’m looking forward to some trips to the country. It is beautiful though, and thriving. The gardens were lovely, very formal. When I scanned my pictures, I noticed that I really only took pictures of the buildings. The gardens were still green, but not blooming any longer so I found myself peeping at the homeowner's private space. Typical garden tourist. There was a festival celebrating the harvest of the grape at Piazza Piatti last Sunday night.

It was a wine tasting in tents in front of the Palazzo Piatti, which was very cool. However, I think wine tasting is definitely better with a friend. I paid 10 euro for a card with 12 tastings and a wine glass. Let me say, there was no way I could have tried 12 wines. The pours were rather large for a tasting and after 4 tastings I needed a break. I sat on the pavement in front of the palazzo and watched all the Italians and tourists indulge in some grapes. It was charming.

I have been doing my Rosetta stone every day (almost) and I’m definitely getting better. Although most Italians I meet ask me why I’m wasting my time learning Italian. They do have a point. Farsi or Mandarin would probably make more sense for business or something. But I can’t imagine spending over a month in a country and not making a sincere effort to learn the language. Plus, you never know when a professional opportunity might arise. When someone says, “I’d like to send you to Europe to …” I want to be able to say yes.

I took Spanish in school for 6 six years and prior to this trip I would have said that I don’t remember a word. However, whenever someone speaks to me in Italian, I immediately respond in Spanish, which the Italians find hilarious. I’m frustrated, but also relieved to know that my Spanish is still there.

On a side note...

The David outside the Uffizi Museum is a copy. The original was moved to the Academia. When I was here in 2001, I took pictures of the Uffizi David and was so inspired… I think I might be an asshole.

Sunday morning in Mexico

This Sunday morning at 7AM, I awake to an enormous commotion on the street below. For those of you who have not been to Italy, Italians, if up, are not out of the house until 9-10AM. (I love this place.) This is very unusual. I thought to myself, “Wow, these people REALLY serious about church.” But then I hear drums and a woman with a microphone that reminded me of almost every Mexican all inclusive I’ve ever visited. This is not what I want from Italy, at 7AM. I get up and look out the window. It is not a group of raucous churchgoers, but some sort of event, the kind where everyone is wearing the same t-shirt.





I decide I must go check it out, and more importantly, have breakfast. After a delicious, if somewhat inappropriate, truffle, pecorino and arugula panino, I park myself at Café Rivoire for a cappuccino and some people watching.

Apparently, I have stumbled onto the Corre Vida Marathon. There are literally thousands of people congregating in Piazza Signoria, chatting each other up. However, I don’t think “marathon” means the same thing in Italian because I just saw a man with a number pinned to his orange shirt wearing jeans. There are older women wearing lycra and shoes with no socks. Can you say chaffing? This should come as no surprise, but many Italian men are sporting spandex, the too thin and too much information spandex.

A gun goes off, but no one is in any hurry. They continue to sip their cappuccinos and gossip with their neighbors, for 15 minutes. Finally, after 30 minutes or so, the piazza is clearing out, and I can’t help wondering what happened to church?

Michela and Marco are heaven sent. The owners of my Florence apartment had no problem with my early arrival. Michela is very pregnant, naturally beautiful, and sweet. Marco looks like a soccer player, not the sexy kind but the cute and goofy kind. He is also very sweet and offers to come back later to carry my luggage up the “authentic Italian” stairs. There are 96, and let’s just say, I won’t have to do any other workouts while in Florence. If there is no posting about me falling down these slippery, steep, and uneven stairs, it will be a miracle.

The apartment is better than I expected, roomy, charming, and pretty nice. It is right downtown on Via Calzaiouli which is good and bad. It reminds of being on Rush Street in Chicago, very touristy but very central.

Most of you are probably wondering why I’m not in Greece or at least Amalfi. Well, I researched both and they were very expensive. I also wasn’t sure I wanted to spend a week on a beach in a small town by myself. I decided to come to Florence early to get my bearings and unpack my suitcase, which I now refer to as my ball and chain. Plus, I had to get a secure internet connection to pay my credit card bill.

Speaking of cash, Italy is a cash only society for the most part. Apparently, it is too expensive to have a bank account here so everyone uses cash. I had to pay for 40 nights plus a security deposit with cash. Although I knew this before I left, I was not prepared. I had to get the cash from credit card who charged me $300 for the privilege. Now that I have said it, I am going to let it go. I hope because it’s killing me. Seriously though, Italy is supposed to be a “developed” nation. I think a decent system for monetary flow is integral to the definition of developed. Apparently, I’m full of shit. Cash only? This is new to me, or old, I’m not sure. I have paid for a 30 cent toll with a check.