things I’ll miss #5

Today is another scorcher as they say. So I did laundry. I will not miss the loss of a washing machine. Well, maybe. So much physical activity goes into it. Washing, rinsing, wringing, shaking, hanging, pinning. And you get to look out on a long stretch of laundry drying and swaying in the sun and wind. Leaving the windows open you can just make out the smell of the detergent. Yes, I know that I will take pleasure in a washing machine once at home — but the physical relationship I have with all aspects of my life here will be missed. Which leads me (meanderingly) to what I’ll really miss . . .

A car free life. I walk everywhere I go. Maybe bi-monthly I’ll find myself in a car (including taxis). I have not pumped gas into a vehicle in 7 months. I have not smelled the fumes, paid the money, and not been tempted by a candy bar while standing in line. In order to get to work, I walk. If I want to go to the store, I walk. The unbearable weight and responsibility of auto ownership and maintenance is the sole reason why I question if I will be happy living somewhere forced to pile in, crank up, navigate, curse and sweat in the metal trapped humanity that is America’s highway and roadway system. Traffic is dodging tourists here. And the stress of all of that driving there, combined with the physical benefits of walking here honestly makes me not want to come home. I know, I know, everyone is thinking, “well just do that over here Julia.” Whatever. It’s difficult. I don’t want to ride a bike. I don’t necessarily want to ride public transportation (although would take that in a heart beat). And I know people who do it, but they eventually break down. They succumb to the convenience once it’s too hot or cold. I just want to be able to depend on my two feet to get me most places I need to go. I need a city that is planned as such. Rant over . . . job search in full swing. And yes, I’ll be buying a hybrid as soon as I can —if I must.

A spontaneous blue

4 a.m. on Sunday morning two friends and I decided to go to the beach. There is a beach just past Livorno with white sand and blue water. Well, blue is not the best word. It is more pale green blue. It looks like the crayon you would use for coloring the scales of a mermaid. Or like someone found the most innocent of eyes and reflected their gaze with the sea.

The beach was about one and a half hours away, still in Tuscany. So there are hills surrounded by fields of sunflowers and intermittent palaces tucked out of way. We saw a bleary sunrise — it looked like it was tired of that same familiar path over stone and water and buildings. Later it rallied.

After coming down a hill, water on our right that was deep blue, there were twists and turns and finally we reached level ground. Everything lightened up, not just the water but the plants the homes the sky. And so the day just stretched on while we lingered on towels, waves, under umbrellas, eating gelato, coated in sunscreen, covered in sand — you know — the beach. I didn’t know what to do with so much light. The stone of Florence absorbs the light, only releasing it in designated areas. Here it was impossible to escape, it covered every inch of sight.

So we slept, then ran into the sea and walked, talked; happy in our adventure we smiled. Soaking it up for 11 hours. The drive back was quiet. The work week ahead. But the day worth the cost of sleep.

San Giovanni

San Giovanni is Florence's patron saint. Every year, Florence celebrates the day in a typically Italian fashion — stores close down, restaurants stay open and (for the past 21 years) fireworks appear over the Arno at night. It is to this last thing that I need to address. Be patient.

Fireworks, as I have said before, are one of my favorite things. And in my current life over here, they are exactly what I needed on Saturday night. (Yes, that tension of leaving has me in a sort of cathartic loop.) So off I went, solo, to sit and stand in the persistent heat of night along the Arno awaiting the celebration of my temporary home's patron saint — requisite water, sangria, and cell phone in hand. Luckily I had some intuition to get there early and the mob that showed up later made me feel like a genius on my coveted concrete stoop in front of the pulled-to shutters of an electric store. I was excited.

They shoot the fireworks off from the Piazza de Michelangelo, on the other side of the Arno, towards Santa Croce. I was in perfect viewing range. And so it happened as it always does. Boom and the lights go out along the streets. Children and adults "ooh" "ahh". A drunk yells profanity at the lost trail of a dud. And boom. Another explosion, color, and the glittery remains marking its imprint. Rapid fire towers of light and white against the night. The illuminated fantasy of flowers and trees burning in the negative space; closing your eyes they remain. Percussion going deep, shaking something loose inside you. Purple, gold, Christmas revisited, weeping strands flowing down to the river. I'll say it again; I love fireworks. We all need something firing, exploding, expanding within us that is beautiful, that is light, that is dark.

The World Cup may be killing me

OK, slight exaggeration. But last Saturday was dubbed the day of id and we were awarded a tie for our efforts. A brilliant, brutto, tie. I watched the game with several hundred Italian fans; managed to cheer for the US; did not get killed. It was a lively atmosphere though. And some glares and comments were thrown my way. It wouldn't have been a proper match otherwise.

And honestly, since then I have not been able to see every game I wanted to. However, if I stick my head out of a window after 3:00 and listen to the sounds, tone and accents of the intermittent cheering emanating from every bar, I usually can tell who just scored or was fouled on. The only thing in my consciousness that compares to World Cup in Europe was Atlanta in 1991 going from worst to first and making in to the league, then World Series. But that is just one game a day. We have three here and a lot wider range of flags. Occasionally you can see men just randomly jumping for joy even when a game is not on. Bizarre giddiness abounds.

As for other news, it's hot. Blazing billows of air bake me during the day. Water and shade are my best friends now. And I like to linger around the refrigerated cases in grocery stores. They keep curtains or lids over them to keep in the cool air. Very few places have a/c. I am going to finally break down and figure out how to turn mine on. Or at least run the fan. There is a beach an hour and half away calling to me. 

Papasahn

The simple thing for me to do would be for me to just have the poem without any explanation. However, to avoid confusion, I am a daddy's girl. Do not ever doubt that. To the point that I really don't ever have to tell my dad anything, because he already knows. But for everyone else's benefit, know that when I think of the word father, I know I have the best representation of that concept. Thanks dad, and here's a poem for you.

Flying With Dragons

Wanting my ears long,
like his, he'd pull on them
after tucking me in;
after carrying me down
the hall, him humming
a Hank Williams' song.

We were always the quiet ones.
No conversation needed.
It's like that when like meets like.

Early to rise, early to work
life could have been simple.
But he loves a challenge —
a mountain woman,
a rundown house or two,
an old hotel, and a head-strong family.

Sometimes it must feel like
flying with dragons.
A colorful blur of chaos,
and the beating heat of dreams.
Maybe he comforts in the knowledge
there is always work to be done.

And there was — is —
always work,
and sawdust, sheet rock,
fertilizer, burning noon.
There is always something needing fixing.
A leaky roof, a patch of land,
the government,
an isolated daughter,
a gypsy son,
an orphaned wife.

And so he listens,
it's what he does best.

And he tells us:

Leave what you have
better than you found it.

and

Happiness is the goal.

will return after these messages . . .

I may vanish for a few days. It depends on energy level and ticket availability. Still not certain if I should go to Dublin, Vienna, or just down to Pompeii. I need to see Pompeii. And that is the cheap option. Paris would be too much alone. Wait, I'm thinking out loud.

So, if I am gone, I'd like everyone to think or yell USA at some point on Saturday. We play Italy and I feel like I'm torn, but going with USA in spirit. Of course, if I find myself in a bar watching with my Italian friends, I'll root for the temp home team. And England plays tonight, sooo . . . . you know, do your thing for the Queen. In other words, be like Zoe

As for other things . . .while speaking with my parents last night the tension between leaving and coming leaked into our conversation. Yesterday I heard from two friends that are in the hectic moving process. With all of our transitions in life, it is good to try and think of the things we love about the places we dwell. So, if any of you would like to share one thing that you'd miss about the place you are in, feel free to. I keep inundating everyone with my leaving lament; pay me back. There has to be at least one thing you'd miss about the place you are in.

Mirto

I really can not believe I haven’t posted anything about mirto. Mirto is a late evening elixir. You can think port if you want to, but you would be losing some of the magic. One beautiful thing about mirto, other than its taste, is a miscommunication I had regarding it one night, months ago. 

I have some decision making inabilities. Most of you know that. This occurs periodically throughout the day when confronted with menus, how to get to work, what to wear, what to write, etc. If at my little pub, it becomes “what to drink?” which exasperates the bartender. So one night, this happened. I had already had a lovely dinner, I was a tad wound up, and I wanted something mellow but not necessarily sleep inducing. That is the way I explained it. “Ah, you want mirto of course.”
But what is it? Well, the people at the bar had no idea. It’s made from little red berries. I think they come from a tree. But what does “mirto” mean. Well, an English girl was convinced it meant mirth. Mirth. How appropriate and perfect. Don’t we all want mirth delivered to us in a small, chilled glass. So mirth it was, for a long time.

And the taste, well, I think it is the best liquid I’ve encountered here. That is above the wines (even the Brunello) — and why I limit myself to maybe one mirto every month. It is not just the taste, it is the aftertaste. Nothing has ever made me want to kiss someone just to share that taste as much as mirto. I’ve not actually done that yet, but every time I take a sip I think of kissing. Not a rough, passionate one; just a simple six second kiss with your mouth only slightly open. More sharing than kissing. Maybe there is no way to explain. But it is sweet, lasting and somewhat surprising (and elvish — can it be elvish?).

So, one day while in Cinque Terre, imagine my surprise when I see these lovely posters of local flora and fauna. Including one depicting a, precisely you guessed it, mirto. Which is actually myrtle, not mirth (silly English girl). But thank goodness for the confusion. I still think of it as mirth.  

joining the world

There is no way around it. The rest of the world embraces it. Everyone in town is talking about it. TV screens have appeared in cafes and bars everywhere. Yellow and green jerseys seem to be mingling with blue. So, I'm hooked. It's all about the rush.

Soccer, well football, has been dominating the foreground of my mind the past few days. It started slowly. A few conversations overheard. "What chance does the US have?" "Will Brazil win it all again?" "How is Italy going to fare with all of the controversy and scandel of the corrupt league?" After some time, it becomes part of the general buzz. I begin to recognize names and know who they play for and why I should hate them.

And now, full throttle World Cup madness. Italy won its first match yesterday. US lost. England has won. I feel like I need a world map so I can start keeping track. Tonight Brazil is playing (they seem to be favored to win for obvious reasons). And all of the action is really close by. But I will not make it to Germany for mere sport. I'd have to have another reason, right? So instead of travel, I keep a screen open at work telling me the scores as the action is going on. The next day I watch highlights as soon as I get in. This could get ugly before it is all over with.

Secretly, I'm pulling for England. Naturally I hope for a US win, thus increasing interest in this fascinating sport back home, but the few English lads I've met over here have me convinced to throw my lot in with thiers.

And don't fear — I'm sure to go back to being my Braves baseball loving self when I get back. Speaking of, will someone please explain why they are not winning. Some pics for your viewing pleasure. Don't they all look so happy?

 

a june calm

It is the end of the semester.  I have less than two months here. Everything is saying good bye.
Yet, today, I am still. Not the feral creature you know. Perhaps it is the pull of home and here, the tension has finally balanced and I am just somewhere in the middle. The still middle. I don't think it's exhaustion. Doubt that it has anything to do with reason. Perhaps it has everything to do with life.

Moments like this are rare for me so documenting before I forget.  

Calcio Storico

In a continent buzzing with the World Cup, there is another soccer match being held in my neighborhood. Santa Croce will house the first of a few historic soccer matches today. The four sections of town (centering around the predominant churches) compete in a cross between rugby and soccer. Apparently this bloody rivalry started in the 1400s and was brought back to life in the 1930s. It begins with a parade where Florentines, dressed in Renaissance costumes, make their way to Santa Croce. The four teams from Santo Spirito (white), Santa Croce (blue), Santa Maria Novella (red), and San Giovanni (green) take out their built up aggressions due to lost love, bad driving and prideful rights in a 3-game tournament over the next few weekends. The winner gets a cow — a living cow now; not so back in the day of course (well, it wasn't alive for long).

The locals have been discussing it and preparing me for the violence and excitement. I was ready. Thought about wearing blue to support my temporary home. Pictured myself in the metal stands that now jail the pedestrian view of Santa Croce. Yelling something — maybe profanity. Just another part of the massive surge of humanity, sport, and longing. Of course, much to my mother's relief, I have to work today. Oh well. I'll at least take in the fireworks that occur over the Arno after the last match. Nothing like fireworks.

Naturally, this traditional sport at first seemed odd to me. I'm a girl who doesn't understand American football, boxing, or anything too violent for no reason. (A cow can not be a reason.) But that was me. Now I feel like maybe struggle, history, and spectacle perhaps give allegiance to redemption. Maybe these fellows just need to feel like they did something, anything, to make their lives — and all of the petty indiscretions, bad behavior, lascivious longings — mean something. Just for a moment, for the cost of a bruise, blood, pain, make it (read existence) matter. 

Or maybe they just like beating the crap out of each other. Who knows? But at least there are fireworks.