Thursday, September 13, 2007
Parla Englese?
Every single person who has traveled abroad has warned me of the cravings. 23 year old, hell, 30 year old, Red Sox Cap wearing guys would say, “You’ll miss peanut butter so much”, or “Just wait till you are two months in and all you want are some twizzlers.” You would think that reformed backpackers were all at one time pregnant women late in their second trimester, craving the oddest of combonations. I didn’t believe any of them. Who could possibly have cravings in Italy? All the fresh food, the delicate balance between savory and sweet. The second my feet hit the Santa Maria Novella train station in Firenze, I had my first craving, and knew it would never be satisfied. Raw Toll House chocolate chip cookie dough. The White Hen Pantry down the street from my Phillips Street apartment seemed to have a never-ending supply of this stuff, cellulite in a tube, and chemicals spoonful upon wonderful spoonful. The wrapper instructed Lindsay and I to preheat the oven to 375 degrees. The only preparation for a tube of cookie dough that I did was to change into a pair of leggings that had an elastic waste.
My first meal in Florence was Smart Food that my uncle had packed in a plastic Ziploc baggie twenty-four hours earlier and half a bottle of warm lemon-lime Gatorade that I purchased in the Rome Airport in my British accent. I arrived in Florence at 22:00 (10 pm) and took a nice long walk to my hostel in La Piazza Della Libierta. I wasn't lost, I was exploring. The first hostel I stayed in was perfect given I didn’t have to share a room with anyone. The rest of the less than perfect details didn’t seem to matter when I didn’t have to listen to anything but the Vespas speeding by out my window. So, I organized my life, washed my face, ate my smart food and drifted off to the thoughts of Spaghetti Cabonara and Funghi Aranchinis.
For the first five hours exploring Florence, I only ate things that I could point to in a case, or pick up myself and pay for at a register. For breakfast, I had a mozzarella and pomodoro panino and a cappuccino. I pointed to the sandwich in a sparkling glass pastry case that was in a small café in La Piazza Della San Marco. I immediately looked at a clock and quickly asked for un cappuccino. The time was ten thirty and was just thankful that I could still be socially acceptable and order a cappuccino, never mind that the word, ‘cappuccino’, doesn’t have to be translated. My lunch consisted of two small snacks, and I spoke as little as possible to obtain each. The first snack was a bottle of water and two bananas that I bought from a street vendor. The vendor was Moroccan and spoke as little English as I spoke Italian, so we were both patient with each other. The second snack was after I took a nap and decided to get a gelato while I walked around to find a place to eat dinner. The second hostel in Florence, is much nicer than the first, much more modern, filled with young travelers and a hell of a lot cleaner than the first. The only trouble, which some people would find a perk, is that the hostel is situated one block from the train station in the Hotel Plaza. I knew only one thing: I had to get out of the Hotel District to find a decent, economic meal that would be my first real food experience in Florence. I stopped by una gelateria and pointed to the flavor I wanted to which the sweet woman behind the counter replied, “Only caffe?” and I nodded, I couldn’t even get out a Si, and this woman spoke English. I regretted that decision about six spoonfuls into the cup and wished I had combined to coffee ice cream with orange sorbet. I learned from that mistake, and will never let one flavor of gelato inhabit a cup alone again.
The shops in Florence are not very different than the likes of Modern Pastry or La Salumeria in the North End; all the people behind the counter speak both English and Italian. However, when in Florence, speaking English is responded with rolling eyes. When I ask Maria at Modern Pastry for un cappuccino doppio at Modern Pastry back home she responds “Brava”. Brilliant.
Staying in a youth Hostel overseas is like moving into your freshman dorm, minus the parents to argue with. At first, everyone is timid and politely smiles in the graffiti hall walls that leave premonitions of visitors past. I was the first to check into the three-person room at two thirty. For four hours I prayed that no one else was staying with me. Praying doesn’t work, clearly. The first bunkmate arrived at six thirty. I have no idea what his name is, he is from Germany so we’ll call him, Schnitzel. Schnitzel is thirty-three years old and here in Florence working on his dissertation for his PhD in Art History. Schnitzel’s focus in Art History is Saint Sylvester and his influence in Renaissance art. Schnitzel has been in Florence before, but has been traveling Italy for the past three weeks visiting different churches viewing the frescos that Saint Sylvester is in and writing about them. I immediately asked Schnitzel if his likes boys or girls, a custom the boys that hang at Sister Sorel back home have grown quite accustomed to, and he immediately says, girls. He followed that quickly with, “I know my jeans are tight, but I am European.” The second was Japanese, didn’t speak much English and left just as fast as he came.
Schnitzel convinced me to venture over the bridge to the University area of the city where he had studied, get this, eight years ago. Eight years ago, I was skipping my study block to go Wendy’s and buy dollar French-fries. So Schnitzel and I walked over the river and through the Duomo to a small trattoria that did not have single table open. Good sign. Schnitzel asked if we should wait of find something else, I told him we should wait. I don’t remember actually eating, because we I was too busy talking about food with Schnitzel and translating the names of animals from his unpracticed English. “What is the animal that you eat on Easter?”
“Lamb.”
“No, the animal, it has nothing to do with the church, like Santa Claus”
“Oh! The Easter Bunny, which is really a Rabbit, but we don’t eat that on Easter, we eat Lamb. The Easter Bunny just hides the eggs.”
Our entire conversation went on and on and on exchanging small facts about our different customs. Dinner ended with crème caramel and espresso. Schnitzel, being an Art History major knew far more about all the buildings architecture and which painting was in which church than I would ever care to read in travel guide, or in a museum pamphlet.
So with a full stomach, and a complete understanding on why all the Jewelers are now situated on the bridge rather than the butchers, I am looking forward to my first day in Umbria in the Morning. Here’s hoping my padded bike shorts arrived from The States to greet me.
“No, the animal, it has nothing to do with the church, like Santa Claus”
“Oh! The Easter Bunny, which is really a Rabbit, but we don’t eat that on Easter, we eat Lamb. The Easter Bunny just hides the eggs.”
Our entire conversation went on and on and on exchanging small facts about our different customs. Dinner ended with crème caramel and espresso. Schnitzel, being an Art History major knew far more about all the buildings architecture and which painting was in which church than I would ever care to read in travel guide, or in a museum pamphlet.
So with a full stomach, and a complete understanding on why all the Jewelers are now situated on the bridge rather than the butchers, I am looking forward to my first day in Umbria in the Morning. Here’s hoping my padded bike shorts arrived from The States to greet me.
// posted by .elle. @ 3:09 PM
Trains, Planes, and Automobiles
I am on a train somewhere between Pisa and Florence. My luggage is somewhere in Canada routing on the Blue Jays while I am anxiously awaiting it’s arrival to an address I don’t yet know. It is 9:53 pm on my second day in transit. Gloria, the oh-so-friendly women I spoke to at the baggage claim in Pisa informed me that I could not file a claim until I reached my final destination. I suppose my final destination is Boston. Living without that suitcase would prove difficult, but definitely not impossible.
I was woken yesterday by my refreshingly naïve eleven year old cousin at 8 am.
“Shelly, it’s five of eight, I have to leave for the bus soon. I know you told me that you would walk me to the stop, but if you want to sleep, I -“
“I’m coming baby, let me just brush my teeth.”
Tori missed the bus by 45 seconds, while my Aunt Linda was still packing her lunch that would have to be dropped off later. I ended up dropping Tori at her generic elementary school in the middle of suburbia. We sang ‘Born to be Wild’ in it’s entirety on the way to 6th grade. I should have taken it as a sign when the blur of the big yellow school bus and flashing lights whizzed by us before we could open the front door, that this trip across the pond was going to fall dangerously on the line where easy intercepts really flippin’ difficult.
I suffered from a ridiculous case of anxiety all day. It was the type of anxiety that you want to curb with coffee and nicotine, but really should be treated with a balanced breakfast and counting backwards from ten. The only two times I remember the anxiety leaving me were before I even left the South Shore.
The first was playing one on one kickball with Jack on my Aunt’s perfectly manicured law, the only one on the block that manages to remain an envious shade of green while a water ban is in full effect. Jack, my four year old cousin does not fall for “The quiet game”, “The let’s see what’s on Nickelodeon game”, or even, “The I’ll give you some ice cream if you leave me alone for five minutes game”. Jack is way too smart for the latter of the three, he can now push a chair across the kitchen floor and open the freezer to get his own ice cream. Kick ball was nothing more than me kicking a 3-dollar rubber ball from Wal-Mart in the air and Jack trying to catch it. The game of kickball was mindless, and quite fun to watch Jack, the miniature man run around aimlessly with this eyes on the sky trying desperately to catch a blue rubber ball. I eventually convinced Jack to take the puppy for a walk. The new puppy, as you will have it, is actually not a puppy at all. Benny, even though he came from a puppy mill, is actually 3 years old and has the muscle strength of a veal chop. Therefore, ‘walking the dog’ is a loosely used term for, ‘ Let’s put Benny on a leash and have Jack follow in around in a 4 foot radius for ten minutes so the grown ups can actually get something done’. Benny gets walked about 25 times a day.
The second time the anxiety left me was actually during a conversation about going number 2. I’ve never been one for bathroom talk, menstrual talk, or sex talk, but for some reason, I felt it necessary to share my fear of having to poop in public places for the next three months. The conversation stopped almost immediately after a few jokes about Hershey, not the candy bar, and a few about Crop Dusting, and we were nowhere close to a corn field. The whole idea of having that conversation put me at ease and reassured the validity of on of my favorite pieces of literature as a child, “Everybody Poops”.
I was greeted at Logan with a cellular telephone call from Mum. My flight was delayed due to the weather at the JFK International Airport in New York City. The Delta customer service representative reassured Mum several times that I would absolutely make my connecting flight to Heathrow in time. The Delta customer service representative convinced me that there was no way that I will make my connecting flight, and should hop on the next Delta Express to LaGuardia and take a taxi to JFK. I said sure, as long as I make my connecting flight to London. Somewhere down the line, I ended up boarding my initial flight to JFK and my one and only suitcase was on it’s way to LaGuardia. Womp. Woomp. Wooomp.
I eventually arrived in Rome and a sparkle of hope that I would finally have my face in the Tuscan sun was fizzled the moment I realized my six hour lay over quickly became eight, as my 35 minute plane ride to Pisa was two hours delayed. I toyed with the idea of skipping the flight and taking a train straight to Florence, but thankfully remembered I had to argue with the women at the baggage claim at the Pisa airport. So, I decided instead to find a chair and sleep instead. Before naptime though, I needed one large bottle of water, and il panino formaggio. To be honest, that is one of the only phrases I know in Italian, a cheese sandwich. While in the Rome International Airport, I spoke entirely in the English accent I picked up on my layover in London. I did this for two reasons, to ease my frustration with not speaking Italian, and well, because it was terrifically fun to say words like ‘bloke’ and ‘fag’, and not have those two words enrage someone. I spoke in my new English accent until I found myself chime, “Hello Puppet”, to a small child. One look from the child’s mother and I realized it was better to sound like a dumb American than a pedophile from Chester.
Traveling across 3 state lines, an ocean, multiple countries, and through two Italian regions, proved my preconceived notion, that International travel, especially on the eleventh day of September, is more frustrating then watching The Sox close a game in mid-September. It already looks like this year will be better than the last.
I was woken yesterday by my refreshingly naïve eleven year old cousin at 8 am.
“Shelly, it’s five of eight, I have to leave for the bus soon. I know you told me that you would walk me to the stop, but if you want to sleep, I -“
“I’m coming baby, let me just brush my teeth.”
Tori missed the bus by 45 seconds, while my Aunt Linda was still packing her lunch that would have to be dropped off later. I ended up dropping Tori at her generic elementary school in the middle of suburbia. We sang ‘Born to be Wild’ in it’s entirety on the way to 6th grade. I should have taken it as a sign when the blur of the big yellow school bus and flashing lights whizzed by us before we could open the front door, that this trip across the pond was going to fall dangerously on the line where easy intercepts really flippin’ difficult.
I suffered from a ridiculous case of anxiety all day. It was the type of anxiety that you want to curb with coffee and nicotine, but really should be treated with a balanced breakfast and counting backwards from ten. The only two times I remember the anxiety leaving me were before I even left the South Shore.
The first was playing one on one kickball with Jack on my Aunt’s perfectly manicured law, the only one on the block that manages to remain an envious shade of green while a water ban is in full effect. Jack, my four year old cousin does not fall for “The quiet game”, “The let’s see what’s on Nickelodeon game”, or even, “The I’ll give you some ice cream if you leave me alone for five minutes game”. Jack is way too smart for the latter of the three, he can now push a chair across the kitchen floor and open the freezer to get his own ice cream. Kick ball was nothing more than me kicking a 3-dollar rubber ball from Wal-Mart in the air and Jack trying to catch it. The game of kickball was mindless, and quite fun to watch Jack, the miniature man run around aimlessly with this eyes on the sky trying desperately to catch a blue rubber ball. I eventually convinced Jack to take the puppy for a walk. The new puppy, as you will have it, is actually not a puppy at all. Benny, even though he came from a puppy mill, is actually 3 years old and has the muscle strength of a veal chop. Therefore, ‘walking the dog’ is a loosely used term for, ‘ Let’s put Benny on a leash and have Jack follow in around in a 4 foot radius for ten minutes so the grown ups can actually get something done’. Benny gets walked about 25 times a day.
The second time the anxiety left me was actually during a conversation about going number 2. I’ve never been one for bathroom talk, menstrual talk, or sex talk, but for some reason, I felt it necessary to share my fear of having to poop in public places for the next three months. The conversation stopped almost immediately after a few jokes about Hershey, not the candy bar, and a few about Crop Dusting, and we were nowhere close to a corn field. The whole idea of having that conversation put me at ease and reassured the validity of on of my favorite pieces of literature as a child, “Everybody Poops”.
I was greeted at Logan with a cellular telephone call from Mum. My flight was delayed due to the weather at the JFK International Airport in New York City. The Delta customer service representative reassured Mum several times that I would absolutely make my connecting flight to Heathrow in time. The Delta customer service representative convinced me that there was no way that I will make my connecting flight, and should hop on the next Delta Express to LaGuardia and take a taxi to JFK. I said sure, as long as I make my connecting flight to London. Somewhere down the line, I ended up boarding my initial flight to JFK and my one and only suitcase was on it’s way to LaGuardia. Womp. Woomp. Wooomp.
I eventually arrived in Rome and a sparkle of hope that I would finally have my face in the Tuscan sun was fizzled the moment I realized my six hour lay over quickly became eight, as my 35 minute plane ride to Pisa was two hours delayed. I toyed with the idea of skipping the flight and taking a train straight to Florence, but thankfully remembered I had to argue with the women at the baggage claim at the Pisa airport. So, I decided instead to find a chair and sleep instead. Before naptime though, I needed one large bottle of water, and il panino formaggio. To be honest, that is one of the only phrases I know in Italian, a cheese sandwich. While in the Rome International Airport, I spoke entirely in the English accent I picked up on my layover in London. I did this for two reasons, to ease my frustration with not speaking Italian, and well, because it was terrifically fun to say words like ‘bloke’ and ‘fag’, and not have those two words enrage someone. I spoke in my new English accent until I found myself chime, “Hello Puppet”, to a small child. One look from the child’s mother and I realized it was better to sound like a dumb American than a pedophile from Chester.
Traveling across 3 state lines, an ocean, multiple countries, and through two Italian regions, proved my preconceived notion, that International travel, especially on the eleventh day of September, is more frustrating then watching The Sox close a game in mid-September. It already looks like this year will be better than the last.
// posted by .elle. @ 2:59 PM
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
The Party's Just Begun
If gay does in fact translate to "really, really, really happy", as my dad explained to me circa 1992 when I was 8 years old, than it is only appropriate that my bon voyage was spent with my favorite Mo's, and a 5'10" rock star, and a Southern Belle, and some other really really really cool people.
Even though we woke up somewhere and JP and were judged by functioning Sunday Strollers and raging lesbians, it was nice just to be near you, thank you so much for venturing up to Yankee territory before I left.
"Do you s.t.r.e.t.c.h. before you k.i.c.k"
"Giovanni, NO!" Elle needs Warner in Florence now, because she is prettier than Selma Blair and doesn't want to hang out with Mo's alone. Miss your guts already.
There are no words. I left a piece of my heart at 28 Phillips street #2 and will have aujoda until I see your pretty face at Thanksgiving, or when you show up sometime around November in Amsterdam (just a thought).
// posted by .elle. @ 7:31 AM
