A green David.

09.06.2010

First day of class.  Yes, the profs speak English.  But it is incredibly hard to understand them.  My first class was Florence Sketchbook.  It takes advantage of the city, the architecture, gardens, and beauty of Florence, and allows us to use different medium and emotion to capture it.  Or so the class description said. 

I was slightly dubious of the class at the start when a book and vase was placed on the desk beside me.  I thought, Oh no, here we go again with the still-lifes.  As I angrily drew the items beside me, I started scheduling in my head when I would go to the front office to cancel the torture.  Don’t get me wrong, still-life has its place, but in a beautiful city, it isn’t my intention to sit inside and miss it all. 

Thankfully, the man instructing us was not our prof.  She came an hour late.  And I love her.  All smiles and extremely helpful, she outlined our syllabus, setting up the semester for us.  Still-lifes are only for the rainy days.  And even then, she would rather us go to a museum to draw than sit in the studio.  The class will use graphite, charcoal, pastels, watercolors, Chinese ink, gouache, and more.  Definitely beyond the simple HB graphite pencil I had been given.

As I read through the class supply list, I realized I have nearly everything required.  Minor detail.  It’s all locked in a storage unit in Seattle.  Art supplies are expensive.  Although I had no way of knowing exactly what I would need.  Guess I have a lot of drawing and painting to do.

The pictures are from our night stroll last night to the Piazzale Michelangiolo which overlooks the city and has its own David (a green David, that is).  We hiked up to the top just in time to see the sun set.  There was a bar (doesn’t just serve alcohol, but is almost the American equivalent of a caffe with sandwiches, gelato, and snacks) and quite a few vendors in the area.  One restaurant with seating overlooking the entire city was playing Frank Sinatra and other smooth jazz classics.  Couples and families sat all over the stairs, some with picnic dinners or wine, enjoying the music and the view.  It was so peaceful, above the city noise of bars (the ones serving only alcohol, confusing, I know), scooters, and cars.  

The fire department and their red truck.

09.04.2010

It was Saturday night.  We had planned a nice dinner.  Bruschetta with tomatoes and palamato olives.  Turkey and green beans sautéed with red peppers.  We had splurged and bought a bottle of lemon iced tea instead of the usual “aqua naturale” (still water). The meal went well.  A few minor bumps here and there: some of the bruschetta got burnt (still getting used to the stove) and the turkey was over-peppered (really really strong pepper).  And then for dessert we bought ice cream sandwiches at the supermarket.  Our big spender of the meal, they were brand-name “Nestle.”  And they tasted like sawdust.  Feeling undettered by the poor end of our own “welcome dinner,” we decided to go out for gelato as well as buy “bigliettos” or tickets for the bus in the morning. 

It was supposed to be a quick trip.  Both destinations were within our neighborhood, one across the street, the other two blocks down.  I stuffed a 10 Euro bill in my pocket and grabbed one of the extra keys, a copy we had made, from the table.  The girls followed with some money of their own.  We left behind IDs and cellphones.  I mean, who were we going to call on such a short trip?

Italian doors are anti-theft masterpieces.  As soon as you close the door behind you, a key is needed to open the automatic deadbolt.  Locking the door requires two turns to the left, which slides another four deadbolts into place.  When I turned around to lock our apartment, I realized, with an incredulous laugh, that I could neither lock the door nor open it.  We stood there silent for a minute until the frenzy began of shaking the door, wiggling the key, and feeling the panic of what had happened beginning to rise.  We assessed the situation.  We had fallen into the habit of locking the windows when we leave as well, just in case.  Even if we could climb up to our second story balcony (which we considered), there would be no way to get in.  Essentially, we were locked out, with a key.

During orientation, we were told that even if we were locked out, it is not considered an emergency.  We ought to find a hotel room for the night and call the school in the morning for assistance.  Only problem was that we only had around thirty Euros between us.  And none of us had passports which you are required to produce upon check-in.  Italy has a strict anti-terrorist law that everyone staying overnight in the country must submit to the government where they are staying.  If you stay at a hotel, the hotel will send copies of your passport to the police.  No overnight guests are allowed unless the owner of the house or lessee of the apartment takes on the task of reporting to the police on their own.  Thus, legally, we could not stay at a hotel.  In the back of my mind, I had just pictured us all sleeping in the stairwell for the night.

We walked across the street to the Tabacchi, trying to explain to the man, who had a limited English vocabulary, how we were locked out even though I held the key.  It is really difficult to explain, especially when my prized English to Italian phrasebook was locked in the apartment.  He replied in short phrases, “Left. Walk two. Left. 5 meters!”  We left, all of us wondering where his instructions were leading us; we missed that in the exchange.  Unfortunately, the final destination, a locksmiths shop, had closed ten minutes prior to our arrival.  Typical.

We had passed a hotel named “Hotel Jane” on the way and figured an establishment catering to foreigners and Americans might have someone who spoke a little more fluent English.  The woman inside was beyond helpful.  First, before she took any action, she asked us a series of questions: “Are you sure that is the key to your apartment?”, “Do you have the right apartment?”, “Does your door have two locks?”.  We weren’t idiots, but perhaps we looked the part.  Unfortunately, the fire department in Italy, much like America, cannot open a residence unless the inhabitants can show legal representation that they live there.  Umm.  That too was locked inside. 

Lastly, she gave up here reasoning and called the fire department, explaining the situation.  We would have to provide passports and our apartment contract as soon as they opened the door.  We waited outside our apartment on the front stoop for the “big red truck” to arrive.  I remember feeling slightly uneasy about the whole thing, racking my brain, trying to remember where in the world I had stashed my passport and the housing contract.  It was a really safe location, I thought at least, but with the mixture of jetlag and overall exhaustion, I couldn’t quite remember. 

Finally, help arrived.  Six men in full gear crowded our stairwell, chattering in Italian and smiling, or maybe it was laughing (?), at us.  Not one of them spoke English.  I held up the key, and the leader of the pack looked at me as though I had lost my mind, until he tried for himself.  I could only imagine my embarrassment if, for him, the door had opened.  I was glad, for the first time, that it has remained locked and kept us honest.  The experts shook the door, just like us, realizing that it wasn’t locked but just shut.  Then they produced a plastic folder and slide it up between the doors, rattling the handles a bit more, and opening the doors.  Just like that. 

My passport happened to be in the first place I looked.  I’m glad that I know myself well enough to answer the question, “If I were to hide something really important, where would I put it?”

We took a minute to de-panic before gearing ourselves up for the anticipated gelato.  This time, we all took keys, cellphones, IDs, and a good supply of cash.  Let’s just say we’ve learned our lesson.

Ponte Vecchio at night.

Our walk along the Arno River to Ponte Vecchio gave us a spectacular view of the sunset.  Blues, purples, and pinks outlined the cityscape and mixed with the city lights.  Ponte Vecchio (Ponte meaning bridge) is the oldest Florentine bridge of the eight spanning the Arno River.  Ponte Vecchio is an ancient structure, reconstructed from its own salvaged parts after the Nazis destroyed it in 1944.  It’s original structure, however, was built in 1220 by the Romans, part of the ancient road, Via Cassia, which led to Rome.  During the Middle Ages, it housed the center for leather goods as well as fresh fish and meat.   However, due to the horrible stench, fishmongers and butchers were evicted from the bridge by Ferdinand de’ Medici and replaced with a more refined market, jewelry, in his efforts to promote the important of artisans and their trades throughout Florence.  Crossing this bridge enters a visitor into another world—the Hollywood of Firenze.  High-class wine bars, specialty stores, and restaurants with beautiful views of the city line the streets.  

Il Duomo.

09.02.2010 in the afternoon and evening.

The Duomo is breathtaking, even though its base is crowded with throngs of tourists and peddlers. The white, pink, and green marble is streaked with years of wear and dirt. Scaffolding obstructs part of the view, Florence’s efforts to preserve its beauty, cleaning the marble sections at a time. Rose windows speckle the structure, boasting of its “Florentine Gothic” style and construction in 1296.

The highlight of the Duomo is Brunelleschi’s dome, the first free standing dome, constructed without supports. Brunelleschi, an amazing architect, was publicly criticized for his original plans for Il Duomo. At a meeting, pursuing the commission for the cathedral’s finish, Brunelleschi challenged the other architects to make an egg stand on one end. After much difficulty on their part, he cracked the tip of the egg on the table, balancing it perfectly upright. With this, he won the commission for this spectacular engineering and architectural feat, building the Duomo in the same manner.

Across from the Duomo is the Baptistery. The oldest structure in Florence, it was built in the 11^th and 12^th century Romanesque era of art, matching the style of the Duomo. Lorenzo Ghiberti pursued and won the commission of the Baptistery’s three sets of bronze doors, competing against Donatello and Brunelleschi. His opponents, upon seeing his work, which incorporated detailed scenes from the New Testament in each panel, willingly conceded the commission to Ghiberti out of respect. Even Michelangelo noted Ghiberti’s skill, exclaiming that the doors were fit to stand at the entrance to the Gates of Paradise. Ghiberti, after receiving so much attention and compliments for his work, claimed to have personally planned and solely created the Renaissance era (ha!).

Copies have replaced these “Gates of Paradise” (which were been placed in a museum to protect them from the elements).

Dirty old men.

09.02.2010 morning

In Italy, the attitude towards women is a bit different. According to the United States Embassy, the number of sexual harassments against American women, especially blondes, has skyrocketed. The embassy attended our school’s orientation to alert us of the dangers, to share with us past stories, and to raise our awareness. Much of the attention is seemingly harmless, from the whistling to blown kisses. However, during a walk along Arno River this morning, an older man publicly exposed himself at a playground, his focus on my friend and I. This, of course, is always a possibility in the States, but, in the last twenty years in the U.S., I never ran into it. However, in only three days in Italy, it is my first experience with the Italian park system.

Odd. And a bit disturbing.

A little culture.

09.01.2010

The city is beautiful. It has it all: architecture, history, food, wine, fashion, traffic. A walking town with centuries of Renaissance art, it is easy to lose yourself in the web of streets and alleys, dodging scooters and bikes. Our apartment, nestled in the streets of Piazza Beccaria at Via Fra Giovanne Angelico 45, is small and comfortable. It overlooks a Tabacchi, which sells cigarettes among other things: stamps, calling cards, the morning paper.

Only ten minutes away is a supermarket, COOP, one of three larger grocery stores in Florence. Unlike “super”-markets in American, it provides all the household and kitchen essentials in one or two brands. You can easily find what you want, offered in only two versions: expensive brand name or the cheap generic. Compared to the States, this makes the task of shopping a breeze. There is no reason to loiter in the aisles, trying to decide between the same granola bar in three different packages from three different companies with three different prices. Here, the only aisle worth pausing in is the pasta department. COOP offers every color, every style, every flavor of its country’s staple. As college students, it was easy to find the inexpensive bags, ranging from 0,30 Euro to 1,50 Euro. This too, in a matter of days, has become our own staple (coupled with gelato, of course…1 or 2 Euro for a small cup).

Grocery stores have a culture of their own. There are no personal bubbles or manners when it comes to reaching around someone to retrieve an item off of the shelf. Each shopper attacks the “supermarket” with purpose, speed, and efficiency. Little red shopping carts, the size of hand-held baskets, skirt the floors on wheels. And some shoppers, those “card-holders” who pay membership fees, carry their own price guns, which they connect to a computer before exiting through the self-checkout aisle. A visitor to these “supermarkets” must be aware of the rules. One must never touch the fresh fruit or vegetables without plastic gloves, stationed in baskets throughout the produce section.

Stores, especially post offices, solve the confusion of lines using numbered tickets. In some cases, Italians will pick up a ticket, go out to lunch, and return with plenty of time to hear their number called. The concept of lines is not grasped without this number system. People stand in clusters, cut each other off, and generally pace around, anticipating their turn.

Despite the number of roads intertwined with each other through Florence’s historical center, it is possible to travel “map-less” in under a week. Now we research the location first and walk in general directions, using the cathedrals and familiar streets and stores as landmarks. In this respect, I almost feel “at home.” (Of course, I shouldn’t fail to mention that I never leave without a map, for that rare occasion when we might get lost. But it hasn’t happened yet…). Plus, there are dangers associated with map gazing. First, a map in hand coupled with a look of confusion signals your status as “foreigner”—that is if the graphic tees, flip-flops, or baseball caps didn’t give you away already. While your attention is diverted, you become a prime target. Your status as “foreigner” and “lost” gives stealthy pick-pocketers ample time to rid you of your valuables. Watches can be stolen from your wrist in a matter of seconds and all you will have of its existence is a sun-deprived white wrist. We are advised to walk with our bags and purses over the shoulder opposite the street. Bikers will comb the roads looking for loosely held goods and go in for the kill, ripping it from your grasp and riding away. This hasn't happened yet, but I'm on the lookout!

Trying to stay safe.

An Italian Welcome

08.31.2010

Our trip was a general success until we boarded our final flight to Firenze, Italia. The plane, a bit on the heavy size, could not land in Florence due to tailwinds, and was diverted to Bologna, a city two hours northeast. After waiting an hour for the airport in Bologna to sort out the confusion, we were bused back to the Florence airport, and waited in line for another hour to report our “misplaced” luggage. By this time, the apartment agency had closed. We were forced to find alternative accommodation for the evening at Antonio House, a small “pensione” near the train station. It was clean with beds, and at that point, the fact that we were finally granted the opportunity to sleep was enough. For only 20 Euro each, we had our own room with a private bathroom. The pensione is a step up from an “ostello” or hostel, which consists of private or public dorm rooms. For 19 Euros each, one hostel offered us bunk beds in a co-ed eight-bed room with a shared bathroom. Normally the accommodations aren’t so close in price, but I guess “pensiones” were in our favor for the evening. In pure exhaustion, we ate dinner at the famous McDonald’s, one of three in Florence. My McChicken sandwich, an American dollar menu special, cost nearly 5 Euros, but was worth every cent.

The next morning, we walked for hours, chasing school check-ins and apartment keys. Finally, after reaching the agency on our newly acquired cell phones, we signed the contract, paid for the first month, and received the address of our new home. The first key that gave us entrance to the building worked perfectly. Our excitement mounted as we climbed the stairs to our “first floor” apartment. The second key was less friendly. We could feel the door unlock, but even with a shoulder to it, it would not budge. Disappointment increased ten-fold when we discovered, with heavy hearts and tired feet, that the agency was closed for “lunch” from 1 until 4 pm. It was 1:30 pm. Such was our luck. Instead of carrying our backpacks around the city, we left in pairs to find food (sandwiches for 2 Euro, our only meal so far) and restrooms (port-a-potty for 0,50 Euro, a public bathroom stop meant for tourists). Finally, four o’clock rolled around. With hopeful attitudes, we called the agency, ready to gain their sympathy with our pathetic story. Their response was that we must simply lack the ability to open Italian doors and advised us to find help. The apartment building, until that point, had been empty. At that moment, our downstairs neighbor, who spoke little to no English, arrived home from work. We galloped down the stairs, scaring the poor man, who watched us in panic as we made motions with the key and chattered away in English. He followed us upstairs and, on the second try, opened the door. I felt a mixture of embarrassment and relief. The apartment agency had no response for us, but I’m sure laughter followed our call.

For our first meal that night, we resorted to a simple meal, our first home-cooked concoction, penne with tomato sauce, served with a small side salad and fresh pears and followed with ice cream cones, our splurge at the grocery store.

What a whirlwind of a day.