cherry

I've been to Italy before this trip. About 15 years ago, my brother Duncan, John (my boyfriend at the time), and myself went backpacking across Europe. Dad gave us some spending money, but we were in no way living the good life. Venice was the first stop we made. The first thing I remember is the light. The light is different, especially in Venice. You can't find the source of it due to the water, surface, and reflection. Light is everywhere. And of course I remember San Marco. And being hungry. I'm almost always hungry.

My brother is a cautious and frugal traveler. I say that about him when I really mean it about myself. We both are. We had very limited money. So, while in Italy we bought two things. Not a fake David, no poster of Venus on the half-shell. We indulged ourselves with a pound of cherries and a bag of sugar cookies.  Those two things took us all the way to France. My stomach hated me later, but while eating the cherries, life was good.

And now I'm back, and the cherries are in. Like tomatoes, pasta, garlic, olive oil, and food in general, Italians do cherries very well. No, they don't have the splendor of the Cherry Festival in DC. In fact, I rarely see a tree. But the cherries are in full. Big, beautiful baskets and buckets of cherries. It almost, but not quite, compares to the kind of blueberry bliss that I have just outside of DeFuniak Springs, Florida on my  cousin Johnny Hugh's land. Certainly now there are blueberries weighing down those silvery bushes? But I'm here. And for now, the cherries must appease. Just for old time's sake, I splurged on a bag of sugar cookies too. 

just another brunello in chianti country

Have you ever had a weekend unfold itself around you? 

First, there was a walk in the countryside with a friend as the sun was setting and highlighting the hills. This was on the edge of Chianti country. The vineyards are really just beginning there. That was followed by watching 4 short plays in Italian.

The next day was the San Gimignano and Siena trip with the study center. They make a fresh pasta in Siena that is very thick and covered in goodness and one of my favorite meals. I stood out over one of the fortressed walls of San Gimignano drinking a Vernaccio and contemplated with a colleague the happiness derived from the color green. Somehow the evening back into Florence brought about witnessing another sunrise and an invitation for a picnic.

Saturday evening I went out with the guys. That is something you should all know. I have only guy friends here now. Hanging out with some of them makes me seriously doubt the future state of mankind, but I digress. Still a fun evening with fantastic jazz and lots of laughter. And political debate, I am practicing paying attention again. (Girls, please send me estrogen thoughts, the testosterone may kill me.)

And Sunday was the picnic. But the picnic took place in Greve and Radda in Chianti with Pete and Marco (two of the good guys) and lasted about 5 hours. Marco drove us out there, made us a lovely meal, took us to an enoteca, and didn't drink anything because he was driving. After zipping around those curves, I appreciated his restraint. The Queen, as I'm known to Marco, was pleased. Especially when I finally was able to sample a brunello. Ah, brunello — you break my heart with your beauty and price-tag.

So it was a good weekend. And I just had to show up, observe, and watch the green of late Spring (which is everything) slip by.  

things I’ll miss #3

Sounds —

Bells tolling, scooters buzzing, sirens busy and shrill, pigeons shuffling cooing fluttering outside my window, Italian spoken, Italian yelled, 3 a.m. music spilling down the street, the whaling door, horse-hoofs on cobblestone, French, German, peddlers beckoning, the Arno running away, "ciao Julia, come va", even glass breaking, students typing, tourists talking ("wow, look at that"), street musicians repeating Mrs. Robinson, the violinist nearby who unknowingly breaks my heart with the setting of the sun, the child waking next door, and the odd intense beat of silence felt in a rare pause.

This list is never ending. Some will be repeated. I'll forget a few. But to have it all pulse around you in the air is part of the meaning. Stories are told with notes, decibel, pitch and tone. They are told in waves. And sometimes they have to be heard all at once to get to the moment that is this place. 

Pi (disclaimer)

And no, I'm not being Oprah here, no one's getting kicked off my club . . .

Just a warning about The Life of Pi — it is about survival and animals, there is excrement mentioned, lots of killing, blood, and bleak, bleak, bleak despair. But the deeply spiritual parts, the attention to detail, well, I still think it's worth it. But if you have an uneasy stomach, don't hold me responsible.

a bed of one’s own

Firm, back loving bliss . . .

That is the only way I can describe it. Not only did I get a new mattress, but a new frame too. At 6:30 pm I decided to stretch out diagonal on my new mattress (does anyone listen to phish?) and regained consciousness at 9:30 pm. The bed is made of two mattresses, but now only one frame supports them. I can not tell you how happy this makes me. No more pebbles and pinches, no depth change in the middle. Even, balanced, firm, sleep. A friend of mine claims that I take jobs based on getting free rent, maybe. But I'm adding to that the importance of a good bed. So to anyone hiring out there, free rent and a Sealy and I'm yours.

And this morning it was raining and every fiber of my being said, "stay, stay, don't leave the sanctuary of white cotton sheets" and luckily I did not have The Life of Pi or I think I would have called into work.

But know tonight Pi, myself, 3 pillows to prop against, an open window with a gentle damp breeze and Vape mosquitoe repellent are going to have a lovely evening together in my little coop of a room. This is what I live for.

Another aside: I'm pimping someone's blog who I don't know (personally), but her take on the new Coke campaign for Tab had me in (slightly enraged) hysterical fits of laughter. Sorry Coke, I know I have stood beside you my entire life, but someone in marketing may need to get canned. Check out Devon's blog: indigitalcircles.com/dcfitzg for more about it. And Devon, if you mind the shout out, let me know.

reading, resting

Read Life of Pi.

And I am getting a new mattress tonight (courtesy of the landlord). No more pebble-beach sleep!

 Computer crashed at work, so that' all for now.

things I’ll miss #2

Angie's Pub (what, did you think I was going to say David?)
OK, I know it's a pub and all, but don't knock it until you've tried it. First, it has the best bartender in Florence (maybe 2 of the best in Florence). That is irrelevant. There is the stoop outside of it where you can sit and talk to Mossimo about 11-year cycles (I still say 7 though), Italian politics (Angie's is very left — imagine that), freakish weather, the solo cane (a lonely dog, who really belongs to someone I'm certain). If you are there after the sun sets the sky turns a perfect shade of blue in an upside down T above your head. Pete will come rolling down the hill and be all "no worries" and Canadian-like.Chicco (killer Chicco) pours a very strong drink so I try to limit myself when he is behind the bar. And on nights where it is he and Gianluca (the drink artist) behind the bar, the energy flows out into the streets. There is a constant stream of strange and lovely music (Gaia always plays the Pixies). And after awhile, you realize you are a temporary part of local life. You know some of their stories, you filter out some of their lies (they are not all brothers and sisters), you laugh and then you go home, read, contemplate, sleep. But you are better for the hour spent and the sometimes stumbling conversation. You make a slight connection. And you learn something about life here, you just have to listen.

Things I’ll miss #1

Take a tomato (or more). Dice with some large chunks left.

Thinly slice or dice a garlic clove.

Mix the 2 together with virgin olive oil (and it better be green, don't even think about it if it isn't). Maybe a dash of salt.
Tear up some fresh basil (none of that packaged crap).

Toss together. Place in fridge.

Lightly toast some homemade bread with no salt in it.

Pour tomato mixture on top.

Serve with vino bianco.

Trust me, it still isn't going to be the same. The tomatoes, garlic, and olive oil will all pale in comparison. But keep trying.

that famous tuscan sun

Mornings fool you. A lingering damp chill in the shadow of the buildings. I always hesitate, maybe I do need that jacket after all. If you visit, trust me, you don't. The sun is the brightest I've ever witnessed. It almost bleaches everything into white. Except skin of course. I'm a little smarter, I never leave without sunscreen. But those poor souls so enamored with the glare — now red-faced and purple-hued. It seems that the travel agencies setting up these jaunts through Italy fail to mention simple protection. (And clearly these tourists are not reading Rick Steve's.)

But I can understand the love. After months of freezing, sneezing, coughing and chill, I feel naked in short sleeves. All of this new warmth bouncing off of me. Seeking crowd-less shade and knowing the importance of sunglasses. Blinded and pasty, I've emerged to the surface again and found being exposed in the shimmery glare worth the winter.

A few notes: women who would like to help construct a guide for detecting the wrong sort of man please check out Shelby's blog. Anyone who knows how to remove mold from old books without damaging them, let me know (yes, I've checked online sources). And if you like dancing cats, check out this link supplied by the fantastically funny Sarah (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DpA2tMrQ4RU). Everyone needs an oddity for the day, yes?

Bug Season

Remember my kitchen window? It is now the home of a trillion little red spiders. They look like chiggers, but I've been promised they do not bite and latch on. Everyone just thinks of them as little red spiders. In spite of the promise, I don't open my kitchen window very often anymore.

And it isn't just the red spiders. The notorious tiger mosquito is here. Unlike the lazy buzzing of the Southern mosquito I'm accustomed to, the tiger mosquito is very quick and darts at you. They are not bad yet, but in my near future I'll be investing in some Vape (plug-in repellent). Having lived in Florida for 5 years before coming here, how bad could they be? (I ask with trepidation in my heart).

You'd think I'd be over it all, with the bug and tourist invasion. But no, my friend Angie leaves in the morning and we've been walking the streets in a blue funk. She has been saying bye to the people and places that have become familiar. All of the haunts and habits that make up a temporary home: birra in front of Santa Croce, Osteria dei Benci, the stoop outside of Angie's Pub, endless cobbled streets roughly navigating us back to the places we know, Pete, Chicco, Frank, Gaia, rotund cafe owners, Piazza della Signoria, Uffizzi gallery, street vendors, street artists, bad opera-singing neighbors, Ponte Vecchio, church bells, cappuccino, wine sipped on sidewalks, and the immovable stone that makes up this city. Florence will stay, weighed down, and eventually we flow away from it — transplants that we are. Remove from the fantasy life will be difficult; watching someone go is hard enough.