I saw a man with 3 pit bulls last night. It seems so incongruous to me. These men walk arm in arm and kiss hello. What can I say? I guess preconceptions are just misconceptions waiting to be uncovered.
The buses here beep all the time, like the golf carts in the airport. Can you imagine being the bus driver? Beep, beep, beep, all the time.
I always thought that bidets were like water fountains for your back side, but the faucet on the bidet in my apartment points downward. Now, I think I might need a diagram.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Tempietto
I only saw one building while I was in Rome. I figure I’ll take the train back when I find better walking shoes. However, the building is one of my favorites, the Tempietto. It is a small chapel in the San Pietro in Montorio, right up the hill from Trastevere. The chapel is perfectly balanced and the proportions are amazing, but more importantly, it moves me. The setting is perfect, which I didn’t know from studying it in school. It is just so optimistic and cute that I want to put it in my pocket and take it home.
Stefano, mi amico Roma
I’ve decided to go Florence a week early. Maybe it had something to do with Stefano, my Roman amico. He is handsome, in a carpenter sort of way, which of course he is. For those of you who don’t know, carpenters hate architects. They basically think we are assholes. Actually, I do too sometimes. He is 47, thin, and married with one child. He sports curly grey hair, dark eyes, and bad teeth.
I was heading home to phone Mike when he called my name from half a block away. After he ran, I mean ran, over to me, he suggested some ice cream. I declined and he pushed, as Italians seem to do. He grabbed the money and my arm. We went for coffee.
Apparently, he has been to Denver, when he was 21. He told me a somewhat inappropriate story that I can’t repeat in print so if anyone really wants to know, email me. Needless to say, after he finished the story, I said “Now you know, Stefano, that American girls don’t like that kind of proposition.”
Despite the rather off color story, he was nice, and he showed me his carpentry studio. During our discussion, he realized that he had accidently overbooked the apartment for Thursday night. I said, “No problem, I’ll just head to Florence early.” He said “No, no bella, you stay in Roma. I have another apartment for you. I’ll show it to you at 8PM tonight. You like, it’s bigger.”
Stefano indeed comes knocking at 8PM, which is surprising in itself, and we go to see the new apartment. It turns out that the new, bigger, and better apartment is actually owned by a friend of his who asked Stefano to watch it for her while she is out of town. The place is a total mess, dishes in the sink, underwear on the floor and a humidifier in the shower. He asks me not to touch or move anything while I stay because his friend doesn’t know I'm staying there. My reaction is automatic Midwestern. I don’t want to be any trouble so fine. (I should say that the Midwestern response could have gone either way. I don’t want to be any trouble, or I will not accommodate this despicable request. In times of distress, I tend towards the former, which is one of my least favorite qualities about myself. I get into so many pickles because of my desire not to embarrass someone or cause any trouble.)
I go back to my room for one last night in clean, above board living and have dinner at Ripa 12. I got the Parma ham and buffalo mozzarella antipasti and it was glorious. The ham melted in my mouth, like the Toro (fatty tuna) of cured meats.
The next morning I tell Stefano that I can’t sleep in this poor girl’s disgusting apartment, and I’m leaving for Florence today (Thursday). Surprisingly, he immediately gives me back my money and offers me two free nights in Rome on my way home. He buys me breakfast, standard Italian including cappuccino and cornetto (an Italian croissant), and gives me a ride to Termini station. Now I’m on my way to Florence with no hotel and a suitcase that weighs about 60 lbs.
I was heading home to phone Mike when he called my name from half a block away. After he ran, I mean ran, over to me, he suggested some ice cream. I declined and he pushed, as Italians seem to do. He grabbed the money and my arm. We went for coffee.
Apparently, he has been to Denver, when he was 21. He told me a somewhat inappropriate story that I can’t repeat in print so if anyone really wants to know, email me. Needless to say, after he finished the story, I said “Now you know, Stefano, that American girls don’t like that kind of proposition.”
Despite the rather off color story, he was nice, and he showed me his carpentry studio. During our discussion, he realized that he had accidently overbooked the apartment for Thursday night. I said, “No problem, I’ll just head to Florence early.” He said “No, no bella, you stay in Roma. I have another apartment for you. I’ll show it to you at 8PM tonight. You like, it’s bigger.”
Stefano indeed comes knocking at 8PM, which is surprising in itself, and we go to see the new apartment. It turns out that the new, bigger, and better apartment is actually owned by a friend of his who asked Stefano to watch it for her while she is out of town. The place is a total mess, dishes in the sink, underwear on the floor and a humidifier in the shower. He asks me not to touch or move anything while I stay because his friend doesn’t know I'm staying there. My reaction is automatic Midwestern. I don’t want to be any trouble so fine. (I should say that the Midwestern response could have gone either way. I don’t want to be any trouble, or I will not accommodate this despicable request. In times of distress, I tend towards the former, which is one of my least favorite qualities about myself. I get into so many pickles because of my desire not to embarrass someone or cause any trouble.)
I go back to my room for one last night in clean, above board living and have dinner at Ripa 12. I got the Parma ham and buffalo mozzarella antipasti and it was glorious. The ham melted in my mouth, like the Toro (fatty tuna) of cured meats.
The next morning I tell Stefano that I can’t sleep in this poor girl’s disgusting apartment, and I’m leaving for Florence today (Thursday). Surprisingly, he immediately gives me back my money and offers me two free nights in Rome on my way home. He buys me breakfast, standard Italian including cappuccino and cornetto (an Italian croissant), and gives me a ride to Termini station. Now I’m on my way to Florence with no hotel and a suitcase that weighs about 60 lbs.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
I'd gladly pay you Tuesday for an umbrella today
I have been to Rome before, in October 2001. I remembered it being loud, busy, and a little too fast. My first trip out for a walk proved that my recollection was indeed right on. It started to rain as soon as I left the apartment. I don’t have an umbrella because I live in Colorado and can barely remember rain much less prepare for it. So I’m getting soaked. One of those nice (read: creepy?) Italian men appears to sell me an umbrella, but I demure. Ten minutes later I regret my decision.
I am on my way back to Via dei Cisterna 22 to dry off and regroup, and I run into a man looking for directions. Of course, I don’t have any idea how to get to Via Trastevere, but my iphone does. I know you are all shaking your heads at me now, but I was trying to be helpful. I find our current location using my new 3GS GPS and Compass stuff (so cool) and then locate Via Trastevere. Meanwhile, he is chatting me up. I ask him, “del caffe aberto?” I know my Italian is beyond terrible and I was a little flustered. What I wanted to know is whether coffee shops were open at this hour and where one might be. Italy, like all European countries, is much more rigid about when and where we indulge in Americans’ favorite past time, stuffing our faces. Of course, he thinks I’m asking him out for coffee. I realize this and say no, I must go to my apartment, since this is the only thing I can say in Italian. He then says no problem, I’ll go with you. Ugh! I say no, grazi. He then says (and this is loosely interpreted) my eyes are beautiful, like fire. Those of you that know me also know that I have green eyes. Possibly the exact opposite of fire really, but I do have a ring of yellow around my pupils so I’m going to believe that he looked at my eyeballs before saying such a thing. He asks one more time if he can come to my apartment. No. Then it’s OK, Goodbye. He gives me a kiss on the cheek, which I allow because I am still trying to salvage this interaction as something positive. Then, of course, say it with me now, he tries to stick his tongue down my throat. I wrestle away from him and take off, causing some poor woman to stall her stick shift economy car on a hill to avoid hitting me. (I’m sure she was a tourist as well.)
Now it is definitely time to go home and regroup. The next umbrella salesman has me hooked for 5 euro. I open my purse to get the money and realize I’ve forgotten my wallet. Frankly, I don’t have any euro anyway. The exchange rate at the airport was terrible so I only got 100 euro, which I used to purchase the train (5.5 euro) and trolley (a bargain at 1 euro) tickets required to get to Trastevere. I quickly surrendered the rest of my stash to Stefano, the lovely man who is renting the apartment. I am actually 10 euro short, but he seems cool with getting it tomorrow morning.
I run into Stefano outside my apartment and he asks me how long I am staying in Italy. I tell him in my broken Italian - until the end of October. The rest is too much to explain right now. He asks if I speak Italian and I say un poco (which is Spanish, but I haven’t gotten that far in Italian Rosetta Stone). He then asks me a rather astute question. “Why are you here if you don’t speak Italian?” My answer, “because I want to learn.” I believe my answer endeared me to him and his question to me so he introduces me to his friend (in the passenger seat of his car), the police officer who lives in Firenze. He doesn’t speak English but I take his card anyway.
I ask Stefano where I can get a caffe (or at this point a vino) and he leads me through the door across the street from my apartment. It is deserted, and I still don’t have any money, credit, or debt. I’m hoping I’ll find my wallet sitting on the bed. Stefano says no problem, he knows Roberto very well and he doesn’t pay for anything here. OK. Where are we exactly? The Hotel Cistern. OK, I relax. Roberto pours me a glass of vino bianco. I “talk” to the police officer from Florence who doesn’t speak English then head back to my apartment. The wallet is sitting on the bed. Stefano says he’ll knock at 8AM and we will go to breakfast. I’m not sure if he’s sweet or smarmy so I’ve decided to go with sweet until otherwise disavowed of this notion.
A word about the “apartment”. It is a room directly off of Via dei Cisterna. There are no windows, but I can leave the door open for light. (Don’t worry Mom. There is a second set of glass doors for protection.) There is no kitchen, only a hot plate and cheap espresso maker, but really, I am not in Rome to make my own meals. It is clean and the shower pressure is fantastic so I am happy.
It is now 7:30. The shops have closed, but the restaurants don’t really open until 9:00 so I’m not sure what the Romans do during these witching hours. I guess I’m going to dry off, bundle up, and go find out.
I am on my way back to Via dei Cisterna 22 to dry off and regroup, and I run into a man looking for directions. Of course, I don’t have any idea how to get to Via Trastevere, but my iphone does. I know you are all shaking your heads at me now, but I was trying to be helpful. I find our current location using my new 3GS GPS and Compass stuff (so cool) and then locate Via Trastevere. Meanwhile, he is chatting me up. I ask him, “del caffe aberto?” I know my Italian is beyond terrible and I was a little flustered. What I wanted to know is whether coffee shops were open at this hour and where one might be. Italy, like all European countries, is much more rigid about when and where we indulge in Americans’ favorite past time, stuffing our faces. Of course, he thinks I’m asking him out for coffee. I realize this and say no, I must go to my apartment, since this is the only thing I can say in Italian. He then says no problem, I’ll go with you. Ugh! I say no, grazi. He then says (and this is loosely interpreted) my eyes are beautiful, like fire. Those of you that know me also know that I have green eyes. Possibly the exact opposite of fire really, but I do have a ring of yellow around my pupils so I’m going to believe that he looked at my eyeballs before saying such a thing. He asks one more time if he can come to my apartment. No. Then it’s OK, Goodbye. He gives me a kiss on the cheek, which I allow because I am still trying to salvage this interaction as something positive. Then, of course, say it with me now, he tries to stick his tongue down my throat. I wrestle away from him and take off, causing some poor woman to stall her stick shift economy car on a hill to avoid hitting me. (I’m sure she was a tourist as well.)
Now it is definitely time to go home and regroup. The next umbrella salesman has me hooked for 5 euro. I open my purse to get the money and realize I’ve forgotten my wallet. Frankly, I don’t have any euro anyway. The exchange rate at the airport was terrible so I only got 100 euro, which I used to purchase the train (5.5 euro) and trolley (a bargain at 1 euro) tickets required to get to Trastevere. I quickly surrendered the rest of my stash to Stefano, the lovely man who is renting the apartment. I am actually 10 euro short, but he seems cool with getting it tomorrow morning.
I run into Stefano outside my apartment and he asks me how long I am staying in Italy. I tell him in my broken Italian - until the end of October. The rest is too much to explain right now. He asks if I speak Italian and I say un poco (which is Spanish, but I haven’t gotten that far in Italian Rosetta Stone). He then asks me a rather astute question. “Why are you here if you don’t speak Italian?” My answer, “because I want to learn.” I believe my answer endeared me to him and his question to me so he introduces me to his friend (in the passenger seat of his car), the police officer who lives in Firenze. He doesn’t speak English but I take his card anyway.
I ask Stefano where I can get a caffe (or at this point a vino) and he leads me through the door across the street from my apartment. It is deserted, and I still don’t have any money, credit, or debt. I’m hoping I’ll find my wallet sitting on the bed. Stefano says no problem, he knows Roberto very well and he doesn’t pay for anything here. OK. Where are we exactly? The Hotel Cistern. OK, I relax. Roberto pours me a glass of vino bianco. I “talk” to the police officer from Florence who doesn’t speak English then head back to my apartment. The wallet is sitting on the bed. Stefano says he’ll knock at 8AM and we will go to breakfast. I’m not sure if he’s sweet or smarmy so I’ve decided to go with sweet until otherwise disavowed of this notion.
A word about the “apartment”. It is a room directly off of Via dei Cisterna. There are no windows, but I can leave the door open for light. (Don’t worry Mom. There is a second set of glass doors for protection.) There is no kitchen, only a hot plate and cheap espresso maker, but really, I am not in Rome to make my own meals. It is clean and the shower pressure is fantastic so I am happy.
It is now 7:30. The shops have closed, but the restaurants don’t really open until 9:00 so I’m not sure what the Romans do during these witching hours. I guess I’m going to dry off, bundle up, and go find out.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Pants, who needs pants?
I have accomplished a few things in preparation for the trip. I may even get my taxes done before I leave. Apparently, I owe, and I'm indignant.
I have officially enrolled in Apicius Amateur Cooking School in Florence for the month of October. I will take 3 classes, Regional Tuscan Cuisine, Italian Cuisine and Wine Appreciation. Each class is one afternoon leaving plenty of time for travel, site seeing, drinking espressos, and putting my new found knowledge on wine to work.
I just picked an apartment. It is a block from the Duomo, which is cool, and on the forth floor so noise won't be too bad. The advertisement said there are authentic Italian style stairs, of which I am dubious. I assume that's code for the stairs are a complete bitch. Here are some pictures...
Do you see the two sinks? This is seriously high brow. I haven't had two sinks in ages. The manager swears there will be more furniture, including a dining room table when I arrive. The price seems outrageous, but it has a washer. I'm trying to pack one suitcase, and I don't want to spend that much time in an Italian laundry mat. Despite romanticizing almost everything about Italy, I know in my heart of hearts that the laundry mats will be like the traditional Italian stairs, a bitch.
Packing. Oh god, packing. I carefully chose each item, editing viciously as I went. As a test run, I loaded the suitcase and everything fit, except my shoes, toiletries, and pants. Who needs pants anyway? I do have some fantastic tops coming with me. I guess another edit may be required. Maybe I don't need 5 pairs of tights, 5 pairs of sunglasses and 6 dresses, but it feels like heresy just thinking it.
I've decided not to go to Greece. It's just too expensive. It's a better place to spend a two week vacation than part of a three month trip. Two weeks in Greece would take up my entire 3 month travel budget, which isn't huge, but isn't small either. Those Greeks, they know what they're doing. I'm thinking the Amafi coast. It's beautiful, warm, and overflowing with the world's best pizza. We'll see. Taxes first, Amalfi second. Repeat it with me; taxes first, Amalfi second.
I have officially enrolled in Apicius Amateur Cooking School in Florence for the month of October. I will take 3 classes, Regional Tuscan Cuisine, Italian Cuisine and Wine Appreciation. Each class is one afternoon leaving plenty of time for travel, site seeing, drinking espressos, and putting my new found knowledge on wine to work.
I just picked an apartment. It is a block from the Duomo, which is cool, and on the forth floor so noise won't be too bad. The advertisement said there are authentic Italian style stairs, of which I am dubious. I assume that's code for the stairs are a complete bitch. Here are some pictures...
Do you see the two sinks? This is seriously high brow. I haven't had two sinks in ages. The manager swears there will be more furniture, including a dining room table when I arrive. The price seems outrageous, but it has a washer. I'm trying to pack one suitcase, and I don't want to spend that much time in an Italian laundry mat. Despite romanticizing almost everything about Italy, I know in my heart of hearts that the laundry mats will be like the traditional Italian stairs, a bitch.
Packing. Oh god, packing. I carefully chose each item, editing viciously as I went. As a test run, I loaded the suitcase and everything fit, except my shoes, toiletries, and pants. Who needs pants anyway? I do have some fantastic tops coming with me. I guess another edit may be required. Maybe I don't need 5 pairs of tights, 5 pairs of sunglasses and 6 dresses, but it feels like heresy just thinking it.
I've decided not to go to Greece. It's just too expensive. It's a better place to spend a two week vacation than part of a three month trip. Two weeks in Greece would take up my entire 3 month travel budget, which isn't huge, but isn't small either. Those Greeks, they know what they're doing. I'm thinking the Amafi coast. It's beautiful, warm, and overflowing with the world's best pizza. We'll see. Taxes first, Amalfi second. Repeat it with me; taxes first, Amalfi second.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Santorini and sofabeds...
I don't know if it was the divorce, getting laid off, or just selling my portion of the house in Boulder to my ex, but I think I need a new scene. Therefore, I've decided to spend three months in Europe. Not to say that living with my boyfriend in Dillon isn't the bee's knees, because this summer has been bliss. But I have the chance, the money, and the desire. More self discovery later.
To be honest, all I know for sure is that I'm landing in Rome on Sept. 22nd. Hopefully, my best laid plans will become reality. I'm planning to take amateur cooking courses in Florence Oct 5-29. Two cooking courses and one wine appreciation course a week. Although everyone knows that I already have a strong appreciation for wine...
I'm still trying to get an apartment. The apartments in Florence are small and expensive. Some don't even have windows. I've decided that I absolutely need windows to discover my true self. They have washers, but no dryers. On one hand, I'm excited to hang my wash on the clothes line outside my window like a true Italian, but on the other hand, really? You can't buy one of those washer/dryer in the same machine combos? And while I'm on the subject, a sofabed is not a bed. Personally, I would rather have bed that I use a sofa than a sofabed. Anyway, I digress. Actually, I degrade into complaining about a fabulous trip. See what I mean about a new point of view?
I haven't figured out what I'm doing from Sept 22nd to Oct 5th, but Southern Italy, Greece (Santorini), or Prague is currently tops on the list. I'll keep you posted. After Florence, I'm thinking Paris or Provence, but I'm waiting to see which way the wind blows.
In the meantime, I'm diligently working on my Rosetta Stone Italian language software, packing, paying bills, and generally freaking out about how little time I have to prepare.
Arriverderci mios amicos. (PS. my Italian still really sucks so this may not be even remotely correct.)
To be honest, all I know for sure is that I'm landing in Rome on Sept. 22nd. Hopefully, my best laid plans will become reality. I'm planning to take amateur cooking courses in Florence Oct 5-29. Two cooking courses and one wine appreciation course a week. Although everyone knows that I already have a strong appreciation for wine...
I'm still trying to get an apartment. The apartments in Florence are small and expensive. Some don't even have windows. I've decided that I absolutely need windows to discover my true self. They have washers, but no dryers. On one hand, I'm excited to hang my wash on the clothes line outside my window like a true Italian, but on the other hand, really? You can't buy one of those washer/dryer in the same machine combos? And while I'm on the subject, a sofabed is not a bed. Personally, I would rather have bed that I use a sofa than a sofabed. Anyway, I digress. Actually, I degrade into complaining about a fabulous trip. See what I mean about a new point of view?
I haven't figured out what I'm doing from Sept 22nd to Oct 5th, but Southern Italy, Greece (Santorini), or Prague is currently tops on the list. I'll keep you posted. After Florence, I'm thinking Paris or Provence, but I'm waiting to see which way the wind blows.
In the meantime, I'm diligently working on my Rosetta Stone Italian language software, packing, paying bills, and generally freaking out about how little time I have to prepare.
Arriverderci mios amicos. (PS. my Italian still really sucks so this may not be even remotely correct.)
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