Things I’ll Miss #8

About a year ago, I visited Michelle and Shane in North Carolina. There was a nice dinner gathering of their friends and after some wine the conversation turned to everything, including technology. I responded that I was a border-line Luddite. Naturally Miche and Shelby protested and called me on it, but to some extent I was technology resistant and resentful. But like so many things, that has changed now. No wine induced Luddite claims will be made after blogging this experience.

And that is one thing I’ll miss the most. Writing to everyone at once. I never felt comfortable sharing words with a general audience. To write letters and emails to individuals has always been true joy, so I don’t think I was selfish before — rather bashful with what really matters. In my life of talkers, I knew early on that anything can be spoken. But writing it down really means something. These ambiguous little things made of letters earned my respect early on. Not only that, but the written word captures memory — memory being one of the slippery aspects of consciousness that I try to wrestle still (and still).

To tell you that this space has kept me close to you all would be a banal and ineffective truth. There are some of you I actually know better now. I hear the inner voice in your comments or emails that must get drowned out on the physical plane. Without a smile, face, or color of hair to frame us, we become our true selves. And I see (read) all of you much more clearly. I think this is the way I want to be recognized — simply through a selective arrangement of words.

Now I am nearing the end of this exercise in sharing my life here with all of you. Writing in this way — without any one of you in mind and only my voice and experience in my head — has been liberating. Yes, I’ll continue to write poems with a pen and paper first. And I’ll always value the strength and privacy of a handwritten letter. But this immediacy coupled with the gathering of people and comments and connection is a major evolution in my thought process. Thank you all — the silent, the frequent, the passersby, and the faithful — for helping me open up and realizing that release is vital to growth. This — whatever this is — will be missed.

Don’t leave yet, it is not quite the end. More will come.

Now tell me something I didn’t know

You scored as II – The High Priestess. The High Priestess is a card of intuition, instinct and hidden knowledge. She knows all your secrets, you can hide nothing from her. Yet you will never know the secrets she herself protects.If well aspected in a Tarot spread, this card can indicate the use of intuition to solve problems; trust to your instincts. If badly aspected, it can mean suppression and ignoring of such instincts – following your head at the expense of your heart. II – The High Priestess 100% III – The Empress 81% VIII – Strength 81% XIX: The Sun 75% XIII: Death 75% I – Magician 69% XI: Justice 69% IV – The Emperor 69% 0 – The Fool 56% XVI: The Tower 56% X – Wheel of Fortune 56% XV: The Devil 25% VI: The Lovers 19% Which Major Arcana Tarot Card Are You? created with QuizFarm.com

Besides taking this fun little test, I’m also incredibly busy with work, so no real news. Feel free to tell me how you score (privately or publicly). I am headed to the mountains for some relief from the heat and crowds. They have internet so I will try to post from there, but if not I’ll at least take my camera and update everyone when I get back.

Saw a free jazz concert last night which made me think of the Don Juan band. Tonight, dancing of course!

I am not a tourist here

Dante has pissed me off. No, really it is Benigni with his mouth open that has me sweating and swearing.

For thirteen nights, Roberto Benigni is reciting from the Divine Comedy in Piazza Santa Croce. Oh, yes, thrilling and significant and all of that. Let me tell you something dear reader, my life is hell (not sure which level yet). Combine the two and Santa Croce and sweltering heat and carabinari and event planners and — most of all — closed roads (!) and you may begin to see the miracle of me being able to leave my apartment. Sure, I’ll admit I was excited at first. Taking pride in my neighborhood and Santa Croce, etc. But after not being allowed to take a left or a right, being herded backwards towards Piazza Signora just to get to a street right next to Santa Croce, following the ambling fanning tourists, carrying a large bag, sweltering in the heat — I realized I had enough. These people need to get out of my town and let me enjoy my last few days here.

Does anyone else see the problem with this picture? If not, it involves my contempt for a cultural event, the inability to recognize this isn’t my home, and a big dash of intolerance not normal to my reserved acceptance of humanity.

But for now, I don’t think I’ll even attempt redemption.

The green lung—with corrections

I ate fruit salad, drank orange juice and water out of wine goblets while sitting on a park bench in my neighborhood this morning. The talk was about fiction, writing, film and lost love. This leafy space is referred to as the green lung of Santa Croce and I never knew it existed until today. Well, it seems there is always more to learn.

We know nothing. But, it is good to have a space to re-thread memories, make new ones, discuss the important things. A place to breathe, watch dogs pant in the heat and analyze pigeon logic. It’s not quite knowledge but it is akin to life and that is close.

I have recently learned of a loss. For me, it is a loss of a good writer, but for so many it is the loss of a friend, brother and partner. So Will, find your equivalent green space now.

Naturally, life is bipolar, so I also received an invitation to an upcoming wedding which I’ll happily attend. Irene and Steve, allow some green space where you can think before the fun plans of marriage escalate. And congrats on finding each other.

Sidenote on weekend: Attended a concert in Viareggio of (I think) Baustelle. Watched the fireworks of White Nights intermittently while driving through some random town (which turns out to be Livorno). Sat on a pier while friends swam below me and strange boys gathered by a bonfire — thumbnail moon and bright Venus carried on til grey pink dawn. And I am happy like I’ve not been in years.

Things I’ll Miss #7

Morning: You stand at the bar to drink it when you are rushed. If time and money allow, you stroll to Il Cibreo, order, have a pastry, devour the International Herald Tribune and relish the addiction. Or maybe get your fix at Sant’ Ambrogio market under the guise of getting fruit. I think the morning is the best; it is acceptable and expected to have it with milk. Cappuccino — there is not enough time left here for me to get my fill.

Night: You pop into a bar and have a shot of it with a pack of sugar. Or you get it after dinner, appetite satisfied only when it arrives before the check. Maybe you need to finish a discussion about politics or philosophy, you go to someone’s house and have a glass — talking for hours — seeing the sunrise. Espresso — the life and death of energy.

I enjoy coffee in America (especially when Shelby makes me a cup). But here it is more of a love affair. The ritual is not a private one, it is a national one. Joking this morning about the Italians and their love of strikes, I asked why the coffee shop owners never went on strike. Eyebrows were raised. No, that couldn’t happen. A bloodbath would occur. I don’t doubt it. I’d join the angry mob for a good cup of cappuccino.

So when you see me in line at a coffee shop in the states with sulky glare and pouting lip — take pity on me. Feel the void of my lost love and the absence of my community. Better yet, join me in a revolution demanding stronger brew and smaller glasses. Or best of all, sit and have a chat to lessen my lament.

118

118 is the number you dial when you need medical attention. Good to know if you are in the throes of food poisoning. So yes, I have almost completed my tour of Italian lifestyle and finally got to experience the health care system. The ambulance came up stairs to assess me, helped carry me down, were kind and gracious hosts, took me to Santa Maria Nuova hospital (designed by some one famous, can’t think of it now). Luigi, a Londoner named Frederich and I had a small festive laugh filled session in the hallway after someone attached me to an IV. Then the white blood cell count was too high, so, they did what Italian hospitals do: insist they admit me. Yes, unlike America, the Italians really don’t want you to leave a hospital. They go out of their way to make you stay. Aching stomach, maybe you should rest more. Headache, perhaps an exam is in order. I was there from Sunday night until today (Tuesday) morning. They ask you to bring your own glasses if possible and there are no hospital gowns. It is quaint and slightly bizarre. After I told them I felt fine, really, can I please go home, they agreed — they agreed by saying “yes, you can go home, after one more night”.

The beautiful, lovely thing was that I didn’t pay anyone when I left. No, my paperwork in order allows me free medical. I love it. No worries about getting thousands of dollars worth of bills in the mail. Even the ambulance ride (past the Duomo no doubt) was free.

Fine now. Sorry I didn’t tell anyone but I didn’t want to worry you. As I told my director here, I’ve been released back into the wild where I belong.

Impromptu

No, not the movie — though I love it. Rather attending a concert held in Piazza de Signoria last night. In another move towards spontaneity, Luigi, Iris and I were going to go to see Sinead O’Conner at a midnight concert in, I believe, Arezzo. We decided this at about 10 p.m. and en route to the train station to catch a bus we heard the drumming. It turned out to be an African group dancing, drumming, singing us out of our mission. The backdrop was the Loggia dei Lanzi’s Rape of the Sabines and Perseus proudly holding the head of Medusa. David was looking on in blue and purple lights from the side. And beneath the fixed nature of stone and statue, a blur of limbs moving, sweating, keeping time and rhythm.

Yes, O’Conner once more will have to wait. The Florence free-concert series won last night’s attention.

Taking the road to Rome one last time tomorrow. And then, who knows? I’ll tell you when I do.

Things I’ll miss #6

I’d like to think I will not, because they will always be there. Unfortunately life has taught me that some connections do not hold. So, with apologies for the vagaries and with every effort to remember:

Frank–the art historian; friend; mutual lover of all things baseball and Hemingway; co-conspirator; a Louis among men (don’t ask); occasional part of the debaucherous fray; Italian-American who found home again; my key to Venice; realist; argumentative; funny; sarcastic; creative; Yankee; student and teacher; his hang out is The Lion’s Fountain. Calls me dude or dewey.

Iris–Icelandic youth; stargirl; frustrated but happy; finding her way; sharer of secrets and laughter; spontaneous; courageous; student; worker; friend; in some ways my younger self so therefore confused but willing to continue on until there is clarity or understanding. A beautiful spirit. Most likely to text “stasera”

David–a Gemini in most senses of the sign; dark; self-deprecatingly funny; charming; bella figura (or something like that); confusing; witty; seeks therapy from his cat; teacher; dancer; singer; fantastic rolling of the eyes; Italian. Constantly asks himself and others “what are you thinking?”

Luigi–lover of life and all things unique; conversationalist; shocking; the person most likely to make you stay up all night; dancer; free-spirited; happy; has shared some of the best moments of my life here — on the steps of Santa Croce, watching the sunrise, talking until 10 a.m., the World Cup, the color green and coffee; sweet; disarmingly intimate; entirely sarcastic at times. During the world cup he and Antonio talked for an hour about the history of Greece. Favorite thing to hear him say, “well, of course” or my name.

Gaia, Gianluca, Chicco, Andreas — the Angie’s bartenders and owners. Gaia greets me always with “julia, julia”. She laughs with the best of them. Gianluca reads my mind in terms of what it is I want to drink and is the best bartender I’ve had the pleasure of sipping a cocktail from. He also helps me learn Italian and does not hesitate to dance behind the bar. Killer Chicco in the tight jeans and bold bold attitude and behavior–the teacher of my Italian slang. Andreas–quiet, soulful, when he smiles he means it. They are the binding force behind my Florentine version of Cheers.

Pete–the Canadian. He is already gone but will always be the sharer of the stoop with me (and with Angie the stoop sandwich). A friend. Calming. Will not willingly express what is in his mind. Quiet. Nice. Is greatly missed. “It’s not the age of the car, but the wear on the tires.” or “Time is irrelevant.” I wish that were true.

Angie–of course, but I will see her in the States. But, as an exercise in documenting, she saved my life in front of Santa Maria Novella train station. We spent a small fortune every Saturday at the Osteria dei Benci. Laughter was the norm. Ranting was allowed. Crying in public happens. We told each other more details, dreams, and heartache in the shortest period of time. Chow mouth is an observation about the effects of wine that she coined. Can’t wait to see her in St. Augustine.

Kelly–fun; American turning Italian with an Irish heritage; handles the students; will share a coffee moment and a laugh; the provider of details (like where to eat in Venice which I will forever be indebted to her); a youthful force and vitality that is encouraged and enhanced by her funny boyfriend Ale (almost like Olllie).

So many more, Antonio the Greek-Canadian, Baret the Englishman writer and fellow eccentric, Marco, Sue, Aaron, Lexie, etc. etc. etc.

It’s not the place alone, it’s the people, their stories, their struggles and lives and backgrounds. Life — it should be shared with others. And my life here has been shared with some of the strangest and best. To say that I’ll miss them is an understatement.

Happy, happy, happy. Joy, joy, joy

For those of you who haven’t heard, Italy won its first World Cup since 1982 last night. Peering over the shoulders of strangers waving flags, sounding air horns, lighting Roman candles and cheering — I was somehow able to see some of the game. There was a huge screen set up at the Rampe, which is below the Piazzale Michelangelo (there was a screen there too). I watched the game with an Italian, an Icelander, a Canadian, an English and a Welsh — a motley international crew. And a couple of thousand Italians. Italians in trees, Italians on garbage bins, Italians on cars, in oleander bushes — everywhere. Most of them with their own flags too. It was clearly a big deal.

And when we won, I was honestly relieved. It would have been depressing to see the energy, belief, and passion diminish. Instead it turned to complete and utter giddy-top-of-the-world joy. We reveled in it for a bit, then climbed up to the Piazzale Michelangelo looking down at the city celebrating. Red, white, green were everywhere. Car lights lined every street. The honking did not stop until 4 this morning. I suspect there will be a baby boom in about 9 months judging from the embracing, dancing, snogging frenzy that was going on (apologies — the English can corrupt a language). I really can’t explain it. (oh, there were more fireworks too!)

After dancing at Santo Spirito, soaked with sweat, I started my meander back loving everything about the night. A stranger shared a smile and floated the flag over my head. I held my fingers out to touch the moment — red, white, green. Must say, I was especially happy with my adopted home.

I-TAL-IA

How could anyone not get swept away by all of this?

Watched last night’s match against Germany in the Piazza Ghiberti (yes the sculptor of the doors of paradise). To go that long with no goals scored and then the final few minutes Italy scoring 2!!! Needless to say the place erupted. There is nothing comparable. And I have no business being at work; slightly wondering if anyone else is . . .

Now I’m kind of swept away myself. That’s all for now.