My Fall in Florence

Winding Down

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Sun, 13 May 2012 17:09:00 +0000

As my third extended stay in this beautiful country winds down, it seems fitting to toss out an entry or two in the blog that was born of these adventures. It is funny to go back and read some of the posts from my first 3-month stint, the observations that seemed so fresh and unique. At the time they were, not only to me but to my family and friends back home who expressed an interest in living vicariously through my Italian escapades.

I have come realize that I am certainly not the first, nor will I be the last, person to marvel at the differences between Italian life and what we’re used to in the US, to comment on the way coffee is consumed here or all the stores close for several hours in the middle of the day.

After being here for almost 2 years in total, though, the more obvious things recede into the background of everyday life and it’s the subtler differences that become more endearing. It is these things that hit me when I'm out and about, or when I realize that soon I won't be here and therefore I need to appreciate them while I can.

Most of them, that is...

There's that law of motion that says that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, you may remember it from high school physics? So while I will miss many things about this incredible place, there are also those things that I most definitely will not miss. I started to ponder the yin/yang of this and came up a few manifestations that I thought worth sharing.

* * *

Will miss: Being in a city full of bikes and tiny cars

Will not: Being in a city full of tour groups and American students

Will miss: Hearing the dull chime of church bells in the distance

Will not: Hearing the shrill scream of ambulances passing in front of my house

Will miss: Having all my friends live within a mile of me

Will not: Having a hospital within a quarter mile of me (hence the aforementioned ambulances)

Will miss: Strolling down cobblestone streets where surprise art installations pop up where you least expect it

Will not: Strolling down cobblestone streets where surprise doggie “offerings” pop up where you least expect it

Will miss: Having windows covered with shutters on the inside, ensuring the perfect pitch-dark sleeping experience
Will not: Having windows not covered with screens, ensuring that the perfect sleep experience is shattered by the regular whine of mosquitoes

Will miss: Gazing out over terracotta rooftops as I work

Will not: Gazing out at pigeons who are getting lucky on those rooftops

Will miss: Basking in the culture of a country that knows how to enjoy “la bella vita”

Will not: Basking in the second-hand smoke of… well… everyone

* * *
Of course I will miss the obvious things, too... the ever-present view of the Duomo, sunsets over the river, cheap and delicious red wine, the intoxicating aroma of espresso spilling out of the cafes on every block, spending time with my wonderful, amazing friends.

Yes, my third extended stay is winding down. Who knows, perhaps at some point there will be a fourth? But I am content in the knowledge that I have gained much from my time(s) here. I am not the same person I was that first fall, nervous and intimidated by a country I knew almost nothing about. I would not even begin to say that I know so much about it now, but the important thing is that I know more about myself, which is largely what this journey was about from the beginning.

Finding the Sweet in the Sour

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Mon, 17 Oct 2011 15:24:00 +0000

Biking is an integral part of the Florentine experience. With more and more of the city's streets closed to traffic, it is in fact one of the few ways to move quickly and easily around the city (assuming you handily mow down a few large tourist groups). I have chronicled some of my bike exploits here before; some of you may recall the story of Old Yeller. He remains in the loving care of my friend Kendra to this day, so when I returned last spring, it was important for me to find a new trusted wheely friend to get me around town in style.

Enter The Black Stallion. He's quite a steed, is he not? (Yes, my bikes are always male...) He likes his little flourishes of color, like the bright blue bell and the flashy red "lock" to prevent his saddle from being stolen.

I purchased this handsome beast from a student who was leaving Florence for the bargain price of €50 and have now spent three times that amount on locks and repairs.

For you see, someone pulled a Tonya Harding on my bike on Saturday night and punctured both tires. Yes, that's right: Both. Tires. I discovered the assault yesterday morning when I went out to do a little shopping in the center. After spending some quality time with him trying to ease his pain, I realized that my shopping excursion would be on foot, because the bike shops are not open on Sundays.

Fortunately for me, there is a nice little shop right around the corner from my house. This is the second time in two weeks that I have had to take The Stallion over there, last time it was chain- and brake-related. So they are starting to know me now and are really very nice to me.

Stallion and I limped over there together this morning and I told them in my halting Italian about the assault. They commiserated kindly and promised to make him whole again all in one day. I left him in their caring hands and went back for him this afternoon with my €45 to pay for 2 new tires and tubes. Turns out that we were not the only victims of this crime: another of my neighbors had just picked up their wheeled friend who had suffered the exact same injury.

Like Nancy Kerrigan did, The Stallion and I will come back stronger and better than ever. Those little "bastardi" will not get the best of us. Because if I have to go through this again, I might go all Mike Tyson on their asses.

As I left the shop, I said to the nice gentlemen who had nursed my friend, "I hope I am not back tomorrow..." and they replied "come back tomorrow only for coffee." Perfetto.

* * * * * * * *

One Night in Madrid

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Wed, 03 Aug 2011 20:46:00 +0000

[Written Wed, Aug 2 on bus from Boston to Portsmouth]

I have just landed back in the US after having the pleasure of spending the night in Madrid courtesy of Iberia Airlines. I wish I had known that it would happen because I would have better prepared to seize the opportunity to explore a new European city but as it was, I will admit with some shame that I did no such thing. I did embrace the free Internet that I got for my troubles and managed to get some work done, so I suppose not a total loss.

This all transpired because I missed my connection in Madrid due to a very late flight from Rome, for reasons that were never shared with us lowly passengers.

We reached the terminal in Madrid about 10-15 minutes before my next flight was due to depart. In a leisurely manner I approached the information desk at the arrival terminal and said to the gentleman "I will need to get on another flight to Boston." He looked at my boarding pass, frowned a bit, shook his head and said "no... you can still get on this one."

"Great!" I thought, thinking it must be delayed a bit. Not the case. He checks his screen and says again, "you can make it but RUN!"

I looked at him with a dubious expression and he emphatically pointed in the right direction and said again "RUN, GO!!"

So off I took at full throttle, down three long escalators to the subterranean train platform, bolted onto the waiting train which thankfully left the platform very soon thereafter. Upon arrival at the "satellite" terminal (always a problem when the terminal name contains the word "satellite") I burst out the doors, up three escalators only to realize that the gate for this flight was at the far end of the terminal. Of course.

Why I didn't just give it up then I don't know, but I kept running, working into a full sweat by the time I reached the deserted gate area from which my flight had likely departed at least 10 minutes before.

During a rather time-consuming visit to the Iberia service desk, it became clear that no other flight was available yesterday and I would have to stay overnight at a nearby hotel at Iberia's expense. Thankfully the woman at the counter upgraded my hotel and booked me on the same exact flight the next day, giving me an exit row window seat. In addition to the hotel cost, I would be given lunch and dinner that day and breakfast the following morning, along with two 3-minute phone calls. But, she warned me, you do not want to take your suitcase with you because then you will have to go through the whole check-in process again tomorrow. Better to leave it here at the airport since the entirety of Europe is on holiday now that August has arrived.

The hotel actually was quite nice and I happily exchanged my two calls for 24 hours of internet service in my room. I was told I would get a little "goodie bag" of items at the hotel but when I asked about this, they had never heard of such a thing. I was then forced to purchase exorbitantly expensive tiny toiletries from the hotel vending machine. Thankfully I had a toothbrush and change of "delicates" with me.

In the end it was fine, I got some work done, read a huge amount of my book, managed to sleep pretty well and made the flight today without issue. Home again, home again.

But these experiences are at least worth the lessons that you learn:

Never accept a layover of less than 2 hours
Always bring more "essentials" in your carry-on than you think you will need
Trust your gut instinct: if you know damn well that you're going to miss that flight, save the energy and use it instead to go out exploring whatever city you're being held in. Would have been a much more rewarding use of all that sweat.

* * * * * * * *

Unexpected Art Encounters

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Sat, 23 Jul 2011 16:55:00 +0000

I'm sure it's not news to anyone reading this that Florence is a city of art. It is everywhere, from the statue gallery in Piazza Signoria to the fake David at Piazzale Michelangelo to the golden doors of Ghiberti on the Baptistry. Then there is the architectural art, like Palazzo Vecchio, the Duomo and the Ponte Vecchio.

But what I sometimes forget is that there is so much more than just these icons of Florence to been seen and enjoyed. On a recent morning walk up to Pza. Michelangelo I decided to take the long way down, winding through the leafy green of Via Machiavelli toward Porta Romana where I lived when I first came here almost 2 years ago.

In the course of this walk I enjoyed two unexpected art encounters. The first was in a small green park at one of the bends in the road and the second was along the road leading up to an old art school. It was fun to see them both because they were unexpected and uniquely contemporary. In no way do I want to diminish the beauty of the Renaissance art that abounds here but every now and then it is nice to feast the eyes on something modern and different.

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Girls' Trip 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Thu, 21 Jul 2011 10:52:00 +0000

I had the distinct pleasure of spending last weekend with "The Girls" on the beautiful island of Elba. This year, The Girls included my little sister who I was so happy to welcome back to Italy for her second trip. I have now determined that it officially takes 2 trips to determine a pattern. The pattern of these girls' trips is something like this:

Undertake a "planes, trains and automobiles" type of journey to the current destination
Arrive at the hotel just in time for an evening cocktail
Have every intention of checking out the island and then promptly spend most of the time either at the hotel or across the street from it
Drink copious amounts of wine
Giggle like crazy teenagers about juvenile topics, annoying everyone in the vicinity
Have one highly memorable restaurant experience (last year = positive, this year = negative)
Drink even more wine
Leave the island knowing barely more about it than when we arrived

Allow me to expand on this year's memorable restaurant experience. On Saturday night, we decided to venture into Marina di Campo, a lovely town about 20 minutes away from our hotel by taxi. The hotel recommended a place called Kontiki and called to make us a reservation. We arrived and were shown to a lovely table in the corner of their outside dining area. It had a wonderful view of the harbor and we were initially very happy. Our server was a friendly gentleman who raved about the fresh seafood, in particular the tuna, prompting three of us to order it.

About half an hour later the food finally arrived. Now we know that when you order seared tuna, the inside will be raw. What we didn't anticipate was that the whole dish would be stone cold likely from sitting in the kitchen for 10 minutes before they brought it out. Not only was it cold, it was tasteless, as was the lemon fish dish ordered by my sister. So already we were not particularly impressed.

The next problem occurred as darkness fell. A large, bright light went on directly behind me, issuing a mating call to all the flies in Italy. Soon we were madly swatting at hundreds (or thousands?) of these little flies. They were swan-diving into the wine glasses and landing happily on the half a plate of tuna I still had left.

After several minutes of rather obvious distress, the staff moved us to a table away from the light. They did provide another bottle of wine to replace the one that the flies were now drinking. They also offered me some bread to replace about 12 euros worth of tuna that I had abandoned to the flies.

The icing on the cake was the half-hour worth of arguing that took place over the bill. When we expressed our unhappiness with both the food and the flies, our server and his wife (who may have been the managers?) vehemently denied the poor quality of the food, claimed that we did not know how an Italian kitchen should be, she told us that we were "crucifying her" and he brought out a slab of the tuna to prove how wonderful and fresh it was. All we wanted was to have some of the bill reduced due to the fact that I lost half my meal and the overpriced tuna dishes were cold and bland.

But restaurant service can be a bit of an oxymoron here in Italy, as well all know. They finally removed two of the tuna dishes from the bill, we paid and got the heck out of there.

In the end, it makes for a funny story and in no way colors my memories of another fantastic trip with The Girls, nor does it diminish my feelings about Elba, which is a lovely place.

I am already looking forward to next year's adventure. Bring It On!!

(Feel free to read our reviews of this restaurant on Trip Advisor.)

Lucky Me

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Sun, 10 Jul 2011 06:24:00 +0000

I stayed home on Saturday night. Not because I had no choice. I stayed home on Saturday night to nurse the wounds of a recent "romantic disappointment."

The silver lining of staying home on a Saturday night and going to bed at a reasonable hour (more reasonable than I care to admit) is that I was able to rouse myself at 7am on Sunday morning to get out for some much-needed exercise.

I have only done this a couple of times before, so it remains fascinating to me to see the city in the first hours of the day. There is always more going on than I would have expected. Even on a Sunday morning there are street cleaners everywhere, sweeping up the detritus of the night before. There are a few others running, seizing the opportunity to enjoy the city before the tourist siege begins. I am able to run along the river while the sun is still low enough that I am in the shadows of the buildings, which is helpful given that it's probably already 70+ degrees outside.

After the exercise portion of the program is over, I slow down and turn in toward the center of the city. I criss-cross through some of my favorite squares while the market vendors are just starting to set up for the day and the clink of dishes spills out from the coffee bars. A few more people are up and about now, a well-dressed young man here, a young family there.

Just outside Piazza Repubblica I encounter the first large tour group of the day, eagerly following their guide toward one of the many landmarks of this historic city. As I turn toward the Duomo, I think to myself "How lucky am I to live here?" I think back on my experiences as a tourist in wonderful European cities, looking around at the people who lived there and thinking how lucky they were, wondering if they realized it. And now I am one of them. I still can't quite believe it.

Most of the time, I am now officially one of those people who rush past the Duomo without really noticing because I'm too busy dodging tourists. But on this Sunday morning, I stop to look up at its grandeur. At that moment there is not one single person sitting on its front steps. It is peaceful and amazing. And I find tremendous happiness that I pass by it almost daily and can admire it any old time I feel like it.

Lucky me.

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Companionship

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Wed, 06 Jul 2011 15:48:00 +0000

I don't suppose there are too many of us that regularly ponder our golden years while we're still young(ish). I've joked with my friends and my sisters about living together when we're old and gray, passing our time cackling about how beautiful/foolish/lucky we were in our youth because unfortunately, there's a strong likelihood that we will have outlived our male companions.

Every once in a while, though, something might remind us that it doesn't last forever. That we shouldn't spend so much time looking forward to things that we forget to look at the here and now. Something that makes us think about the "inevitabilities" of life and hope that we will be surrounded by friends and family as the years ahead of us dwindle.

I have had such a reminder a couple of times recently. Twice in the past month or so, I have seen two women together, once when I was at the market with friends, and a second time when they passed by my house. They are clearly twin sisters and I can barely fathom a guess at their age. Perhaps late 80s or more? When we saw them at the market, they were linked arm in arm, one dragging their rolling shopper behind her. They move very slowly and are quite hunched but there they were at the market, fully decked out with their hairpieces, bright lipstick and hosiery. They were hard to miss making their way through the market.

Then last week I happened to glance out my window to see what was happening on the street and saw them again. Obviously I don't know their story. I wish I could ask them because I can imagine that they've had some interesting life experiences. They likely had/have husbands, children, grandchildren. They likely witnessed world wars and Florentine floods. What struck me about them was their togetherness and companionship. Maybe it's a bit presumptuous but I could almost feel their bond without even knowing who they were. They seem to be in it together and likely will be for the rest of their days. It made me sad to think that at some point, one will be alone.

It is then that the jokes about being with my sisters and friends when I am that age don't seem quite as funny. I hope they are actually predictions that will come true and that I will have my companions by my side, walking arm in arm like these sisters do.

* * * * * * * *

A Blogswap with Ciao Christy!

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 12:37:00 +0000

My life in Italy would be nothing without my incredible friend Christine. If not for her, I would not have met my amazing group of friends and she also helped me find the apartments that I have lived in the last 2 times I have been here. So when I say that she has made Florence "home" for me I mean that on every level.

She writes a great blog (that often includes photos that she has taken) called Ciao Christy and below is a sample of hers that I particularly loved. It encapsulates the Italian experience in so many ways. Enjoy!!

* * * * * * * *

Terms of Endearment

To piggy back (no pun intended) on a sentence in my previous post, I have to write about the "terms of endearment" that are used from my boyfriend. When asked to other Italians, are these normal? is he being sweet? The answer was always "Si". I really hope all these people were telling the truth, otherwise, I will be forming a complex.

Somehow when they are spoken from an Italian, they do seem more flirtatious and endearing.
If an American man said some of these words to me (in English), I'd probably slap him across the face.

For example:

"Patata" (Potato)

I am assured that its not only from the round figure, but also attributed to the back side.

"Mia Mozzarella" (My mozzarella)

When asked "Why do you call me mozzarella?" The reply was "Because you are so white."

"La Tigre" (The Tiger)

More commonly used to associate the woman as "sexy"

"Mio Amore" (My love)

This one is used both formally & informally from both sexes. Somehow in Italian it sounds so much better :)

I saved the best one for last. I am not the only one of my friends that have been called by their boyfriend "Il Porcellino" (Little Pig). A friend who is married to an Italian said to me "It is a compliment to be nicknamed after things that that are delicious!" I can accept patata, mozzarella, tigre, amore, but "little pig"? How could this possibly be something sweet? But, it is. I had to laugh about it, and decided in the end to give myself the nickname "Miss Piggy" and him "Kermit". The similarities are actually kind of similar. When people want to talk about cultural differences between Italy & the United States, think about these & laugh!

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Visit Ciao Christy if you'd like to read more of her experiences!

I'm Not as Stupid as I Sound...

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 14:01:00 +0000

Who out there has tried to learn a new language lately? Please, raise your hands up high so I can see you... no? No one? You know why you haven't?

Because you're smart. Because deep down you know that after the age of about 10, the window for learning another language with any hope of sounding legitimate has closed.

I won't turn this into a forum about how woefully short we Americans fall when it comes to learning other languages, though it is truly woeful. And my so-called bucket list has had learn another language on it for many years now, right after live in Europe. Since these activities seem to go hand in hand (unless your European adventure takes place in the UK or Ireland) it makes sense to do them in conjunction, right?

Logically, yes.

I have now spent 10 months living here in Italy and while my comprehension of the language has improved and I do much better at reading it, my ability to speak with any hint of accuracy is, well, pathetic. I wrote a post during my first 3 months about my battles with Rosetta Stone and while I have continued working with that program sporadically, I have gotten to the point that I truly want to try to learn at least rudimentary Italian.

So I enrolled in a course here in the city that meets 4 times a week for 2 hours at a time for 5 weeks. That equals 40 hours of Italian class. I am currently in the second to last week and while I have learned some things about grammar and in particular, use of verbs when describing past events, I feel only minimally closer to having the ability to speak in Italian.

At the same time, I have been fortunate enough to spend some time recently with a very patient (and... ahem... also very cute) Italian gentleman who is exceedingly good about encouraging me to butcher his language. This is helpful in that it forces me to try, but it is only when I try that I realize the cold, hard truth.

THIS IS F-ING IMPOSSIBLE!!!

All nouns are masculine or feminine, so you have to know which in order to say anything else, because the adjective changes form according to the gender of the word. And then I find out today: when using certain past tense verbs, you have to change the end of those to agree with the noun. Don't even get me started on what happens when it's plural. I almost burst into tears.

I know there will be ups and downs in the pursuit of learning something new. I also know that patience is not one of my strongest traits. I want to know this language and I want to know it NOW. Not in a year or three... NOW. Because dammit, I have a lot of things I want to say, especially to my cute new friend, and I can't!*

I will keep trying. I will allow myself to be laughed at by Italians for the mistakes that I make. As people who speak Italian keep saying to me: piano piano.** I just can't figure out why they want me to play the piano to improve my Italian...

* thankfully he speaks very good English

** actually means slowly

Broken Records and New Tricks

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Sat, 25 Jun 2011 04:37:00 +0000

I have in the past made mention of my tendency toward habit. For years, I found my daily routine comforting. Wake up around 5:30am, go to the gym, come home and start the coffee (which had been dutifully prepared the night before), get ready for work, sit with my breakfast in front of the Today show and then head to work. Disruptions to this routine were uncomfortable to me, and not particularly welcome.

I had moments of fear that I had grown so set in my ways that my future was destined to slip away in this broken-record fashion.

Then in 2008, I made the decision to leave my job and strike out on my own. Scary, yes, but at that point I was so ready for a change and figured it would be good for me to shake things up a bit. Gone was the need for pre-dawn workouts, the need to shower first thing in the morning... indeed to shower at all! It was incredibly freeing. I could roll out of bed whenever I felt like it which by then, even on weekends, was around 7:30 (or 8:00am if I was feeling really lazy). Who needs makeup? Certainly not me, especially if I'll be hitting that gym at 10:30 or 11:00am while everyone else is at work!

But like all creatures of habit, old routines were soon replaced by new ones. Get up, sit at the computer while watching the Today show and eating my breakfast (always the same thing, BTW...) Work out mid-late morning, back for lunch while watching HGTV, then some more work... you get the idea.

Then came this crazy Italy thing in 2009 and the rather striking disruption of any type of routine I had been clinging to for so long. I have chronicled some of that in the past but coming here was a game-changer in so many ways. No more comfort to be found in the familiar because nothing was familiar. Where is there a gym? How do you even say the word gym? How the hell do I use this little metal coffee thing??? I WANT MY KRUPS!

This experience has been sort of a "reawakening" or maybe just a regression of sorts. I sometimes feel like I am living the life I should have been living in my late 20s/early 30s when I was so busy preparing my coffee the night before. Now the girl who would never have dreamed of going to the gym after about 1:00pm goes at 11:00, or 1:30, or even 4 or 5:00pm. A day trip planned to the beach at Viareggio became an overnight trip based on an invitation received about 1/2 hour before departure. A walk home from an evening out with the girls in early May ended in kissing a random boy on the street* (I nicknamed him the Italian Josh Groban).

Would these things have happened before my reawakening? I think not!

(* As a side note, I was not the only one kissing a random boy on the street that night...)

What this all means is that maybe old dogs can learn new tricks after all. Maybe this idea of being "too set in my ways" is all just a state of mind. Sure, there will always be some elements of routine in my life. I will always wake up and have coffee first thing in the morning (as will most of the world). I will always brush my teeth right before going to bed (especially after kissing random boys on the street). But what happens between is all up in the air.

Forget those broken records, I left them in the dust. This old dog has an iPod anyway.

* * * * * * * *

Terror in Italy

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Wed, 08 Jun 2011 15:32:00 +0000

It’s one of those things that you think will never happen to you. You go about your business every day never thinking that someday, it might. It strikes fear into the hearts of ordinary men and might even reduce the likes of Arnold (Schwarzenegger) to a quivering mass.

The day started normally enough. I woke early to prepare for my second day of Italian class (also fear-inducing but a story for another day). I sat on the sofa looking through email, sipping my coffee. I heard a muffled noise but figured that it was likely something just outside the window on the ledge. Of the two windows in my living room, one was open to let in some fresh air and the other was closed.

Moments later, my nightmare began: from the corner of the room near the closed window and edge of the book case there was movement. “There is something… or someONE… in my house” I quickly ascertained. From the shadows, beady eyes watched my every move. And suddenly, the intruder revealed himself.

A scream erupted from my throat as a hawk flew directly toward me. With a 5-foot wingspan that seemed to engulf my small living room…

OK, maybe it wasn’t a hawk.

A GIANT pigeon, the Schwarzenegger of pigeons, was in my…

OK, it wasn’t a pigeon either. But it did have wings, and feathers, and was clearly as scared as I was. I knew it was likely inevitable that, in a city that lacks window screens, a bird would one day find itself in my apartment.

I am going to admit a painful truth about myself: I have a paralyzing fear of things that flutter near me. This includes moths, butterflies, birds, and the worst fluttering creature on earth – bats. I can appreciate the beauty of butterflies and birds as long as they are far, far away. [I wonder if there is a 12-step program for this problem?]

But back to the horror show unfolding in my living room. This poor little bird (sparrow, perhaps?) was trying desperately to get through the closed window and out into freedom. “Birds: Not so smart” is all I could think as this little creature ignored the open window just 4 feet to its right. Thank goodness my living room has a door, which I promptly slammed shut behind me.

I fought my fears, armed myself with a broom and dustpan and ventured back in, hoping that I could cross the room and open the window where my nemesis lingered. My heart was pounding wildly. Important note: I was not intending to hurt it, but in the event that it came in my direction I could at least shield myself with the dustpan and push it away with the broom.

I crossed the room, whimpering and whining in fear, listening to the manic wing-beat of the terrified little bird against the window. Using the dustpan to keep it from flying right at me, I did manage to get the window open and then beat a hasty retreat back into the hall. But the bird wasn’t getting it and flew up onto the top shelf of my floor to ceiling bookcase and sat next to a large speaker. I stood in the hallway, door cracked, watching it. I wanted to take a picture to document my torturer but my camera was being held captive in the living room…. Damn bird.

With class starting in just 20 minutes, I shut the door and figured that the bird would eventually figure out what direction to go in order to get out. Upon my return 3 hours later, I cautiously opened the door. No movement. Scanned the room. My feathery friend seems to have found his way to freedom.

While I have loved being on the top floor of my building, looking out over the roofs across the street, the scene before me now has a more ominous undertone…

Food Shopping for Dummies

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Fri, 22 Apr 2011 13:11:00 +0000

Grocery shopping. It's one of life's necessary tasks and frankly, one that I rather enjoy. I've never been one of those people that dreads going to the grocery store. Part of the reason may be that with my new job situation, I have the flexibility to go during the day when it's less crowded. I'm not fighting rush hour traffic in the cereal aisle. Even when I did work regular hours in an office, I willingly went to the store to stock up at least once a week. I would even go to multiple stores to cross things off my list. Trader Joe's first, then Stop & Shop...

That was in the States. It's all different here. And because of that, the bloom is off the rose, so to speak, in terms of my gusto for grocery shopping.

Heading out for my pilgrimage to the store now involves strapping on a backpack, unlocking the bike, and pedaling to the nearest large store around here: the Coop. The square footage of this store is probably 1/3 of your standard Stop & Shop, but it's still a pretty good store.

At any rate, because all travel is either by foot or on bike, one has to be very mindful of how much one buys during each run. Gone is the luxury of tossing bag after bag into the back of the car. You think twice about that bottle of Chianti when it's going to be knocking against your spine on the bone-jarring ride home over cobblestone streets.

Laundry detergent? Who needs it? I'll just hand wash in shampoo for a couple of days.

Bottle of fizzy water? Nah, I'll use a straw to blow bubbles into tap water.

More challenging than strategically packing all the purchases into the backpack and surviving the ride home, though, is finding those one or two things that are critical for survival, dare I say happiness, as an ex-pat in Italy.

Namely: peanut butter.

I have spun circle after circle in that Coop, trying to find a jar of peanut butter. Unlike American grocery stores, there are not thousands of options for most things (except pasta...) In the stores where I have found peanut butter, there is but one kind. One brand, called Calve, in one size jar. Sometimes you see Skippy but unless you want to spend about $6-7 for a very small jar, go with the Calve. It tastes better, too.

I found it once at the Esselunga which is in a different neighborhood. But I'm convinced that there must be some in the Coop. After all, the Coop is the only store I've seen that carries sour cream, for goodness sake! (Again... one kind... in one little corner in the refrigerated section... and I know where it is!) They must have peanut butter!!!!

I can hear you thinking it: Why don't I just ask someone? Because I don't know how to say it in Italian. I'm not sure that there is a word in Italian for peanut butter.

And then I ran out. My quest for more took me to three other grocery stores to no avail. Christine told me that the one near her house sold it so I eagerly dashed over there only to find that their sole offering was 3 lonely jars of Skippy Chunky for the equivalent of $7.41 per jar. No can do. Plus I don't like the chunks.

So I was forced to go back to the Esselunga. Thank goodness they still had it. I wish I could buy a 6-month supply, but it's about a mile from my house over some bumpy and busy roads. And if I crammed them into the backpack I'd run the risk that the bottle of Chianti might get broken.

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Driving in DC: Rotaries

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 12:15:00 +0000

As my last post indicated, I am a Boston driver. This makes sense since I have lived there for most of my driving life. Yes, I admit that I can occasionally get a little "assertive" on the road and have at times considered a yellow light as an invitation to speed up.

Most Bostonians are also familiar with what we call "rotaries," circular traffic patterns around a center island that I always figured were intended to keep cars moving smoothly through an area, thereby precluding the need for yet another stoplight. Upon approach to a rotary, you slow slightly, look left, shut your eyes and gun it.

Technically I suppose those who are already in the rotary have the right of way but as we all know, they will never let you in. Therefore you have to create your own opportunity.

Imagine my surprise the first time I did a little Sunday drive around downtown Washington DC. The first notable difference is that I didn't even realize I was approaching a rotary because there was a stoplight preventing my entry. I gazed in befuddlement ahead of me, trying to figure out what to do once the light turned green, as the rotary ahead of me was a mystifying mass of concrete medians and yet more stoplights.

I am confused: if the idea is to keep traffic moving smoothly, why would you chop it up with lights and medians? If I want to exit the rotary 3/4 of the way around, do I keep to the outside of these medians or do I go inside? And if I go to the inside, how do I transition to the outside in order to exit? If, while in the rotary, you are at a red light at the place that you want to exit, can you go "right" on red and thereby get the heck outta there?

And the most important question: Why did they have to make this so complicated?

My research shows that apparently this type of rotary (which should actually be called a "roundabout" thanks to our friends in the UK) is safer than the rotaries we are accustomed to in the Northeast. Well FINE. That may be the case. But they are a heck of a lot less fun.

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Better Late Than Never: DC Impressions

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Sun, 13 Feb 2011 14:39:00 +0000

I have been in DC for just over 4 months now and have been quite remiss in writing about much of anything since I got here. Soon I will be leaving here to return to Italy, therefore it seemed like a good time to share a few random observations I've had about living in a new place. Ultimately Boston and Washington are not all that different, being that both are cities on the east coast of the US. But there have been a few things that have stood out for me, and now is as good a time as any to share them.

I will have to break this up into a couple of entries as I know that my offerings tend to get a little long... so please accept this as installment 1.

Driving:
In my early days here, I was told that DC drivers are rude and obnoxious at a level that would rival Boston's notoriously aggressive driving public. My immediate reaction was a loud guffaw and comment like "not possible..." I'm not sure why I have this sense of territorial pride about how bad Boston drivers are but there it is. Maybe it's because I'm one of them?

At any rate, I have spent time driving in two cities before moving here: Boston and Seattle. In terms of the driving spectrum, I would place them at opposite ends. Where Seattle is calm, orderly and polite, Boston is the antithesis. Phrases like "eat or be eaten," "every man for himself," and "eat my dust" come to mind. I admit that driving in DC has left me feeling that there is some kind of split personality going on down here.

On the one hand, in the city and on side streets in the burbs, I have experienced some admirably aggressive moves and way more horn-honking than I ever did in Boston. I am guessing that Bostonians finally realized that if everyone is honking all the time, the impact is lost and just gave up. Or maybe it's laziness. That's not a problem here, drivers regularly "test" their horns as a comment on the driving of others.

On the other hand, everything changes on the highways. Up in Boston, there is a road that is confusingly called both 128 and 95, at various points splitting from one another. This stretch could easily serve as practice ground for drivers of the Daytona 500. The faster the better, weave as much as you want, and even better: you can drive at warp speed in the breakdown lane at certain times of the day. Total free-for-all.

Here, you are pretty much the fastest car on the road if you exceed the speed limit by 5mph. More likely the cars around you are going LESS than the posted speed limit by 5-10mph. It boggles my mind. I am not suggesting that everyone should max out the speedometer but highways were designed for higher speeds. They post those speeds on handy black and white signs along the side of the road. Can't we all make a pact to at least drive at the speed limit? No wonder DC was recently ranked #1 in terms of worst traffic. No one drives fast enough.

[Next up: Rotaries]

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Conversation Starters

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 12:15:00 +0000

Anyone who has been single recently will appreciate the need for a handful of semi-probing questions that you have to pull out of your arsenal when that first date is growing awkwardly silent. I have mine, questions like: What's your favorite movie? What is your top vacation destination? But my favorite by far is "What time in your life would you like to go back and live over again?" I further the length of the response by adding that you can pick one time to go back and live over knowing what you know now, and another to go back and live over just exactly like it was. Have you ever thought about this?

I have now asked this question so many times over the years that I have my answers down cold. But they remain as true today as they did when I first started thinking about it. After all, you can't ask a question of someone and not know what your own response would be. So here goes.

Knowing what I know now:
For this one I usually say college. That might not be entirely fair since it's a 4-year stretch of time, so if I need to narrow it down a little, I'll go with senior year. I would like to relive that year because it was SO freakin' fun. We got into the nice "new" dorms by the skin of our teeth. We didn't even have to walk up a flight of stairs to get to our apartment, we just climbed through the window. We were as close to campus as it was possible to be at that time (I'm exposing our sheer laziness here, or maybe it was just me...) We had a hilariously funny group of guy friends right down the hall. (I would not go into their apartment in my little do-over, though. I hope they brought in a hazmat team to clean it out.) Tailgating, Yahtzee, french fries off the kitchen floor...what a year.

The reason I'd go back knowing what I know now is that I'd enjoy it so much more without the shackles of insecurity that plagued me for so long. It held me back, which then undermined the experience somewhat. I've always had a morsel of regret about that.

Oh, and (Dad, cover your eyes...) I would study a little harder. I ended my college career with a solid B average but if I had applied myself just slightly more, I could have done a lot better. For example, I wouldn't have played "book football" with my copy of "Absalom, Absalom!" Or maybe I would have, did you ever try to read it?

Anyway, I digress...

Just like it was:
Without a doubt, if I could pick a time to go back and relive just exactly like it was, it would be summers in Camden. For those who don't know, there were a few years that my family had a house on Lake Megunticook in Maine that was, without exaggerating, paradise. It was on a little peninsula that stuck out into the lake. On one side was the placid little cove shared with one neighbor, on the other was the rougher, more open part of the lake where speed boats would whip by dragging waterskiers behind them. At the end was "the point", a rather steep rock formation, angling down to the water where we had a flagpole and a firepit for making the world's best smores. In the trees around the house there was a tire swing and a hammock.

With a family of four girls, I'm sure there were plenty of moments involving yelling, crying and door slamming, but that is not what I remember most. I remember board games and card games and hide & seek or my all-time favorite, Sardines. Sparklers on the lawn, swimming, air hockey, canoeing... it was a summer heaven. And then when the Delaneys came to visit – LOOK OUT. Six people turned into twelve, four adults and eight kids. Seven girls and one boy (poor Pat...) all in the same age range. It was the best of times. If I could snap my fingers and go back to one of those summers, I would do it in a heartbeat.

* * *
I encourage everyone who reads this (all 5 of you...) to try this exercise sometime. Just writing this has brought me back to times that are forever imprinted in my memory. I suppose the "knowing what you know now" memory might not necessarily be a great one because it implies that you took some sort of misstep. But it is still fun to think about this stuff.

And I'll let you off easy: you don't even have to go out on a first date. You can just think about it on your own or discuss amongst your friends. And for those of you who may be floundering in silence on that next first date, feel free to use it.

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Rerooting

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 17:06:00 +0000

About a month ago I was up at my Dad and Marie's house on the beautiful coast of Maine. In an effort to be helpful with the multitude of projects that are ongoing on their property, I asked Dad if there was anything I could do. [It's important to know that yard work of any kind is NOT my thing. My offers to help in such activities are generally met with gales of laughter, especially by Marie who is the complete opposite of me.] At any rate, he bravely took me up on my offer and asked my help in clearing out an area that was filling up with plants (and weeds) that had recently been cleared out.

As we pulled on various green things, it became very apparent why they had sprung back up, as the roots these plants were attached to were spread far and deep into the soil. Yanking one small stem sometimes led to subterranean connections several feet away. There were some things that were far stronger than I, stubbornly refusing to part with the earth no matter how hard I pulled, yanked, and perspired. This project has come to mind several times since then as I prepared to leave Boston after living there for the past 10 years.

The saying goes something like "you can take the girl out of the city but you can't take the city out of the girl." The implication is that where you come from is deeply ingrained in you, that no matter where you go you take a piece of it with you. It is where your roots are and even if you pull yourself up and move, there is a bit of you left in that place. You are never fully disconnected from it.

I have tested this a couple of times. I lived in Seattle for 3 years and absolutely loved it. I didn't mind the gray skies, I loved that it never got cold, and to this day I think it's the most beautiful place for a city to be located, surrounded by lake, ocean, mountains and a volcano. I started to become very attached to my adopted northwest home. The one drawback was that Seattle is 3,000 miles from my home, my family, and from my roots. So after 3 years I returned to New England. But I left a little seedling behind and there is still part of me that will always feel connected to that place.

Then last year, as you probably know, I pulled up roots once again and headed for Italy, the land of beautiful food, wine and men. I found all of those to be true and had a truly life-changing experience. Going there was both incredibly challenging and rewarding and there is no question in my mind that there is another little seedling there. It is a place that I love without a doubt and I hope to return there at some point in the not-too-distant future. It will always hold a special place in my heart because of the wonderful people I met and experiences I had there.

And now, after a few months at home, I am hoping to nurture yet another seedling here in Arlington, Virginia. As much as I am a native New Englander, I have grown increasingly wimpy when facing long, cold, dark Boston winters. I am not a cold-weather person anymore, if I ever really was. I can finally admit it: I don't really care about skiing. I can almost hear the collective gasp of horror from many of my New England friends. Skiing is freakin' cold, expensive, and pretty darn far from Boston. And it's not that I'm a terrible skier, I actually can get down the mountain while maintaining my dignity. But I just don't care about it! (Ahhhh, I feel so free right now...)

I know, I know... there is winter here, too. I've heard it. And the Farmer's Almanac says this one is supposed to be as bad as last year was down here when they had more snow than Boston did. And yes, I've also heard how hot and humid the summers are. I don't care, truly. I'll take that over 5 months of winter any time. Maybe I'll change my tune after I've experienced it all firsthand but one thing at a time. I just got here, so I'm still in the rose-colored glasses stage where snow comes and goes in a day or two and it doesn't stay under the freezing mark for very long. Please let me stay in this delusion for a while...

Whether a seedling will be born here has yet to be seen, but shaking things up and trying out a new place is exciting. And I know that in a couple of months I will drive north for the holidays. As I cross into New England, something deep inside will shift, the scenery will be familiar like the smell in the air. There is a subconscious feeling of comfort in what has always been and will always be home, because my roots remain there, buried deep under the frozen soil.

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Old Yeller Epilogue: The Yellow Metal Miracle!!

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 15:40:00 +0000

For those who were saddened by the sad story of Old Yeller, you may be happy to hear that there actually IS a happy ending! With thanks to Stefano, Yeller’s fender was unbent enough to allow the back tire to spin once again and we got in a few more cross-city rides before my departure. He will now be in the loving care of Kendra who I know will continue to nurse him back to health so they can enjoy many kilometers of fun together.

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Finding Balance

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 15:06:00 +0000

(This entry was written the day before I left Italy...)

It occurred to me as I was walking home the other night that I have been so busy mentally preparing myself for the transition back to the US that I have forgotten what is that I am leaving behind. A month ago it was the opposite, I was so sad at the prospect of leaving this place that has become my second home that I couldn’t imagine what good could come from it. It made me wonder why it is that I’ve been so firmly in either one state of mind or the other.

It seems impossible for my brain to process the conflicting feelings I have about leaving here for a second time. I’m sad to be leaving yet happy to be going home. Then I’m happy to be leaving and sad to be going home. I can’t make sense of it. I can’t figure out how to find a place of balance, where I can feel happy and sad all at once.

So many things in life are a blend of both good and bad, so it seems like we should be better able to take these things in stride. But emotions are emotions, you feel what you feel and there is no way to rationalize yourself out of it, and I have tried. Being the Libra that I am, always striving to find balance, I have been thinking hard about the opposite sides of this emotional transition and what I’ve experienced these past four months.

Happy: I have made wonderful friends here that have added indescribable depth, joy and hilarity to this experience.
Sad: Now I have to say goodbye to them, or at least farewell for now.

Happy: I will soon get to see my family and friends who I have missed greatly.
Sad: I will not get to see Stefano for quite a long time, and I will miss him greatly.

Happy: I will be able to walk out my door without stepping into throngs of tourists.
Sad: I will not walk or bike everywhere anymore, passing by buildings, bridges and statues that continue to thrill me.

Happy: I will be back where there is tremendous comfort in the familiar.
Sad: I will no longer be able to gawk at attractive, well-dressed Italian men.

Happy: I will be utterly comfortable speaking my own language all the time and I will understand what everyone is saying.
Sad: Unless I really keep at it (which I vow to do along with Valerie), I will soon lose the minor strides I’ve made in learning Italian.

Happy: I will be able to sleep much more peacefully, no more trash trucks outside at 12:45am (when I started writing this blog) or street sweeper trucks groaning down the street at 6am.
Sad: Ah-ha! Nothing but happy on this one.

For now I will have to try to live comfortably in the middle ground, walking carefully along this fine line between happy and sad. In the sad moments I will think about all the great times and wonderful memories and will look forward to my return and seeing my friends again. I wouldn’t trade any of it.

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Destination: Malta

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Sat, 24 Jul 2010 10:32:00 +0000

"You're going where?" "To Malta!" "...er, why Malta?" "Because... um... it's there?"

* * * *

This conversation happened a few times in the days and weeks leading up to the last-hurrah girls' trip to Malta. True, it's not one of the hottest destination spots in Europe, but it's also likely true that unless you're in Italy, you probably aren't going to make the trip to Malta so why the heck not? After all, there was a movie made about some falcon that lived there, and I think maybe some historic things happened there. I at least knew it existed because my geography teacher in 10th grade never let me forget that I left it off of my map of Europe.

Valerie and I had been trying to plan some sort of cool trip for quite a while. When a few others indicated interest, the list of possible destinations got all screwed up. "I've already been there..." "I have no interest in going there" "But are there beaches? I need beaches..."

Criteria were:
• No one had been
• Is affordable
• Not too hard to get to
• Within EU (critical for return to Italy for those who may have slightly overstayed their visa...)

Malta? Sure, why not? Bring it!

When Val found a package deal that included direct flight and 4 nights in a 5-star hotel for the US equivalent of $375, we figured we had nothing to lose. We booked it and shortly thereafter were joined by Kendra and My, then Christine and Nadia. How can you go wrong with a group of 6 hot women? You could have dropped us in Siberia and we'd make it fun. Unfortunately, our fabulous friend Christine was unable to make it at the last minute, so 6 became 5. But the show must go on.

Kendra, Valerie, Nadia, My and me

The journey began last Saturday morning. Because we were flying from Bologna, we hopped a van (thank you Val) to take us from Florence to the Bologna airport. A quick 1.5 hour flight later we landed on the tiny island of Malta.

For point of reference, Malta is a bit smaller than Martha's Vineyard. I only just learned that now, I knew nothing about it before we went there. And truth be told I know almost nothing about it now. I am slightly embarrassed to admit that but there... I said it. I was on vacation, dammit, not a school trip.

But I digress...

We took a couple of cabs from the airport where the most obvious difference is that they drive on the wrong side of the road. I mean OPPOSITE side of the road. This is a throwback to the time that Malta was a British colony, which also explains the bright red English phone booths that are scattered about.

Phone booth and modern day public transportation

To summarize the days that followed: cocktails, food, sleep, pool, food, cocktails, food, sleep. You may notice that the word "beach" is missing from the activity list. This was not for lack of trying. Well, maybe we didn't try that hard but we did ask a lot of people "where is the best beach?" Their first question was invariably "rocky or sandy?" What kind of question is that? Sandy, of course!!

The first respondent told us about a small, man-made sandy beach about a 10 minute walk from the hotel. Man-made? No, thank you.

The second respondent told us that there was a pretty good sandy beach about 20-25 minutes away by bus. Hm, possibly.

The third respondent was adamant that the best sandy beach by far was also reachable by bus but we'd have to be on it for 45 minutes.

Pool on the roof of the hotel? Unanimous agreement. We spent a lot of time up there. It was really nice, had bathrooms and people who would bring you drinks, and you didn't get sand in uncomfortable places. It was awesome.

But on the day before we left, we realized that with the exception of a couple of dinners in other nearby towns, we had not seen any of Malta. It was time to soak up some culture and learn a bit about its rich history. How? By taking one of those open-top tour buses, the perfect way to see any new place! We left the hotel to make our way down to the waterfront where we could jump on the bus, making a rather lengthy detour into a shoe store on the way. When we reached the bus stop, we learned that we had missed the last tour bus by 1/2 hour, exactly the duration of our shoe-shopping excursion. Darn it.

Our power negotiator Nadia managed to get us a private van "tour" of a couple of Malta's highlights and thank goodness we did this. We saw Dome in Mosta which is the 4th largest in Europe, and then we visited Mdina, the oldest city on the island (4000 years,) also known as "the silent city." It is incredibly beautiful and has an amazing atmosphere. Our driver Benny did not offer a huge amount of background on either of these places but the most important thing is that we saw more of Malta than just the pool at the hotel.

Inside of Mosta Dome and entrance to Mdina, "the silent city"

My overall impressions of Malta are as follows:
• Incredibly nice people
• Grittier than I expected and not as pretty
• Beige

This trip did accomplish what I was hoping for, though, which was to spend time with some great new friends, get a tan, relax, and eat some good food. We had fish every day, laughed harder than any of us probably have in a long time, and made memories that will last a lifetime. And that's what vacation is really all about.

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The Story of Old Yeller

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 20:32:00 +0000

Prologue:
Before my return to Florence back in March, I vowed that this time around, I would get a bike to get myself around town. Hindsight being 20/20 and all, I really should have done this last fall when I was living well outside the city center and had an almost 2-mile round trip walk to do anything in town. Having missed that opportunity, I swore I would not let that happen again.

Chapter 1:
Being the procrastinator that I am (I can almost hear the collective gasp of surprise from all that know me to hear that...) I dragged my feet on getting one once I got back. After all, I was now living in the city center, just a few blocks from most places I would want to go. There were other excuses as well: I have no place to park a bike. I cannot carry a very heavy city bike up 4 flights of stairs so it can sit safely in my apartment. What if it got stolen? Would I get mowed down by the careening buses/scooters/other bike riders that fill the narrow streets of Florence?

Chapter 2:
The peer pressure finally took its toll... all the cool kids (aka, my girlfriends here) have a bike and extolled the virtues of bike ownership. I was feeling left out and poky and truly like a tourist, having to straggle behind as they sped their way around town. So in early June I took a look on Craigslist and found this:

BIANCHI CITY BIKE
WORKING BREAKS (note: her typo, not mine...) AND TIRES
INCLUDES FRONT BASKET AND GOOD BIKE LOCK

I seized the opportunity to become more truly a resident and took the plunge, buying this bright yellow beauty (which I named "Old Yeller") for the bargain price of about $65.

The parking lot down the block where I left Old Yeller and a close-up of him

Chapter 3:
Bikes are an ingrained part of the Florentine culture. In past entries I have mentioned the wide variety in the biking public of Florence which includes teenage boys with their girlfriends riding sidesaddle on the back, nuns in sandals with habits flying behind, businessmen in suits with beautiful leather briefcases strapped on, and beautiful women wearing skinny jeans and staggeringly high heels with Prada bags in the front basket. And now, I was about to become part of this in crowd and I was very excited about it.

Cross-section of the biking public of Florence

Chapter 4:
As many of you know, I feel quite comfortable on a bike. I pass many a happy hour spinning around the country roads of Eastern Massachusetts primarily for exercise purposes but also to see some beautiful scenery.

But let's be clear: Hopping on a bike to pedal around Florence, Italy resembles this in NO WAY.

Forget any former biking experience I may have had. For the first few rides I felt like I wanted to reattach the old training wheels. Not only is the bike itself over twice as heavy but there are almost no streets that have nice smooth pavement like at home. You have to push yourself and your 2-wheeled behemoth over cobbled streets that could rattle the teeth right out of your head.

Then you have to share these bone-jarring passageways with others who have no sympathy for your fear and hesitation. Bikes and scooters go the wrong way down one way streets. Pedestrians have no concern for the fact that they are walking in the middle of the street and are oblivious to the frenzied ringing of your bike bell as you bear down on them. And huge tour groups move like schools of fish, suddenly switching direction as they follow the bobbing umbrella of their guide up ahead. Let's just say it all took some getting used to.

Chapter 5:
After a few rides, I started to get the hang of it. Suddenly trips to the grocery store that previously took 45 minutes could be accomplished in about 20. Meeting my friends for dinner or drinks on the other side of the center was no problem at all. And I could wear my heels to the bar or restaurant because I didn't actually have to walk across town in them. It was truly liberating.

Old Yeller and I found our rhythm. Now I was one of the crazy bikers going the wrong way down one-way streets and weaving between dazed tourists who wander around the Duomo looking up rather than at what is happening around them. I found a good spot to park him right down the block that was easy to manage. I felt like I had truly arrived.

Chapter 6:
I'm sorry to say, though, that this story does not have a happy ending. Last week I was leaving town for my last-hurrah vacation in Malta with the girls (entry to follow) and parked Old Yeller in a rack a little closer to my building thinking it would be safer for 5 days. My concern upon getting back was that I wouldn't be able to maneuver my yellow companion out of this rack because others would have parked their bikes all over him. I had a vague thought that he might be stolen but figured "well, I'm going home in a week. If he gets bike-napped, so be it."

Unfortunately, he was not stolen but someone apparently tried very hard. They pulled so hard trying to yank him out of the rack to which he was tethered that they mangled the back fender, rendering him inoperable. The rabies bite of the bike world. They almost managed to break through the lock, which was also quite damaged. Now I'm left with a bike that I can't use, sell or even push down the street to see about getting fixed. I'm also left with a dilemma about what to do with him.

Shot of the damage done to my faithful friend and what can happen to your bike if you leave it for too long...

Old Yeller appears to be on his last legs. For those who don't know the end of that classic tale, see the following link:
http://www.chacha.com/question/what-happens-to-old-yeller-at-the-end-of-the-movie

I don't know how this tale will really end but I am sad to think that Old Yeller and I have taken our last cross-town ride together. Rest in peace, little buddy. You'll be missed.

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Beach Bumming Italian Style

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Thu, 17 Jun 2010 16:34:00 +0000

In general, I would not call myself a beach bum. I like the beach, I enjoy going from time to time, but having grown up in the northeast where the beach season is short, the sand is coarse and the water is freakin' freezing, I would not say I have a particularly strong need to hit the beach regularly. That might be about to change...

For the past 2 Sundays, Val and I have headed for the coast. To Viareggio, which is on the northwest coast of Italy. It's not super-close to Florence but it's quite easy to get there, a simple 1.5 hour train ride that costs about $8 each way. No sitting in traffic, no fighting for the right to pay $25 to park, no balancing chairs, coolers and beach bags for 2 miles to get from your car to the sand.

Most Italians we've talked to turn up their noses at Viareggio, citing dirty water and overcrowded beaches as reasons to head for other coastal towns that are not readily accessible by train. I've heard people say that it's a little cheesy, not as picturesque and classy as some of the other options. So my expectations were low the first time we set foot in Viareggio and followed the smell of salt water over to the beach. I had visions of Hampton Beach or Hyannis bouncing around my brain.

Those naysayers need to spend some time in either of those towns before they utter another bad word about Viareggio. I love it there.

To start, there is none of that real estate prospecting that goes on at American beaches. You know what I'm talking about: you get to the beach around 10am, stake out the perfect location equidistant from water's edge, bathroom and snack bar, and no sooner do you lay out your towel, here comes the family of 10 who park themselves 5 feet from you, oblivious to the acres of empty sand around you. They have their giant umbrella, pulsating boom box and team of screaming kids just panting at the chance to kick sand all over you. By noon the beach is no longer visible as it's been covered over by multiplying umbrellas, plastic beach toys and inflatable alligator rafts.

No no... here they do it right. The whole beach is set up into beach "clubs" where you pay a relatively small fee for an umbrella and chairs that are set up in orderly rows with respectable distances around them. There are nice little walkways leading down the rows to your little parcel of sand. The fee also means that you can get food from their snack bar (not free, of course), use the bathrooms, and shower off at the end of the day. [For extra money you can have a little dressing room but who needs that, really.] It's GREAT.

Next is the water. I don't know what the issue is for Italians but the water in Viareggio is perfect, at least from this New Englander's point of view. It's refreshing without being a shock to the system when you walk in, warm without feeling like salty bathwater. You can wade far out without getting too deep, the waves are just enough to be fun without being scary. They say it's dirty but when you scoop up a handful, it's crystal clear. There might be a little silt right at the water's edge that's been brought in by the waves but it's nothing compared to the slimy tumbling seaweed of the beaches I've known. You could stay in it for hours.

Finally is the people watching. Most beaches have good people watching, even those in the States, so maybe there's a tie on this one. What is sort of nice about the crowds at Viareggio is that there is a bit more of a range than the Italian population of Florence. Here in the city, the vast majority of Italians are thin, fashionable and beautiful. Not so in Viareggio. Wide-ranging body types abound, and I mean WIDE. And it's quite true that many of the men here wear Speedos. Too many men, if you know what I mean... it's not the buff youngsters who are sporting them. But the point is that you can go there as shape or size, in any type of bathing suit and feel perfectly at ease.

So I've been converted: I am now a beach bum. I might just quit my job and move there. If you need me you know where I'll be. Just remember to bring your Speedo.

* Photos taken by my fabulous friend Val

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Can I Get A Do-Over?

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 15:04:00 +0000

Remember the good old days when you were a kid playing games in the yard with your friends and someone would mess up or make a mistake and request a "do-over?" Your friends would discuss amongst themselves and decide whether you'd get the do-over or not but most likely you'd get it. I'd like those days back, please. As a general rule, I'd say that we shouldn't get do-overs in order to right our little wrongs, correct our minor mistakes, or recover from our missteps. It seems to me that those are the things that teach us lessons, make us humble, help us grow.

However, there are the occasions in life where you really wish you could call a time-out and request a do-over. Such is the case for me with my recent trip to Barcelona with my fabulous friend Valerie. Let me hurry to first say that we had a really good time, saw some sights, stayed in a nice hotel, ate some yummy food, had lots of good talks, and overall it was a great trip.

The desire for a do-over of this trip comes from a different place. For many years and from numerous sources, I have heard how wonderful Barcelona is. Descriptions such as beautiful, exciting, great night life, great food, beautiful men, nice beaches were plentiful. Our friend Nadia describes it as her all-time favourite city (intentionally used the Canadian/British spelling there...) The trouble is that when you've heard about a place for so long you create a version of it in your mind and all too often your imaginary version is rather off the mark.

It surprises me to realize that I have (quite unknowingly) acquired "Florentine Blinders" making me think that all European cities are just like the one I'm currently calling home. That is to say: ancient, filled with hints of its Renaissance past, cobbled, quaint, and well contained.

These are not words I would use to describe Barcelona. The first thing that struck me is that it is much larger than I expected and much more "city-like." It is large, sprawling, more modern and filled with cars. It has a lot of trees and green spaces and wonderful fountains. It is colorful and the people watching has Florence beat by a mile. It has beautiful parks up in the hills, large bustling marinas and several beaches. It is filled with modern outdoor sculptures which range from kitschy lobsters to abstract steel. It has beautiful Gothic churches interspersed with the unique creativity of Gaudi's architectural styling. In other words it is in many ways the antithesis of Florence.

Architecture of Gaudi and a sample of the outdoor sculpture

We spent a good portion of our time in La Rambla which is a wide boulevard leading from the marina into the heart of the city and is one of the highlights of the city. It is full of artists, street performers, flower vendors and tourists of all kinds. There is a wonderful market (Mercat de La Boqueria) that rivals Florence's Mercato Centrale in size, color and variety of offerings.

Street performer and Mercat de La Boqueria

We enjoyed time along the waterfront areas, rode on one of those double-decker open city tour buses (see photo, courtesy of Val) and ate seafood whenever possible. But we also spent one lazy afternoon pretending to work by the hotel's rooftop pool, slept really late every day and jumped at the chance to watch some incredibly bad American television shows. In our view it was the perfect blend between lazy vacation and playing tourist.

However, when we got back to Florence and were asked questions like:
• What did you think of ___ park and ___ museum?
• Wasn't the paella delicious?
• Isn't the nightclub scene amazing?
• How many sexy Spanish men did you flirt with?

...we had to mumble a little that we didn't really know or hadn't partaken. (Well, in all fairness to us, we did try to get paella one night but it was highly disappointing.)

Therefore I am requesting a do-over. I would like to go back to Barcelona for a much longer period of time and make sure that I explore the city, the food, the clubs and the men MUCH more closely. I just don't think I did it right and I'd like the opportunity to try again.

OK friends, please discuss amongst yourselves whether you'll allow me this do-over. Pretty please with sugar on top?

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It's Raining. Men...

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Sat, 15 May 2010 11:35:00 +0000

I know what you're thinking: I'm either going to quote lyrics to that well-loved song by the Weather Girls or I'm going to launch into a colorful description of encounters with Italian men.

In fact these are separate thoughts as evidenced by purposeful punctuation. It is raining... again... as it has been for basically two straight weeks. It has not rained all day, every day but for the most part, Florence has not seen much in the way of sun since about May 1. I know I'm not going to get tons of sympathy but for those of us who are trying to enjoy Italian adventures of any kind, we're sick of bad hair days, our rain coats, and cheap umbrellas.

OK, I'm done whining.

The second part of the title is a reference to Italian men but in a very PG-rated way. As is probably universally understood, women generally spend a considerable amount of time contemplating the actions, words, thoughts, and responses of men. I am sure this is as true of German, Indian, African or Spanish women as it is of us Americans. Analysis of whether men are in fact from Mars or perhaps a much more distant planet provides hours of entertainment at wine (I mean...book) club meetings everywhere.

This becomes even more entertaining when you are trying to decipher the male psyche across cultures. We American women have enough trouble trying to understand American men. (Which is interesting when you consider the fact that women give birth to and raise them. You'd think might provide some sort of insight...?) But once you move to a new place where you really don't know The Rules, all bets are off.

That being said I thought I'd compile a few general hypotheses I've gleaned about Italian men both from personal experience and from the many conversations I've had with my North American girlfriends (that's a nod to my lovely Canadian friend).

They are very comfortable with their sexuality, and yours. They will show affection to other men, you'll regularly see men giving each other the double-kiss in greeting. There is no fear that someone will think they are gay, they are just more overt in their physical affection for all people. It is also true that the men here make no attempt to hide that they are checking you out. They check out everyone, a leisurely up and down once-over as you walk by. I have heard that one of the reasons for the much more overt sensuality of this culture is that they are surrounded by it all their lives, in the art and sculpture that is everywhere, honoring the beauty of the human form.
They are willing to pursue. Even in cases where they shouldn't: they have a girlfriend, or wife, or you have a boyfriend, or you say you do in order to avoid them...
They do not seem to understand the directness of American women. In the States, we learn that we have to be somewhat direct because we don't want to be accused of "leading him on" or otherwise being disingenuous in our intent. Here that directness seems to offend or insult men because you are then making assumptions about their intent.
They are quite close with their families. It is not at all uncommon for men to live at home well into their 20s or even until they get married. The family bond is very strong here, and the men tend to stay very connected in a way that American men often do not . This may also be true for the women but because Italian women don't generally associate with non-Italian women, I really don't know.

Obviously these are all generalizations and are based on relatively limited experience. After all, I have only been here for ~5 months. I am sure that I will continue to discuss the nuances of the Italian male psyche in detail with my friends as it really is a source of endless fascination. I don't think there are many/any Italian men who read this blog but it anyone out there has something to add, please feel free. I'm always looking for additional enlightenment on this topic.

And in case you were wondering, it is still raining. But I heard a rumor that the sun might show up next week.

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Introspection (Unrelated to Italy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Sun, 09 May 2010 15:38:00 +0000

My biggest fear has always been that I will wake up when I am 70 years old and realize I never did all the things I wanted to. Actually, that’s not totally accurate. I used to think this would happen when I was 60 but as years slip past I feel the need to push that age, give myself more time for the dreams and goals. Suddenly 60 is far too close for comfort.

What is it about dreams and why do we always put them into the category of “someday…”? “Someday I’ll learn another language” or “someday I’ll travel to Australia,” such that no dream can be voiced without this prefix. In fact they can’t even be thought without it.

I’m going to say it out loud: I turned (gulp) 40 last year. It sometimes hurts to think it, hurts even more to say it out loud. I reassure myself that I don’t actually look 40, and maybe you’ve heard… 40 is the new 30. Putting aside current warnings about our dire health prognosis, we’re generally supposed to live longer than the generations that came before us but 40 is still a milestone I wasn’t ready to hit. Maybe I should have broken the dreams and goals into decades, what to do before 30, what to do before 40, etc. But the more parameters you put around it the easier it is to miss the deadline.

There are so many small things I can think of that I want to be sure I do while I’m still able to do them: live in Europe for a while (check!), learn that language (working on it), keep traveling the globe, take painting/cooking classes, and go skydiving. I know that I can do any of those things whenever I want to. Whatever roadblocks are in front of them are of my own making and are therefore easily navigated.

But there is that one looming goal that is much more elusive because it is not really within my control. I never imagined I would turn 40 and still be alone. Alone may be a strong word because ultimately most of us are not really alone. We have families, friends, coworkers, and neighbors. We can walk out of our homes and be surrounded by other people at any given moment. But the nature of our society is that we pair up, find a partner, a lover, a spouse and from there create a family.

What about those of us who don’t follow that track, not for reasons of choice but for reasons of circumstance? Could it be argued that deep down we do make a choice, that there is some part of us that really doesn’t want it and that’s why it doesn’t happen for us? I have hoped for a long time to enter into a serious, long-term relationship as have my numerous beautiful, smart and fabulous single female friends.

I feel that I have tried to meet people and create opportunities for myself to find it. I go out on the dreaded first dates, work hard at the witty banter that accompanies such things, laugh, flirt, and (I am loathe to admit) occasionally even toss my hair. I put forth the positive, confident woman in those early stages of the relationship in an effort to maximize the opportunity for growth.

Yet here I am, still no serious, long-term relationship to add to my resume, no “+1” for parties, no guaranteed date for New Year’s Eve. I can’t change my Facebook status to “In a relationship” and have that status update cyber-blasted out to the pages of all of my friends. I’m not sure why this has proven to be so elusive for me and I certainly can’t explain it when I look around at my aforementioned fabulous single friends. Maybe I need to stop the hair toss…?

“Someday I will have a long-term relationship.” I hope I will. I think I will. But because it’s not in my control, it’s coming off my dreams and goals list. I can still skydive and travel to Australia, relationship or not. I’m going to keep working my way down the list and as things are checked off, I’ll add new ones. So when I wake up at 70 (er, make that 80…), I’ll realize that it’s actually the new 60 and I have plenty of time, whether there’s a +1 or not.

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Vignettes

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie) — Wed, 05 May 2010 18:34:00 +0000

So named because I have three unrelated topics to share and could not come up with any other title.

Notte Bianca: Translation of this is "White Night" and what it really means is "Here is Your City-mandated Excuse to Stay Up All Night and Party." This occurs on April 30 and not only does it mean that there are performances at venues all around the city, it also means that the stores stay open until midnight and offer discounts, bars and restaurants pump up the free food angle, and people come from far and wide, pouring into the city center to eat, drink and be merry. I wish I could have somehow captured a photo of this because I have never seen anything like it. But it was dark, of course, and I don't think my little digital camera could have captured the spirit and energy of this event.

The closest comparison I can come up with is when the Red Sox won the World Series in 2004 and within moments all of the Copley Square area was teeming with people screaming, cheering, honking horns, etc. The streets all over Florence were packed with people, there were bands of drummers behind which formed impromptu dancing parades, and literally everyone was walking around with a drink in their hand. Yet another thing I love about this place: open containers are not illegal in any sense. It was quite a spectacle and I'm glad I got to witness it, though I was feeling bad for the poor people who would have to clean up after all this...
Klab: I am no gym rat but I have definitely logged my share of hours sweating it out at the old health club. So I figured that stepping foot into Klab, my new gym, would feel instantly comfortable, like a little slice of home. On the contrary, though, there are several things that made it screamingly apparent that I was not on home turf:
• Men in Italy have no problem wearing spandex shorts. And when I say "shorts," I mean SHORTS.
• Women in Italy have no problem being nude in the locker room. I realize this is what the locker room is for, but in the States women do not walk around, have conversations, dry their hair and put in makeup while naked in the locker room. We are without clothing for approximately 2 seconds and even then we are trying to cover ourselves with a towel or something. Not the case here. They are confident enough not to care. I wish that would rub off on us Americans.
• Cardio machines are in (GASP!) Italian and weights are in kilograms. It takes a while to get accustomed to this. It took 5 tries to set the program for the treadmill. But I do love inputting my weight in kilograms. I pretend it's pounds.
Ethnic cuisine: I love Italian food as much as anyone which is one of the reasons I chose to come here in the first place. But after weeks and weeks of pasta your body starts to crave something (anything) different. Fortunately there are quite a few ethnic restaurants in Florence which, while they may not be quite the same as you'd find in the States (or the original countries, of course,) they satisfy the craving. So I've had sushi twice in the past 2 weeks and had some pretty good Pad Thai last Sunday.

But trying to cook something non-Italian is not an endeavor for the weak of heart. I invited my new girlfriends to my apartment for a dinner party on Tuesday and decided to make it Mexican Night in honor of Cinco de Mayo. I had already found one store (thankfully close to my house) that has many of the necessary components including the taco seasoning mix, hard corn and soft flour shells, chips, and salsa. A good start but you can't have tacos without cheese and sour cream. I heard a rumor that the store across town had sour cream so I set off on Monday to locate said store.

Finding the store was not the problem, it was trying to figure out where they might keep sour cream that proved to be the true challenge. I wheeled around that store for at least an hour. I knew it should be called "panna acida" but no container had those words. Would it be near the ricotta? Near the yogurt? Near the cheese? No. As I was just about to give up I saw some little containers tucked in with the fresh milk. They did not have the words "panna acida" on them but the little sign beneath them did so I took a leap of faith and bought two.

Thankfully I was right and hosted my Mexican Fiesta dinner party to some pretty good reviews. It still had a Tuscan flair: since I was unable to locate either cheddar or Monterey Jack cheese at any of the multiple stores I visited, we had to garnish with provolone. So maybe it wasn't quite the same as home but it was enough of a departure from pasta that no one seemed to care. And the sour cream was definitely the icing on the taco.

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