The Valtrianis
... are very fascinating. The three daughters, Cristina, Annalisa, and Giulia, all look unmistakably related but do not look alike, and are all intriguingly beautiful in their own way. Marco is the lone boy and a charming combination of being masculine and tender. He is little Caterina's favorite, aside from, of course, her mother Cristina. Caterina looks more Asian than Cristina. Cristina speaks English with a bit of a British accent; Annalisa with nearly a Southern accent; and Giulia's is tinted with Italian accents. Cristina has a regal, serene, dark beauty; Annalisa is sun-kissed, athletic, with a golden vitality; and Giulia has a true East meets West exoticism tempered with her own saucy independence. Ping Ping and Bruno have the kind of marriage made in fiction but presented by them, it really comes to life.
I know I make them sound like gods, but they're really such a fun bunch.
I'm really enjoying auditing this family. There's really no other way to describe it. You know, sitting in on a class and not taking it for any credit; like it will have no past nor future impact on your life. Theirs is an impenetrable bond even if they graciously introduce me into every fold of their lives. Of course the impression they are leaving on me will have some kind of impact, but I mean that the daily interactions here really will not change any practical aspect of my life at home. I am fortunate to have engaged in long talks with most members of the family. It's probably the final thing that will make this journey abroad complete: researching the psychological, historical, and cultural roots of my family.
Two days ago we went to the Centro dei Borghi in Navacchio, and today we went to Pisanova in Pisa. They are both malls. They are stale compared to what's available in America, but the difference is, in America, there is nothing but the mall. Here they have man-made wonders like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, or natural wonders like rolling Tuscan hills or fields of sunflowers and shit. Try finding that along the Santa Monica Freeway.
So Long, Farewell, Auf Weidersein, Adieu
(I'm not sure I got that German one right.) Goodbye, for the most part, to beautiful Florence. I left there on Sunday in a flurry and without much time to accomplish the last-minute critcial tasks of picking up a memento here or there, or buying an extra wallet at Prada or an extra pair of sunglasses at Gucci. You know, the usual stuff. I arrived in Usigliano di Lari later that afternoon and have been tucked away in the Tuscan hills with my cousins ever since.
Since the last sushi restaurant foray, there have been many developments: I took my final exams and did well; we ate steak at Osteria dei Benci for Tammy Hom's birthday; we finally had sushi that passed all the tests at The Fusion Bar; we had Chinese food in a better place at Hong Kong Ristorante; my landlady returned more of my deposit than I had anticipated given the burn on the counter, the burn on the candelabra, the broken mug, and the melted wax on the couch; the scalding heat here made an outdoor lunch at an agriturismo a veritable inferno that made the air-conditioned bathroom paradise; and I've since had many warm and wonderful meals with my family that make this place seem like an optimized home away from home.
In other news, I bought a leather jacket, Gucci sunglasses, 2 Prada purses and a wallet, a Diesel purse to match my Tod's, all to add to the many other Italian knickknacks I've accumulated in one month. The luggage will be a problem but I can leave my late spring wardrobe with my family, which they can bring back to the States in October. I expect San Diego to give me enough heat to wear all the cute little Sisley and Benetton halter tops I got here.
London is up next. I miss home in many ways - mostly the people. Being nestled away up here, I've begun again my habit of laughing convulsively to myself at the memory of Jose, reading Reyna's and Brian's e-mails, and Vicky's digital camera adventures.
Momoyama: The Standard Meets The Renaissance
We took another stab at sushi tonight and hit up Momoyama on Via Frediano, south of the Ponte Vecchio and just a couple blocks away from school. The Japanese locals in Florence swear by it and we will do anything for some diverse cuisine. If I even have to look at another pork product again I believe I will hurl. With all due respect, my beloved Italians, I have faithfully and steadfastly eaten prosciutto, pancetta, porchetta, salame, salsiccia, and mortadella as if I were one of your own. I have enjoyed it and even craved it as this month has gone by. I have taken it simply and purely with only a stale piece of ciabatta bread to stabilize its high salt content. But today, left with only a packet of pancetta and four large sausages in my refrigerator for lunch, I have eaten the very last piece of pork that my body can ingest.
Frustrated with carbohydrates and on a quest for protein, I stupidly settled for the final piece of sausage that broke the camel's back. I'm sure Dr. Barry Sears did not mean for sausage to qualify for the protein and fat portions allowed in the Zone diet, nor would he prescribe that to Jennifer Aniston. I bore through most of the day feeling paunchy and sluggish and nearly fainted in class as my body struggled to adapt to the melting heat, digestive turmoil, and general confusion of how to process the foods I've been feeding it.
Anyway, Momoyama offered Japanese nigiri and fusion cuisine. I had fresh tuna, halibut, and sweet shrimp, which Jean and Tammy and I agreed seemed larger in Italy. I also had this strange tagliatelle with chicken, bok choy, and mushrooms, all of which was seasoned with soy sauce and rice vinegar, and ended up being what I'd like to think of as ciao mein. The only oddity was their insistence to serve bread before the meal, with a tapenade that must have either contained potatoes, chickpeas, or chicken liver. I can't figure out which, but it was grainy and tasty.
Yesterday was the demoralizing defeat of the Azzurri by the Koreans. Between classes I ran downstairs and watched the overtime with backpackers, locals, and store owners who camped out in the street, half clothed because of the heat, all glued to a TV set dragged outside of the tabacchaio (tobacco store) and propped on a makeshift table. British, American, Russian, French, and Italian voices alike swore at the referee's decisions and we all crescendoed into a collective wail when the Korean Perugino scored the golden goal. Then, everybody's faces fell, the TV set was instantaneously shut off, and life quickly resumed the normal pace. I sauntered back into my International Intellectual Negotiations class, pretty bummed, but surrounded by so many Americans who didn't give a damn, the sensation was short-lived.
Today was the last day of class and funny enough, the first time I sat outside on the patio of Bar Cimatori to study. It was surprisingly productive, and I finally noticed the latteria (milk shop) and hidden underground market of the corner vegetable vendor which I had not before. The barista I had saluted so often served me my cappuccino with a star of chocolate powder shaken onto the foam. The vegetable vendor said, "Ma sai, loro sono artisti?" ("Did you know that they're artists?") I regretted not taking a picture of it as my spoon started swirling the sugar around.
Sono Straniera
The smartest thing I did today was take a cab back from the station. The cost of 4.59 Euro was well spent considering the heat, the crowds, my luggage, and all that I had been through already.
Lesson to the Italian traveller: it should not take 6 hours to travel 100 km by train. It should take 3 hours, and you should enforce this by simply asking people if you're on the right train, especially if you're actually proficient in Italian and pride yourself on being confident to the point of shamelessness. Don't get off the train at a random stop to check and then end up waiting 2 hours for the next train, only to find that everything is so "in ritardo" that it's more efficient to take another train back in the other direction to get on the same train, only to find out that you were on the right train all along and never should have gotten off. At that point, it's clear that the sentence, "Questo va a Firenze?" would have saved you at least 4 hours today.
Podunk town I ended up in: Laterina
How many people appeared in Laterina in the 2.5 hours I was there: 4
How many of those people were shady Middle Easterners asking me for money: 2
How many minutes the train to Arezzo was late: 140
How much the ticket from Assisi to Firenze cost: 8.99 Euro
How much the ticket from Laterina to Arezzo cost: 2.00 Euro
How much time the trip should take: 3 hours
How much time the trip did take: 6 hours
How many Asian girls were on any of the trains I rode today, including myself: 1
I hope everybody had a good weekend.
Oh Alloooooora!
I love it. It's 5.26 and it's light out and I just got home. Tonight was Austin's place, the Lion's Pub, then Rio Grande. I had suppressed going out all week so that I could study, and I thought that tonight was finally the right time to let loose. I had a blast even though Tam, Mel, Jean, and Daniela took for the French Riviera a little after midnight. I was with the four finest gentlemen in the entire program: Mike, Walter, Alberto, and Jonnie. A New Yorker, a San Diegan, an Italian, and an Arkansas boy. But, true to their categorization, they all took good and proper care of me.
We had panini hamburgers a little while ago. I was too intoxicated to know exactly what I was stuffing my face with. As usual it was dressed with mushrooms, pepperoni, and onions. I took a bunch of digital pics tonight and thank goodness some of them were right in the Piazza della Signoria as light was breaking.
Tutti sono gentilissimi. Quando sono andata a un bar vicino al pub, loro mi hanno domandato un sacco di cose e alla fine mi hanno invitato di ritornare qualche volta per avere sushi. Simpaticissimi!
OK, I gotta sleep. I gotta catch the 16.46 train to Assisi. Ciaoooo raga'.
You Know What They Say: Bad Chinese Food is Better Than No Chinese Food At All
That's what I think, anyway, but after last night I'm still not completely sure. Mel and Tam and I were so desperate for the anti-panino that we went back to Il Mandarino. I had drunken chicken, wonton soup, chicken with mushrooms and bamboo, Peking duck, and fish stewed in spicy chili sauce. Gripes (some old, some new): excessive reliance on soy sauce, MSG, and the special Chinese salt; portions 1/5 of what they should be and thus entirely unrepresentative of the Asian "everything should be a great value" quotient; too much corn starch so that after 10 minutes the food was absolutely congealed; and traditional desserts that probably should not be fried. However, it was not really a disappointment and I ate more than I had in a long while.
Today is Italy's final shot at 2002 World Cup glory, and I'm really excited for the home team.
I had a great time shopping at Benetton Accessories yesterday, because everything costs nearly 1/2 of what it does in the States. Benetton is the Italian Gap; Sisley is the Italian Banana Republic. It's critical to nail down the essentials while you're in town.
Forza Italia, Forza Azzuri!
Not Exactly My Uncle
The class took a trip to the Accademia today. There is nothing there, only one thing, but that one thing was absolutely the most awesome piece of artwork I have ever seen.
The David is perfect and evokes in its observer unspoken feelings of symmetry, beauty, sexuality, and humility.
My classmates and I took turns forming walls around each other so we could sneak snapshots in, which of course are prohibited. My trusty Sony and I did the job, although I would've liked it in a few more meaningful angles. And close up.
Afterward, the girls and I were famished with hunger. We duly complained about the lack of variety in the Italian diet - at least as American tourists know it - but were so desperate we did end up settling for the token plate of pasta and panino. The cafe' was the single worst place I have ever had the misfortune to patronize. The bill was well over €50.00 for 4 diners who each had a few strands of pasta and some pieces of tasteless bread. We've eaten at enough trattorias to know how far your money should go - or far it can go - and we eventually left knowing we had been had and acting very placid about it.
It was compensated for, however, at the Vivoli gelateria. It's, by some accounts, the best gelateria in Florence. I had zabaglione and gianduia, the former heavily laced with alcohol. We also stopped by the Superfresca Standa supermarket to load up on the protein and fiber we've dearly missed. A lot of tonight's conversation revolved around missing the uncomplicated convenience of wide American streets, a fantasy of ingredients in a large salad, the availability of soy and tofu, ironclad return policies, and overall, the ease and comfort of the United States that make European charm and history a novelty at best. I didn't agree with them 100% but I could not help nodding along as they all stared off into space, heaving long sighs and remembering Chinese chicken salad and Must-See TV.
"The only thing I'll miss is gelato," said Melissa. "I wonder why you can't get it in L.A."
"Of course you can," I said, "It's called Il Gelato and it's on Robertson. Go east on Wilshire and then south on Robertson."
Speaking of home, I'm consistently amazed at how tenuous the lines of communication are between my parents. I am always telling one of them something that they should naturally pass on to the other, since they live together and it would save me another phone call to relay a trivial point. But I am always getting the same questions from both at different times, prompting me to believe that they hardly speak to each other at all. This morning I got a phone call from my mother. About two hours later I got a call from my father. "Just wanted to know if you got to talk to your mother yet." Even if it means making two separate calls to Italy, my parents' informational web is porous and flimsy.
My life is a good one. I am more fortunate than I know. I have no reason to be distraught and anxious. I live and see things that are so precious that they are beyond my capacity to tell it. I feel like I am standing on a small hill in a meadow, and iridescent bubbles float around me, each filled with one of life's rare experiences, and I turn myself around and around so that I don't miss even a glimpse inside as they flitter up into a bright blue and nebulous sky.
Not Ready
Sometime on Friday morning things were spiralling around me. There was wide-eyed anxiety and visceral pain you could only feel and not describe. Throughout the day, images, mantras, fears, and hopes all flew through my mind. Finally, an eerie calmness settled in my brain. Quieting the maelstrom.
Control is slipping away. Everything seems wildly ironic; something I read before, but at the time thought was either weird or stupid, or both. But now it's all Fitzgerald, or Conrad, or Dostoyevsky.
Then sometime later I was in the Tuscan hills somewhere, looking forward towards narrow, curving roads, looking out into expanses of green, all shrubbery and tops of trees and red roofs. There was Pino Daniele, Morcheeba, Norah Jones, and Ligabue. I was wearing white and no sleeves and unaffected by the rain. I saw the city wall of Lucca and ascended two different campanili. I was in an oval piazza and stood in the middle and smiled and laughed and thought that I was in a drawing. And then there was a bridge, said to be from the devil, that had been there more than 1000 years, so when I stood atop it there was a combined age of 1023, at least. There were arches of green as we wound up the hill, and a room with a balcony, and someone who said, "Pero' quando c'e' sole, e' tutta un'altra cosa."
Pizza vegetariana e vino bianco, panna cotta, un caffè. There were shadows on the wall. There was a cherry tree and I ate a handful, even the rain-damaged berries. Sometime after that there was a cave of wind, older than the bridge, and I felt like I was inside a very damp and cold stomach. There was riveting eye contact that rattled me, although I was not a part of the exchange. Then there was the most breathtaking, sprawling vista that told of hundreds of years of the serene pace of life, at least for those in Montecatini. There was an ugly town with a fast crowd and aperitivos and prosecco, and then a seafood restaurant and my depression surging up, finally catching up with me. For some reason I thought of Grosseto. There was a whole fish sitting in front of me. Running through the streets of Pistoia, you could stop and pick up a babà, all soaked in rum. And then Piazza Goldoni, Ponte Vecchio, Palazzo Vecchio, Piazza della Signoria, Via dei Cerchi.
There were glimpses of experiences I already had but could never have to hold.
Get Ready
Tomorrow some of the Los Angeles ladies from the program and I are ditching class and going to trek to the Prada and Gucci outlets a bit southeast of Florence. We consolidated our plans after dinner, pulling out maps and detailed directions we had acquired, and figured out which trains, buses, and taxis to take in order to reach Paradise. If time and logistical convenience permits, we will also hit up Fendi. But shopowners, beware: we are coming.
The past two days were filled with a whirlwind of good, fun, activity. Yesterday we went to a highly recommended trattoria on Via dei Macci. Cibreo actually occupies three properties on three corners: Ristorante, Trattoria, and Café. The restaurant costs three times as much as the trattoria and the café is a small extension of the restaurant that also focuses on desserts and coffee. We could only afford the trattoria, but we had to wait a good hour and a half. Passed the time chatting with two London ladies, and figuring out the menu posted outside. Stuffed chicken neck. Veal hock. Roasted rabbit. Tuscan shishkebab with lamb, veal, chicken, and pork.
My classmate from Mississippi was really pumped up about the rabbit but it turned out that they didn't have any for the day. I ordered polenta with tuna as an antipasto, then tuna and beans as a first dish, and finally chickpeas as a side dish. All were delicate, pure, but liberally salted. The desserts, however, were truly special. Panna cotta with caramel, cheesecake with orange marmalade, chocolate cake, and bavarese (a mousse - Bavarian cream, perhaps?) with strawberry sauce. We took four desserts for the six of us and just passed them around.
After that I went with some of the girls to a "private club" called Montecarla, that is right by the river. What makes it private is that you have to fill out some lame paper cards and turn them in before you leave. It was a very cozy, charming place, decorated with all sorts of animal prints and sporting a predominantly Latin theme. It reminded me though of a coffee house in the States because there were board games lying around and for the most part the decor was ostentatious and cluttered. We gossiped over flavored champagne and wine spritzers.
It's been raining for most of today. Mel, Tam, Jean, Christa, Daniela and I were brave tonight and went to a sushi restaurant. It had a minimalist decor and reminded me of the Standard on Sunset. It also had "ethnic cuisine" including enchiladas, curry, and hamburgers. The maguro was unacceptable: tough, fibrous, and fishy. The only reason you could even identify it as tuna was that it was a reddish color and raw. Plus, I could have sworn that they used some kind of tom yum flavoring for the spicy sauce, which made no sense at all. It was an interesting experience, overall, and I noticed that Japanese girls are more inclined to speak Italian than Chinese girls because Japanese is multi-syllabic like Italian, whereas Chinese is strictly mono-syllabic.
I hope the rain does not persist. I am going away for the weekend and intend to work on my tan.
Frittering Away
I consistently find new and inventive ways to waste time. I should have taken out this very slow-paced and chill day to do some studying but the books are "prendendo la polvere" (collecting dust) in the corner of the studio. Tomorrow morning is the Uffizi gallery guided tour. I'm really excited about finally seeing the Birth of Venus. Botticelli is da man.
I have a faint recollection of hearing the door buzzer this morning, stumbling over to the intercom, and going, "Sì?" I heard a man say something about, "... la posta," and so I haphazardly pressed every button on the system until I heard some indication of the main door downstairs opening. Why il postino would summon my apartment for entrance is a puzzle. After all, I am probably one of the only temporary residents in the building, and shouldn't il postino have a chiave? I was in no shape to investigate matters, having only been in bed a few precious hours.
Today's interactions with the natives included asking the tabacchaio (tobacco store owner) how to use Jenni Kagan's calling card, buying a large bottle of Dolce e Gabbana Light Blue perfume (practically half the price here!), and buying pastries (see below). I'm starting to have trouble curbing my sweet tooth. In the beginning I could take or leave these damned pastries, but being here for a week and a half, they are becoming as elemental as a Starbucks Americano or sun-dried tomato bagel with veggie shmear.
I've officially termed my love handles my "pancetta." It makes perfect sense. "Pancetta" is Italian bacon, and as "pancia" is paunch, then "pancetta" aptly describes whatever the fuck is going on in my mid-section.
OK, back to International Intellectual Property.
Long Live Hip Hop
I'm exhausted. This summer partying bit is a new experience to me. I thought we went pretty hard in San Diego but then, aside from the fact that the academic rigors only permit one such night for absolute lunacy, the American curfews also enforce a reasonable limit to pushing yourself as hard as you can. We were at an Irish pub last night that was airing the taped Laker-Kings final, which all the students in the program were really excited about. Not one of us gave a damn about the Italy-Ecuador World Cup game that had rendered Italy totally useless for the whole morning. But we were disappointed that the basketball game, being taped, had that fuzzy quality that distinctly took all the real-time excitement out, and then without sound, it was just a bunch of men in blue and white passing a ball around. After a few drinks everybody headed over to Yab, a hip hop club only open on Mondays. It was "Smoove" night which I thought was pretty cool. It was actually a fantastic club and among the best establishments I've ever been to. Some of the New York students said that it reminded them of the scene back at home; and understandably so, since a lot of the people there were international students or Americans who were desperately trying to get their hip hop fix. Americans are the procreators of true hip hop. The place went absolutely crazy when Tupac's "California Love" came on and I swelled up with West Side Pride. Halfway around the world, it felt pretty damn good.
So I didn't amble home until 5:00 AM, with a couple of the boys from Arkansas who were going the same way. I guess Southern chivalry didn't die with the Civil War because one of them made absolutely sure that I got into my building, and he wouldn't budge while he waited patiently several streets away for my figure to retreat inside.
This morning I could barely scrape myself out of bed and was thoroughly annoyed by the traffic and tourists on the grueling walk to school. It's becoming a real pain in the ass and I miss the cush interior of my Tacoma. I like to travel in solitude and in an enclosed area. Class was incomprehensible until I imbibed a combination of water, Coke, and an espresso. After school, on a whim, I bought more pastries and cookies than I should have, which doesn't improve the carbohydrate stacking problem, but if I space out the consumption, it will actually be a good solution to another problem of persistent afternoon hunger. I had a Torta di Nonna (grandmother's cake) which is perhaps my favorite Italian pastry. I also really like the Pesca (a peach donut like thing).
I miss the gym desperately. I miss Whole Foods. I miss the layers and layers of bedding on my luxurious bed at home. But aside from these 3 things, I am still sitting pretty in lovely Florence.
O.D.'d on Clarityn
I thought it was spelled "Claritin." I bought a box yesterday because I thought I had bad allergies. The sore throat this morning tells me that perhaps I misdiagnosed myself.
I had a fantastic weekend. Giulia came over and was a huge, invaluable help to me. I had my first Italian bus experience which was surprising because one of the Florentine lines uses Mercedes vehicles, and it seemed like a charter bus. We took it to I Gigli, which I was told was the largest mall in the whole country. Seriously? Because you could put the place in a tiny corner of South Coast Plaza. We finished the mall in 2 hours, but the most important task was the food shopping. We bought large bottles of water, the critical toilet paper I've been needing, boxes of milk, various kinds of meat and pasta. She helped me bring back 4 bags of heavy groceries all the way from the train station to my apartment. We had to weave through thousands of tourists and narrow streets, plus terrain changes and the final ascent of 5 flights of stairs.
Giulia also introduced me to some authentic Tuscan cuisine at a local restaurant here. The main items we had for dinner were chicken liver and beef tripe.
The rest of the weekend was far less purposeful and frivolous, but unforgettable. I got presents: Intimissimi, Tod's, Sisley. Friday night was Amadeus, Saturday night was Sasso di Dante and Le Murate, Sunday night was Piazza Michelangelo. The Boboli Gardens at the Palazzo Pitti were calming and impressive, offering some of the best Florentine views. You can't miss that Duomo, anywhere you go.
I was swept away and a bit fearful. Who talks loudest: vino rosso, vin santo, or me? Who tells the truth?
There are no right answers.
