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.