il prossimo semestre

Today I made an impractical decision. I'm over that whole "getting ahead" thing; I'd rather do that whole "enjoying learning" thing. And so I'm officially registered for an Italian class next semester with Richardson, one of the Sewanee teachers at the top of the "Must Take" list.

Yay!!

dinnertime

Tonight I took Franca to La Mangiatoia, a really authentic, delicious, and inexpensive trattoria in the Oltrarno. Over "Supernapoli" pizza and gnocchi alla sorrentina we discussed everything from her family and regional Italian cuisine to the Madonna music that served as the soundtrack to our meal. Turns out Franca's a fan, as is the owner of La Mangiatoia, apparently, considering Madonna was playing ALL NIGHT.

Our waiter took a photo, but, surprise surprise, I'm unable to upload it into this post. Eh.

I am really going to miss "speaking" this language on a daily basis. (I put "speaking" in quotations because I feel like "grunting" or "burping" are more fitting words here than speaking. I'm still a beginner in every sense of the word, but I know SO much more than I did four months ago.) Can't wait to continue studying when I get back to the U.S... and to return to Italy in the future with improved sKiLlZ. I'm already envisioning my return, and I haven't even left yet.

I had class in front of Michelangelo's David today. This same class met in front of Donatello's David on Thursday. Whatever, right?

Buona notte!

oops.

On this depressingly rainy night in Florence, I would like to apologize for being the world's worst blogger. I had every intention of keeping my dear amici e famiglia informed on a beyond-regular basis. Seriously. Additionally, rather than giving you a weekly Zoo Tour style update of my activities, I'd planned on delivering pithy posts filled with zingers and quips to rival Blair Waldorf and Seth Cohen, respectively.

But, obviously, that hasn't happened, and I'm just as disappointed as you are. Those of you that still periodically check this, that is. (Hi Mama!) I've been lacking in the motivation department, at least in terms of blogging. I've kept a semi-decent journal that will be good for helping me recount stories when the semester ends. And I've taken tons of pictures. But when I've written in my free time over here, it's mostly been in the form of journaling. And, honestly, to motivate myself to write regularly, I had to purchase a molto bella creamy purple (yep, I said creamy) Moleskine (see: StuffWhitePeopleLike.com. I'm exactly the J. Crew-clad perpetrator they're talking about). It's much more inspiring than a Steno Pad, anyway. My "need" to buy a Moleskine for basically all the reasons that SWPL cites reminded me of those ridiculous old-ish commercials for Chinet paper plates. The ones that were like, "What are you saying with your Chinet plates?" And then there'd be a montage of WASPy looking individuals holding up plates that said words like "Tradition. Family. Love. Timelessness." Riiight. Because I'd never dream of talking with my fam about our history if they dared to use Dixie plates at the Thanksgiving buffet. The audacity. And at the end of the commercials there was that melodramatic voice claiming, "Nothing says 'you're special' stronger than Chinet." Duh. Even the speaker sounded like she needed further convincing. Side note, even a Chinet plate runs the risk of snapping in half under one of MY heaps of dressing.

Anyway.

I have not documented my semester well at all on this blog, but I have used that time that I haven't spent typing up thoughts exploring the city. And other cities. So rest assured that there will be plenty of storytelling that will unfold over the weeks, months, years when I get back. It's also worth noting that when I had free time to communicate with friends/family, I wanted to spend it actually talking to them (well, "talking" is not the right word, but, you know, communicating... via FB chat, Skype, email and whatnot) rather than blogging to them. Also, for those of you who've expressed interest in my writing before, one of the realizations I've made this semester is that I DO want to write. Maybe not as a permanent career, but definitely as a permanent...something. (Eloquent, I know).

I'll try to at least get in one more post before my semester ends. I've written so little about my actual daily life in Florence, so for the last post I think I'll write about tips and tricks for living here. AKA things that would have been convenient to know from the get-go. And maybe when I'm back stateside, this blog will continue in some capacity. I have a little under a month left here, which is SO bittersweet. I'm pretty sad about it, but I'm excited to spend Christmas with family and friends and to head back to Sewanee in the spring. I know I'll be back in Florence sooner rather than later. :D

crashin' fashion

Ciao tutti!! (Yep, I'm greeting y'all in Italian now. I think I've been here long enough to start doing that. I know, my language skills are impressive.)

Well, it has been a while and there is absolutely no way I can cover all that's been going on lately. I'm not sure anyone out there is reading this anymore, seeing as I haven't posted in almost a month. However, those of you who occasionally visit me on the FB may have noticed that I sorta-kinda went to Milan and got to sorta-kinda experience approximately 4 hours of fashion week. I don't think I've even mentioned this on this blog yet, but I have a sorta-kinda internship (it's a loose term) with a weekly publication for tourists here in Florence. It's a lot of fun, really lax, and is helping get me embedded in the city's culture because I have to seek out people to interview and events to attend. And you never know, I may want to write. For some publication. Someday. But for now, it's a good enough thing in itself.

So one of the main reasons I haven't posted on this blog in forever has to do with the newspaper. I was going to wait to post until I had this VERY exciting news confirmed, and then I was pretty much going to make an elaborate post and brag about it. Cue bad karma! (Well, not bad...just a twist on things, I guess). To make a long story short (many of you have probably heard this already) my editor/coordinator lady was going to get me a press pass to some of the weekend shows during Milan fashion week September 22-28. It ended up not working out. That's the short version. However, I decided to just, well...go...anyway. And I still wrote about it for the paper. (The paper is filled with lots of little editorials, features, and personal-experience-essays and whatnot, so it fit). Since I didn't have a legitimate pass, my piece ended up being basically all about me trying to beat the system and the fun I had along the way more than the clothes and the spectacle of fashion week itself. (I actually had to tone it down/not go into too much detail about some of what went on.) Hope you enjoy.


Crashin' Fashion: A Mississippian Conquers Milan
The words were on the tip of my tongue, ready to escape at any moment. I wanted so badly to wait until my big news was officially confirmed before I told anyone about it, but I was powerless before my own need to brag. Just as I was about to sign off from my lengthy Skype call, I decided to throw in the one sentence I’d been itching to say out loud all day long. “Oh yeah, guess what? I might be getting a press pass to Milan fashion week,” I said casually, awkwardly forcing my facial muscles to halt the slightest indication of giddiness, desperately trying to appear somewhat calm and nonchalant.

On screen, my fabulous friend Benjamin, a 17-year old Karl Lagerfeld in the making, was visibly flabbergasted. He is spending his senior year of high school as an exchange student in Hildesheim, Germany, so we’ve had a few online chats filling each other in on the ups, downs, trials, and thrills of our respective European adventures.

He stated matter-of-factly that he was so inflamed with jealousy that our friendship could no longer continue. Unless, of course, I could bring him back some gift bags and designer goods. Little Ben has an affinity for expensive scarves.

Well, perhaps my eagerness to brag to Ben about the opportunity to attend fashion week with actual accreditation sent me some bad karma. Unable to procure a press pass in time for the weekend shows, I was devastated. The sting of seeing the shops along Via de Tornabuoni on my route to school was an excruciating reminder of “what might have been.” My friend Brittany was planning a weekend trip to Milan, just to visit, not to crash fashion week, and she announced giddily that Kim Kardashian had recently updated her Twitter about arriving in the city. This was the last straw for me, and I snapped: “There are way more important people attending than Kim Kardashian. What did she ever do besides date Reggie Bush? Why not me? Who is she to be invited to fashion week?”

Who, indeed.

I decided that this was an opportunity I could not helplessly watch fall through the cracks. I knew full well that the Big Four fashion weeks enforce security on par with the Pentagon. I also knew full well that I was in Italy, a place somewhat known for leniency and rule-bending. And finally, I knew that if I did not at least make an attempt to get in to some shows, I would forever wonder whether I possibly could have made it past security. There would always be a tinge of regret. A thousand “tinges” of regret is more like it. Try as I might to shake the initial grandiose visions I had of me posing casually alongside Margherita Missoni, I couldn’t. I thought to myself, how often are you in Italy? How often is the timing so perfect? What’s the worst thing that could happen?

And so, after answering those questions, I did what any determined and spirited (or, more accurately, impulsive and stupid) college kid would do: I went anyway.

Worst-case scenario? I would make a complete fool of myself and my wallet would be drained of about 150 euros. Based on experiences in Italy so far, I logically concluded that if I stayed in Florence for the weekend, the exact same scenario had a 95 percent likelihood of occurring. I reasoned that if I were to have no luck, I’d simply spend the day exploring Milan; checking out The Last Supper, visiting the Milan Cathedral, and window-shopping in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II. I came abroad for adventure, and surely this day would not disappoint in that area, even if the fashion gods refused to smile upon me.

Saturday morning I rose at the crack of dawn and found myself fighting with fate before the journey even began. My spotty Internet connection was failing me. I’d planned on playing a bootlegging game of connect-the-dots, utilizing fashion blogs and glorious Google to dig up a tentative schedule of Saturday shows. I cursed my luck but remained calm. This was unforeseen, but not unconquerable; surely I could easily find an Internet café in Milan. Time was ticking, and I needed to spend it on more pertinent matters, like how to dress the part.

I recalled some wise words I once read in an article sharing advice for sneaking into New York fashion week: Dress to impress. Be authoritative, not desperate. Act like you belong, and you will. The article was intended to be humorous. Oh, if the writer could see me now, taking her sound “advice” to literal extremes.
This was one of those times that I encountered the all-too-common problem of “a closet full of clothes and nothing to wear.” I knew wearing head-to-toe Dolce & Gabbana would seem pitiful and would give me away as an American poser desperately attempting to dress contextually. Thankfully, that was a non-issue since I cannot even afford to pretend that I own a single D&G garment; maybe if I forked over half my summer-camp paycheck I could purchase a discounted pair of sunglasses from their diffusion line. But there was no time to agonize. I ended up deciding on a simple ensemble: printed BCBG dress, black opaque American Apparel tights, trusty Tory Burch flats. BCBG may be a French label, but the whole look was thoroughly American, thoroughly colorful, thoroughly college-coed-goes-to-church (or maybe an Ole Miss football game), but I was just trying to stay true to myself. (Or, rather, all I own are clothes that are true to myself. There aren’t exactly piles of garments in my wardrobe that scream “Milan!”)

Over the years, I feel I have generally been relatively content with my appearance, but this was one time that I wished I could trade in my cherubic, baby-fat facial features for Ukrainian cheekbones and gazelle limbs. Not because it would affect my quality of life in the long run, but because pretending to be a model would be my ticket “in;” dressed simply in a billowy t-shirt and leggings, my only accessories a cigarette and a surly expression, I would not have to explain myself or my intentions to any scary security men. We all can dream.

At 7:30 a.m. precisely I walked outside, headed for the 8 a.m. train to Milan with only my purse and my pride. The day was off to a dismal start, as the weather was particularly rainy and cold and the streets seemed abandoned. This did not bode well for the rest of the day. But then, just as I passed the Ponte alla Carraia, I saw a woman, the first person I’d seen out and about that morning, clad exceptionally fabulously, dashing somewhere with a Missoni umbrella in hand, stylishly shielding her from the rain. However silly and superstitious it might have been, I felt this had to be a sign that somewhere along the course of the day, the stars would align for me. She was, after all, the first person I had seen that day. I admired her determination to look stylish despite the grim weather. The umbrella itself was a fantastic metaphor: style and grace despite stormy inconveniences. I walked toward Santa Maria Novella with a renewed spring in my step.

This spring was abruptly halted when I was informed that there were no available seats on the 8 a.m. train. The next train with available seating would not be leaving Florence until 10 a.m. A curveball, to be sure, but my morning coffee helped me cope. Things could only look up from here, right?

When I finally boarded the 10 a.m. train, I was seated next to a woman donning the largest and most ridiculous earrings I have ever seen: glittering ceramic replicas of Betty Boop. I averted my eyes and avoided looking at them for the rest of the journey, certain that surrendering to staring at something this tacky would somehow cosmically affect my luck at the fashion shows.

I arrived in Milan on time and immediately made my way to an Internet café, dropping 4 euros for 20 minutes to dig up information on show locations. Finding a schedule was easier than I envisioned, but printing it was a different ordeal entirely. A combination of factors, including the language barrier, the computer’s lack of Acrobat Reader, and my attempts to mask my very politically incorrect shock at the bellowing male voice of the lady behind the counter, resulted in the printing process taking over half an hour. But when I finally left the café, I felt accomplished and prepared.

As I came closer and closer to Palazzo Serbelloni, where the Blumarine show was scheduled to take place, my nerves began to take over and the realization of this day’s utter ridiculousness began to set in. But I’d come this far. I wasn’t backing out now. When I arrived at the Palazzo, I saw hordes of people swarming the streets, no doubt as anxious as me to enter, and probably just as illegitimate. For a brief moment, I was disheartened. But then I thought of the people back home I’d informed of this adventure. I thought back to the initial Skype call where I broke my news (and my good karma), and the question of “what would Ben do?” washed over me. Ben, I decided, would find a way in. I planned to make him proud.

I weaved my way toward the front of the line. Without making even the slightest effort to enter, I could tell that the security men in front were clearly intent on squashing the dreams of young idealists like myself. (Or they were just doing their job. You know, something like that). But a glimmer of hope shone near me. A group of about 15 young Italian girls wandered off to the right, with a short, loud, powerhouse of a woman herding them around the corner of the building. Curious about where they were going, I followed them, trying my best to blend in, figuring I had nothing to lose but my dignity.

Suddenly I found myself at a giant door labeled “Fotografi.” The mysterious short lady lined us all up and in an annoyed tone began tapping each of our heads, counting and then practically shoving us inside. I was baffled as to where I was and how I was not immediately shooed from the group, but I went with it. With Lieutenant Fashionista leading the charge, we walked past security, past photographers, and past signs pointing toward the backstage area. I was absolutely giddy, but tried my hardest to remain stone-faced, mute, and to look as if I had the slightest clue as to what was going on.

We stood outside the stage door for about 15 minutes as tall Glamazons walked outside for cigarette breaks and cell phone calls. I toyed with the idea of trying my luck out front, but I knew if I left, I’d likely never get back in. If this was as close to the fashion festivities that I got all day, I still would have considered it worthwhile. I was staying put.
Within a few minutes, a mysterious man came out of the stage door and motioned for our group to circle up. Remaining calm, I clumped in with the rest of the girls and watched as he held up bracelets, tops, purses, and a particularly heinous gold-studded coral wedge, talking at length about each of the items. Obviously, it was all in Italian and I understood no words apart from scarpe, but I nodded attentively as the rest of the girls were doing, still amazed at my luck thus far. As the coral wedge fell to the floor, he held up his hands and said affirmatively, “Allora,” pointing toward the stage door. And in we walked. In we walked, as casually as if we were walking in to the café down the street. The intimidating men guarding the doors did not question us one bit. I had absolutely no idea what group I had ended up in, but clearly they had some sort of power and permission. And I was content to ride their coattails.

Backstage at Blumarine was utter chaos. It reminded me of my days of high school dance recitals; vivid memories of stage moms, costume changes, and the stenches of hairspray and competition came flooding back. Charts of exit and entry orders were everywhere. The photographers backstage had no mercy and, to the disgust of the stage-manager types, were snapping away at models as they dressed. People were rushing across the overheated room to make last-minute adjustments. The girls were all wearing matching white hair clips, and disaster struck when some models realized theirs were nowhere to be found. A true doppelganger of Catherine Zeta-Jones struck poses for a very pushy photographer despite an angry woman’s yelling for her to focus on preparing for the show rather than making a show backstage.
Caught in the chaos of it all, I was just intent on remaining inconspicuous. I had not said a word since my interaction in the Internet café and I planned to remain quiet. Apparently I had the best luck that way.

The photographers formed a line on the left side of the room when a woman announced that pictures were now permitted. Be cool. Look nonchalant, I told myself as I moseyed up beside a broad-shouldered bodybuilder type, two cameras in hand. Never mind that my tiny Canon Powershot handheld camera was an obvious red flag that I did not belong in the professional photographer line. I snapped away with the best of them, and no one questioned anything. That is, until I accidentally elbowed the bodybuilder, who was clearly on the verge of taking the photo of his career. His face reddened in fury; he took one look at my pathetic personal camera and barked, “Little camera! You need go!”

He had no authority to kick me out, so I simply gave him a sincere apology and moved to an area less apt for taking pictures. I figured I owed it to the professionals. But suddenly I caught wind of a scary conversation taking place. A man was standing at the door, huge Nikon camera in hand, flailing his arms and begging the security officers to let him back inside. “You don’t understand, my bag is in there!” he cried. As one security officer continued to clamp the man’s arm, the other inquired about the location of his bag, went to get it, and promptly proceeded to throw the man outside. I became terrified of experiencing a scenario similar to this one, and decided I was satisfied with the pictures I got and the outrageous story I’d have to share with my friends at home. So, just as the security guys slammed the door, I discreetly and coolly slipped outside, making my way out as if I were simply a visiting friend of a model or, say, legitimately allowed to be there.

Then I turned the corner and bolted down the street before the security officers could even start scratching their heads about who I was and what in the world I was up to.

The insanely good luck I had at Blumarine set a standard for the rest of the day that was not met. The Just Cavalli, Jil Sander, and Pucci shows were all inaccessible (rightfully so, of course), and unattainable press passes swinging from people’s necks seemed to be mocking me all day long. I spotted a woman in line at Jil Sander donning a long-sleeved, acid-wash denim jumpsuit, and I questioned the inherent goodness of humanity when I saw that she was allowed in and I was not. But, at the end of the day, I could have shown up in an Oscar de la Renta ball gown and been denied entry. She may have been an acid-wash denim woman, but the bottom line was that she was still an accredited woman. What it comes down to is who has the pass, period.

But a stroke of good luck can sometimes come to any of us. Though I could not help fantasizing about how the weekend would have gone had I actually been accredited, I was incredibly satisfied with my adventure. Even just seeing the city and feeling the energy of fashion week in the air was exhilarating. The day was gratifying because I worked for, and was determined to get, a tiny glimpse of the goings-on. I wondered if I would appreciate the spectacle and excitement of fashion week if I were someone to whom passes and invites were handed on a silver platter. Something tells me the thrill would not be quite the same.

Fashion in itself can be that way. Sure, it would be nice to be able to purchase any luxury good I wanted on a whim. But knowing that I earned every penny I spent on my favorite Zac Posen bag, for instance, gave me a great sense of accomplishment when I was finally able to buy it. Would Carrie Bradshaw get such thrills from her giant collection of Manolos if Mr. Big had bought all of them for her? Of course not. Knowing that I made this loony adventure happen for myself made the day all the more storied, interesting, and hilarious. I have a feeling that if I were to compare my experience with those of seasoned fashion editors and designers, mine would be fresher; I got a taste of the excitement without the world-weariness and cynicism that so often comes to those for whom glamour is an expectation. Grazie, Milano.

Franca, Francis, Miley. You know.

The first almost-two weeks in Florence have flown by, and I am very much still in my ''honeymoon stage'' with this amazing city. I am a TEXTBOOK example of Phase 1 in the "Stages of Culture Shock" pamphlet AIFS so thoughtfully supplied us with in our orientation handbook. (Phase 1: Honeymoon (it actually used this term). Total adoration of/fascination with the culture. Phase 2: Sudden small disappointments/surprises that gradually mount up until they finally cause you to hit **CRISIS MODE**). Thanx AIFS. I like to think I'm a pretty well-adjusted individual, so I'm banking on NOT hitting CRISIS MODE. Keep your fingers crossed that there will be no sudden "downward spiral."

I finally have Internet on my own computer/in my homestay, so I can upload pictures to this blog. Here is my space on the day I moved in. It looks a little more...ahem..."lived in" now, but it's still pretty clean. It needs more decoration, but I had no room to pack anything:




Two nights ago, I ate dinner with my host mom, Franca. My program's meal plan allows me to eat out for lunch and dinner pretty much daily, but Franca told me from the beginning that she wanted me to feel welcome to cook or to be cooked for in her house. The food Franca cooked was good, nothing spectacular (not particularly Italian...I think she knew I subconsciously wanted something other than cheese/bread/tomato sauce/prosciutto). But the "conversation" was fantastic. Read me: The term "conversation" is used very generously here. Any time that I remotely question my decision to live with a 65-year-old woman instead of English-speaking girls my age, I will remember that I get to have unparalleled experiences like the one I had two nights ago, and that i can live with American friends in...America. Imagine that. I'm terrible at the language since I JUST started learning, but sitting down with someone and being forced to focus on how to communicate my ideas sure is an ideal way to improve. In two hours spent with Franca at the dinner table, I felt like I learned more than I did in weeks of class. Obviously there were lots of smiles and "si's" and oohing and aahing from my end of the conversation, but I got great satisfaction from trudging slowly through the conversation and occasionally seeing Franca's face light up when I was able to form a coherent sentence (which wasn't too often).

Franca seriously just oozes elegance and grace and intellect. You can't buy class like she has. It has nothing to do with her apartment being elaborately furnished (it's not) or dressing to impress (she doesn't, although she does seem to have a keen awareness of and interest in what she wears). It's in the way she moves and speaks, in her kindness and warmth. I don't know, maybe it's just because she's speaking Italian and I'm totally ignorant and so it all sounds singsongy and beautiful. Hahaha, likely. But knowing some of her background, that she spent time as an architect and studied art, and considering the number of subjects/people we discussed last night (I use "discussed" loosely) and how freely and elaborately she was able to talk about them- I can tell it's not just the beauty of the language that's giving me this impression of her. She talked on and on and on about everyone from Brunelleschi to Salvatore Ferragamo... Michael Jackson was even thrown into the mix.

Tomorrow I'm going on a day trip to Assisi with one of my art history classes. I'm excited to see the Basilica San Francesco and all the Giotto and Cimabue frescoes and the burial place of St. Francis. Eeeeee. It is so cool to see all these things and ideas and people that I have studied come to life DAILY here. Today I realized that the Ponte Santa Trinita, the bridge I cross every day, not even a minute away from my school, is the place where Dante and Beatrice allegedly first met.

Tonight I went to a pizza making class at Finisterrae, a restaurant in Piazza Santa Croce. The restaurant is right next door to the famous church:


Pictured below is the great work of culinary art I created. I can't believe I'm admitting this, but the pizza took two tries; like my driver's test (can't believe I'm admitting that either), the first one was a big fat FAIL. (Side note: I didn't actually do Driver's Test Try #1 in Tupelo-I did it out in the boonies because some off-the-beaten-path DMV was open and Tupelo's was closed and I was a VERY impatient 15 year old. FACT: DMV workers in Middle-of-Nowhere, Mississippi, test much harder than in Tupelo. And that's not just me making excuses. Anyone who has seen how people who live in rural Mississippi drive can understand why the people at the DMV would be extra cautious. I did way worse on my Tupelo test, but I passed with flying colors. Go figure. Anyway, moving on...) Back to the matter at hand. The first pizza I made died in the oven. It was tragic. Erika, another AIFS girl participating in the class, also had to watch her pizza meet a similar fate. We learned from our instructor that our pizzas were destined for doom from the get-go. Apparently we put too many toppings on them (fulfillment of Fat American stereotype: CHECK) *and* the toppings were too close to the crust, so when the chef reached in to shift the pizzas around with his giant tool that looked like an odd fusion of a spatula, pitchfork, and a crosier (crazy), some of the toppings fell off and burned. This chef accepted nothing less than perfection, and I watched him whisk my pizza out of the oven and literally catapult it across the room into the trash. I felt my jaw drop as this happened; he was visibly frustrated with our lack of pizza-making proficiency, and I told him I would have gladly eaten it, but he replied curtly, "No. You eat good pizza." Well, if you say so. I made another one, this time under close supervision.


This semester is helping me to gain at least a kindergarten-level perspective on globalization. Sadly, whenever anyone uses that term the only image that flashes through my mind is McDonald's golden arches plopped down in the desert, cacti nearby, maybe a camel hanging out in the would-be parking lot area for good measure. My understanding of the world economy is...limited, and that's a polite way of putting it. I walked by a sushi restaurant today just a block or so away from Piazza Santa Croce, and on the walk back I realized it was a "Sushi and Barbecue Restaurant." (Sounds like they're catering to pregnant women with weird cravings...they should open a Peanut Butter & Pickles bar next door). Yesterday I stumbled upon an American Episcopal church near Piazza Rucellai; incidentally, it is right around the corner from an American Apparel, a "diner," and the only steakhouse I've seen in Italy. Careful planning, I think. Last week I was browsing in a department store with my friends Brittney and Noni. We were walking upstairs, and just as we came to a pause in our conversation, we suddenly heard an all-too familiar chord progression blast through the speakers, as if on cue. There she was, right there with us in Italy (well, kind of; I mean, she was on Italian radio): none other than Miley herself. Hearing the voice alone was surprising enough, but even more surprising was the specific song playing: "Party in the USA." It caught me off guard; by now I'm used to hearing "California Gurls" absolutely EVERYWHERE, but hearing Miley sing "Who's that chick that's rockin' kicks? She's gotta be from out of town" to a room full of Italians was just...odd.
Despite this weirdness and my initial response of I'm in Italy, why the heck am I hearing this?, by the second chorus I was singing along, glad to have Destini Hope back on my radar (that's her real name-Billy Ray sure knows how to pick 'em, huh?) I've been an unashamed fan of the song since it first came out. However trite the tune may be, it was a nice dose of familiarity, funny and unexpected. Whatever distaste Florentines may have for the hordes of Americans who converge on the city in September (peak of tourist season), it was no longer an issue when this silly little song was playing. Yep, the universal language always wins. It's a little early in the semester to act wistful and pretend-profound-ish, but I have to say it: hearing the song made me think back to the time I, like Miley, hopped off the plane "with a dream and my cardigan" (not at LAX, minor incongruity), exactly one month ago this Saturday. And how, like Miley, the "chick rockin' kicks from out of town," I've relocated, and I've found ways to make a home of this new place. I'm making it a home without trying to Americanize the place or completely Italianize (ha) myself. I already feel more educated, more excited, more engaged with the world at large.

The below video of the PS22 chorus has nothing to do with Italy, Miley Cyrus, or anything I've talked about, really, but I just recently saw it and wanted to share. The original Talking Heads version of this song is one of my all-time favorites; it's just beautiful and brilliant. I think the kids in this video do a fantastic job of capturing the song's inherent joy and innocence that I love so much. Awesome and encouraging and I just wanted to pass the video along. Hope it brings a smile to your face. Love and miss you all!

first days in firenze

Today is my fourth full day in Florence. AMO LA CITTA!!! ...a lot.

Florence is absolutely beautiful (duh) and just walking around is an amazing sensory experience. There are definitely aspects of the city that surprised me, but that's to be expected. I'll get to those later. Let me fill you in on some of the adventure so far.

We arrived in Firenze by bus and were immediately shoved into cabs to take us to our respective homes. Since I'm living in a homestay, I was alone in the cab, and that was the first time throughout my days in Italia so far that I have felt insanely nervous. My nervousness was completely unrelated to the fact that I was in a taxi alone; the driver was perfectly friendly and easy to understand. He laughed when he saw the huge green rain boots I was lugging around (the same ones I had to tote through Heathrow Airport because they didn't fit ANYWHERE). I'd stuffed important papers and some extra clothes inside the boots, I guess just to make myself and my packing methods look as ridiculous as possible. After a few more basic Italian phrases he began speaking English and I told him he could continue to speak Italian, but he told me he wanted me to feel ''welcomed.'' So that was nice. I made the mistake of saying ''Yes sir'' when he asked me a question, and he was totally taken aback by this. ''We are in taxi, not army!'' he said. I explained to him that it was the polite way to address people in Mississippi, and then he understood. It was also nice that he was speaking at ALL...I've never ridden with a cab driver who seemed particularly ''chatty'' or ''friendly.'' Nope, my nervousness was more tied to the fact that I was heading to my home for the next 3 months and had absolutely NO idea what to expect. AIFS had given me some ''preliminary info'' about Franca, my host mom, but it pretty much consisted of ''She exists, and this is her address.'' I felt like I was going on an extended blind date with a 65-year old woman. Except I wasn't even sure of her age.

Franca was standing at the top of the stairwell to greet me when I arrived, and my nerves were (somewhat) calmed at this point. At least she was smiling. Immediately I could tell that communicating with her was going to be an adventure. She showed me to my room. I'll post pictures on here eventually (I know, I know, I keep saying that, but right now I'm on a dinky Stone Age computer in the school lab because I don't yet have Internet in my homestay-working on it). I have more personal space than ever. My room's a little smaller than my room at home, but with way less stuff in it, so it feels bigger. I have my own bathroom, which I've never had before because I've always shared with Isabel or a roommate/suitemates or co-counselors at camp or an entire hallway (woohoo Quintard common bathrooms). There is a door that divides my space from the rest of Franca's apartment, and a little teeny hallway (I don't know if ''hallway'' is the right word...it's more like a boxy elevator type area that just doesn't move) that leads to my room/bathroom. The short version of this paragraph: I have a lot of space and privacy.

I could tell within the first few hours that Franca will not be an intrusive host mom at all. It seems like our relationship is one that's going to be up to me to define, which is cool. I would love to just be a fly on the wall in our relationship because I'm sure that we're hilarious to listen to when we ''converse'' with each other. Franca speaks all Italian and occasionally throws in an English word or two that she knows. I speak all English and occasionally throw in an Italian word or two that I THINK I know. Sometimes Spanish comes out, or if I don't know an Italian word that I think I SHOULD know after my 2-week foray into the language in Lido di Camaiore orientation, I say the Spanish word, and every now and then it's the same. Key words: ''Every now and then.'' So I wind up speaking this convoluted word-vomit combo of English, Spanglish, and occasional Italian, and it probably comes out like gibberish (I also think of it as Caveman Italian...I say things to Franca like ''I go now. I eat food in restaurant. I go class.'') It's fun. (It actually is...I'm not being sarcastic. I just hate that I can't be clearer with her, but I'm hoping I'll pick up more Italian with time-and I'm still enrolled in the Basic Spoken Italian class at school).

Franca leaves it to me to initiate conversations and interactions. She is a very sweet and welcoming woman, but clearly recognizes that college students want their independence and privacy. However, if I want to talk to her she is always happy to chat. I'm never really in the apartment during the day because I'm either in class, running errands, wandering/exploring, or eating (the AIFS meal plan gives us meal vouchers at tons of restaurants and cafes all around the city. HOLLA. However, I do have a bone to pick with them: I would much rather have a Gelato voucher than a Breakfast voucher. Just saying.) When I come home at night, Franca is usually watching TV, reading, on the phone with her sister, smoking, or sleeping. If I want to stop and talk with her, I do, but I don't feel obligated to. Right now I usually do because I want to be friendly and to get to know her better, but I'm sure there will be days later in the semester when I'm just too lazy to bother with conquering the language barrier. I'm equally sure, though, that there will be just as many days when I feel up for the challenge.

Flash back to Saturday, 20 minutes post-arrival at Franca's. This is a story that needs to be told. Franca had just showed me to my room, and my head was spinning in a thousand different directions. About half of my thoughts were along the lines of ''OHMYGOSH I can't believe I'm here, this is AMAZING, I have SO MUCH SPACE, Franca is ADORABLE, FIRENZE IS BEAUTIFUL, THIS IS GOING TO BE THE MOST AMAZING SEMESTER EVER, I AM OBSESSED WITH EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE ALREADY'' and the other half of my thoughts were more like ''OHMYGOSH I am all by myself, I'm going to vom, WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO?!'' I was a little overwhelmed with both positive and negative thoughts. I needed to do something mindless, yet productive. I had two ideas: unpacking and organizing my things, and then PAINTING MY FINGERNAILS.

Now, you may laugh and think ''You just landed in Florence, Italy, one of the most beautiful and historically rich places in the world, and the first thing you wanted to do was paint your nails?'' Well...um...yeah. In college I've found that nail-painting is one of my absolute favorite de-stressers. It is a task that requires concentration and (some) skill, but you can easily daydream and relax while doing it. You can put on some music, decompress, and, on top of that, when you're done, it looks pretty. It is one of my favorite things to do when I get overwhelmed. And I brought my brand new bottle of OPI ''What's With the Cat-itude?'' polish from their new Shrek-themed collection. Too cute.

WELL.... I began unpacking and moving my clothes into my armoire and other little compartments in the room. I opened the pocket in my suitcase where I remembered packing the bottle of nail polish. I pulled out a shirt and tossed it on the bed, anxious to find the What's With the Cat-itude? bottle.

WELL...what do you know? There went the bottle (which had apparently been wrapped inside the shirt, a small but important detail I had forgotten)...shattering into pieces and spilling onto Franca's tiled floor. I shifted into panic mode. Honestly, at first it was just because I was upset I couldn't paint my nails anymore and because the limited-edition bottle was kaput. THEN I suddenly had the terrifying realization that OHMYGODTHISISSOMEONEELSE'SFLOOR. I bolted for the bathroom, looking desperately for equipment with which I could do damage control. Good ole toilet paper was the only viable option. With no other way to handle this situation, I grabbed the entire roll and began sopping up blue polish from the floor. Miraculously, this method worked much better than I expected, but my frenzied state while doing it caused me to wipe the polish in short spurts, leaving adorable little white toilet paper bits stuck to the floor. The only way I could think of how to proceed was with soap and water. There was only one washcloth in the bathroom and I wasn't about to use my limited linens for a project this ridic. I instead grabbed one of the many cheap ($6.99 for 5) Wal-Mart white Hanes V-necks I brought along, soaking it with water and dousing it with soap to wipe up said toilet paper bits and OPI remnants. And that was all it took: With a little bit of elbow grease and a lot of toilet paper, I had survived my first clumsiness-induced debacle. I just hope Franca doesn't look in my wastebasket anytime soon, because she'd be MOLTO confused.

On to more general things. I am living right in the historical center of the city which is FANTASTIC. I was a little concerned that AIFS might dump us in an awkwardly distant suburb or in a scary alleyway on the end of town opposite of the school. Nope. I am on the side of the Ponte alla Carraia opposite the Duomo, and I'm within easy walking distance of the Ponte Vecchio, Santa Croce, the Duomo, the Uffizi, and tons and tons of little cafes, smaller galleries, restaurants, bars, boutiques, libraries, you name it. It's wonderful and ideal.

Yesterday I experienced my first truly uncomfortable ''culture shock'' situation. Yes, there have been noticeable differences in the culture that I've seen from the beginning, but they came with some warning or were easy to adjust to; I expected and HOPED that I'd be dealing with differences-that is, after all, how you learn. And the dodgy driving that the Italians are so known for hasn't been nearly as intense as I expected. After spending time in Haiti, Italian roads, by comparison, seem like leisurely golf courses populated with 80-year old cart drivers on tranquilizers. Point being, I've easily adjusted to most of the differences, but yesterday was the first time I truly felt SHOCKED (or just like an idiot).

I was walking, innocently enough, through the open-air markets in the San Lorenzo area, seeing plenty of cheap purses and faux pashminas, not planning to buy anything, just wandering. Once I exited the little booth/tent area I walked onto the end of Borgo San Lorenzo and noticed a walk-down corner shoe shop. I needed a pair of everyday sandals other than my Rainbows. This place is nothing fancy, mind you-we're talking shoes hanging from cork on the outside of the building and signs that say ''High fashion shoes.'' (Ways to know something is not ''high fashion:'' when it calls itself that. Food equivalent: A gourmet restaurant doesn't have pictures of its food on the menu. My point is made.) Anyway, I walked down into the store and saw plenty of people trying on shoes. Outside the store, there had been signs in Italian and in English that said ''Please do not touch the shoes on the outside of the building.'' Well, there were no signs indicating anything about these shoes INSIDE the building. However, the moment I strapped the sandals on my feet, a man started yelling at me (in Italian, of course, so my simple American mind had no idea what was going on) and CHARGING toward me like a bull before he literally YANKED the shoes off my feet. Terrifying!!! And it actually took me a moment to realize that it was the store owner-apparently I was supposed to ask permission to try on the shoes. (Side note: the Merona sandals I got from Target for 19 bucks were more high-quality than anything in this store. It's not like I was test driving a Rolls Royce without permission.) For a moment I actually thought it might be someone robbing the store-not of money, but of shoes, and that the robber was, for some reason, lurching for my shoes first, perhaps as a scare tactic, rather than taking any of the hundreds of boxes lining the walls. But no. It was the store owner, indicating to me VERY adamantly that the shoes were not to be tried on (in Italian, but I got the gist.)

Lesson learned.

farewell, Lido di Camaiore....HELLO, FIRENZE!!! (FINALLYYYY)

Tomorrow I say goodbye to Lido di Camaiore. (Cue the Hallelujah Chorus!!) I'm finally heading to Florence, aka the Promised Land.

Oh, Lido. Tomorrow will be bittersweet, I guess. Actually, who am I kidding-it's completely sweet. This was an ideal place to practice the language since it's virtually tourist-free, so I guess that's why they brought us here. But AIFS could probably be sued for false advertising. On the itinerary they sent us before we left, Lido di Camaiore was described as "A small, delightful Tuscan village along the sandy shoreline, Lido de Camaiore's streets are dotted with charming shops and cafes." But we have basically been living in a much smaller, somewhat smellier, and certainly sketchier version of Miami.

I've given poor Lido a terrible review on this blog, and I'm starting to feel a little (just a LITTLE) sorry for the poor town. I figure half the reason I've been so hard on the town is because I've been anxious to no longer be cooped up with all the American students for orientation. I figured the day before I depart for Florence would be an opportune time to tell little funny tidbits about the town that I found interesting, weird, or just worth sharing, but never really fit into a post.

1.) Lido LOVES Katy Perry. (More specifically, "California Gurls.")
OK, so this song was clearly Katy's effort to practically force-feed West Coast girls a new "anthem." But the fact that Italians were obviously not Katy's intended audience does NOT faze residents of Lido one bit. They LOVE this song like no other despite having no connection to California whatsoever. It's unreal. While in Lido I have heard it at least once daily. It started playing here just MOMENTS after I started writing this paragraph-I'm not even kidding. Perfect timing. There have been days where I've heard it literally 5 times, and we're talking in 5 different places-it's not like I'm just sitting hanging out by the radio. One morning I heard it playing in a little coffee bar before class. After class, I walked down the block to grab lunch, and Snoop Dogg's groovy contribution to the song greeted me as I walked into the pizzeria. *THEN* I walked 2 blocks down to my favorite gelateria, the one with the random penguin picture in the window, and before I'd even gotten the words "Tre gusti, per favore" out of my mouth, Katy was already serenading me. The woman behind the counter was clearly enjoying it, too. And when Katy sang "West Coast represent, now put your hands up," the woman heeded this request as if it were the call to prayer toward Mecca. She dropped the gelato scoop; I watched it tumble to the floor as she threw her arms in the air, and in that moment I swear we were both Golden Coast natives. Okay, if that last part about her dropping the scoop sounded too good to be true-it is. I made it up. But wouldn't that have been too perfectly hilarious if it actually happened? I will say that the gelato woman was clearly enjoying the tune, and I have to admit, I don't hate the fact that I hear it everywhere here.

2.) Lido men love popping their collars.
I once thought that popping one's collar was a trend reserved for Hollister-clad eighth grade males, desperate for attention from girls, acceptance by the bros, and banishment of unfortunate bacne. Then with the advent of Jersey Shore and the sudden guido/fist pumping-party phenomenon that swept the nation (or at least the Fiji house in Sewanee), I was reminded that there ARE actually other people in the world who pop their collars...people who one would assume to be older and wiser, but who actually turn out to be named Pauly D or Ronnie (read: older, not wiser). And WHOA, was I reminded of that after landing in Pisa and then arriving in Lido. These men pop their collars with pride-you never see one side drooping even slightly; the collars look professionally starched. And the Multiple-Polo Layered Pop is also a style staple-only for those who are really serious. One would hope that the Florentine men will have a more tasteful and elevated sense of style, but "one" would also be entertained if the men there also dress like this. Either way, "one" (I) won't be disappointed.

3.) I enjoyed the vegetable vendor.
Picture this: it's a normal day in class. But not college class-flash back to high school, and think of that one class (or classes) that just seemed to drag on forever, despite the fact that it was no longer than any of your other classes. You're slumping in your chair, your mind wandering to the proverbial LaLa Land, eyes glazed over, mouth open, and, most likely, some drool dribbling down your chin. It's shameless drooling, though, because everyone around you looks exactly the same as you. Well, this is how the fourth hour of our Italian class is-daily.
Now picture the drab monotony of that class being suddenly and shockingly interrupted by a frighteningly loud voice outside. The mystery voice is yelling indecipherable Italian phrases with a scary sense of urgency usually reserved for life-or-death situations. AND this voice is being broadcast over a loudspeaker (or so we thought the first time we heard it).
Naturally, the first time this occurrence interrupted class, all of the students woke up from our Classroom Comas and sat terrified in our seats, looking expectantly to our teacher for instructions. All those fourth grade fire drills seemed to prepare us very well to "Stop, look, and listen" in emergency situations. But Giovanna kept babbling on about possessive adjectives until someone finally yelped desperately, "What the $%^& is going on?!"

She gave us a puzzled look before realizing we were OBVIOUSLY referring to the scary noises outside. Mussolini, back from the grave with a vengeance? Terrorist attack? Was this some twisted method the unknown mayor of Lido di Camaiore used to announce emergency situations town-wide? Nope...Giovanna smiled and said, "Oh! Si! The veg-tav-al man!"

Translation: A man selling vegetables, ice cream truck style. Only instead of playing creepily alluring little music-box tunes from the truck to announce his arrival, he YELLS through the megaphone to advertise his merchandise to the entire neighborhood. It's terrifying the first time you hear it.
Giovanna reassured us that all was well and that he would be nearing the school soon, so we could look out the window and know that we were safe and that it was only a vegetable vendor making the noise. And she was right; just moments later, I saw a little white truck, megaphone clipped to the window, flying down the residential road opposite the school and then making a mad dash into our parking lot. The man then drove in circles, practically spinning, still yelling through the megaphone about inexpensive, fresh pomodori and...other vegetables (just realized that "tomato" is the only vegetable name I actually know in Italian, and it's technically not even a veg. Whatever.)

Once the man got the message that no one from the school was going to buy anything, he drove away from the school, and dust clouds actually formed behind him, no joke.
Day by day, we got used to this routine. The veg-tav-al man didn't interrupt class every day, but he did it enough to where it began to seem normal, and eventually we all became like Giovanna and were able to somehow tune out the ridiculousness that was happening outside. What intrigued me most about the veg-tav-al man was that in all the times he drove through the neighborhood, I never saw anyone buy anything from the truck or even stop him. Come to think of it, I never even saw him actually stop the truck himself. He just blew through the area yelling and then left. And I had a window seat in class, so I was able to see a good bit of his route. Sooo weird. Buying from the vegetable truck just isn't the most popular way to procure your produce in Lido, I guess-and somehow, that doesn't surprise me. I wonder how many sales the vegetable guy makes in an hour or even a day. Whatever the answer, he ended up giving us lots of laughs during the drudgery of 4-hour class time, so I'm grateful for that.

Lido wasn't ALL bad. But Florence will be a different world.