Italians, of all shapes and sizes, go to the market daily. I read about the daily practice of this prior to coming to Florence. Our refrigerator is small, not like a mini-fridge but something that falls in the middle of an "American" fridge and a dorm-life one. Italians go to the market everyday and purchase everything they need for that one day. Cheeses, meats, fish, fresh pastas, fruits and vegetables, tutto. Essentially makes for a couple things, the first being that Italians eat the freshest meals out of any place I've been to. The fact that their fish was swimming a few hours before hand and now it rests beautifully filleted and seasoned on your plate is amazing. Buying food everyday also helps support the local farmers and economy. Yes, I live in a touristy area of Florence, right by the Ponte Vecchio, but even here there aren't any minimarts and markets. I travel a strolling and ancient 20 minutes North to Piazza Lorenzo where the open-air market can be overwhelming, but I just keep going until I hit the central market.
The third benefit of food shopping everyday is that it encourages these amazing relationships between consumer and producer. In the two times I've been to the market, thus far, I've seen a multitude of people greeting their fish mongers, wine aficionados, and oil experts like they are old friends. Come sta?, how are you? And since I have not yet formed any solid relationships with the market people, I wait patiently as le nonne in their beautiful and robust fur coats catch-up with their market-friends. Grazie mille. Ciao, Maria!, they say, picking up their five or so grocery bags and walk away in this grandiose and warming way. Some nonna are so little in their big mink coats they look like Ewoks, or pom-poms.
My shopping list was small today: fennel, cherry tomatoes, buffalo's milk mozzarella, and un piccolo pane di Toscano. And that's lunch!
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
7: Ah, Poor Wine!
Original Post Date: 1/27/11 6:30 am Florence Time
I attribute this trait to my sophomore year; the ability to be relatively okay and sound on a few hours of sleep. Here, my sleeping schedule is nothing but odd and I’ve been told, no warned, that taking naps, come un gatto in il sole, is counterproductive to adapting to the time change. Speaking of the sun, sunrises here are breathtaking in the most understated way possible. Smooth and cool fog breathed into the air by the Arno, dare a la luce, clings and hovers in and around the river’s surface and at points is so massive that the mist spills over the edges of the Ponte Vecchio (or the even more beautiful Ponte Alle Grazie), all these natural and silent on-goings illuminated by the Tuscan-golden sunrise that in its natal-form is one of the few less saturated things here in Florence.
For the most part, thus far, I’ve slept an average of 6 hours each night. The mattress is rather un-giving, one of those compact foam ones from Ikea; I think I’m also a tad bit cold, just enough that falling to sleep becomes a second priority to getting warm. Surprisingly this has not effected my days which are spent walking thousand-footsteps around the city. Yesterday my legs ached and the balls of my feet are sore. And the funny thing about that is that I do notice my soreness and my tired feet but in the spectrum of what’s going on and what’s here I don’t care.
Laura put it best yesterday when she wondered out loud, “Will there ever be a point when I see something and don’t think, ‘oh my God!’” Will there be a point this semester when Florence is just a city in a country, as all other places are. I hope not. There’s history here that is blatant—I love that. At orientation Alessandra, our advisor, spoke about how to be Italian and drink like they do, “Enjoy the wine, experience it. Don’t gulp it down quickly,” she gestures like someone taking a shot, “ah, poor wine! There was a lot of work put into it, you know?” Will I ever be tired of Florentine food? Dinner last night with Bess and Laura at Le Fonticine sent sparks through my system.
Per il tavolo, vorremmo il antipasto misto… we began with a mixed antipasto; savory plump black olives still coated in their oil, a delicate vegetable omelet, eggplant discs topped with tomato, sun-dried tomatoes that were unlike any tomato-essence I’ve known, and prosciutto and salami. For dinner I had tagliatelle alla Bolognese, the wide handmade pasta with meat sauce, vaguely reminiscent of the same dish from back home but amped up by a few hundred volts—God, I hate music analogies—so completely delicious that will return many times. Behind all the graffiti-stained walls, the ancient water-heating system, cold bedrooms, and all are places like Le Fonticine or the foggy mornings at the Arno that make being here totally worth it.
I attribute this trait to my sophomore year; the ability to be relatively okay and sound on a few hours of sleep. Here, my sleeping schedule is nothing but odd and I’ve been told, no warned, that taking naps, come un gatto in il sole, is counterproductive to adapting to the time change. Speaking of the sun, sunrises here are breathtaking in the most understated way possible. Smooth and cool fog breathed into the air by the Arno, dare a la luce, clings and hovers in and around the river’s surface and at points is so massive that the mist spills over the edges of the Ponte Vecchio (or the even more beautiful Ponte Alle Grazie), all these natural and silent on-goings illuminated by the Tuscan-golden sunrise that in its natal-form is one of the few less saturated things here in Florence.
For the most part, thus far, I’ve slept an average of 6 hours each night. The mattress is rather un-giving, one of those compact foam ones from Ikea; I think I’m also a tad bit cold, just enough that falling to sleep becomes a second priority to getting warm. Surprisingly this has not effected my days which are spent walking thousand-footsteps around the city. Yesterday my legs ached and the balls of my feet are sore. And the funny thing about that is that I do notice my soreness and my tired feet but in the spectrum of what’s going on and what’s here I don’t care.
Laura put it best yesterday when she wondered out loud, “Will there ever be a point when I see something and don’t think, ‘oh my God!’” Will there be a point this semester when Florence is just a city in a country, as all other places are. I hope not. There’s history here that is blatant—I love that. At orientation Alessandra, our advisor, spoke about how to be Italian and drink like they do, “Enjoy the wine, experience it. Don’t gulp it down quickly,” she gestures like someone taking a shot, “ah, poor wine! There was a lot of work put into it, you know?” Will I ever be tired of Florentine food? Dinner last night with Bess and Laura at Le Fonticine sent sparks through my system.
Per il tavolo, vorremmo il antipasto misto… we began with a mixed antipasto; savory plump black olives still coated in their oil, a delicate vegetable omelet, eggplant discs topped with tomato, sun-dried tomatoes that were unlike any tomato-essence I’ve known, and prosciutto and salami. For dinner I had tagliatelle alla Bolognese, the wide handmade pasta with meat sauce, vaguely reminiscent of the same dish from back home but amped up by a few hundred volts—God, I hate music analogies—so completely delicious that will return many times. Behind all the graffiti-stained walls, the ancient water-heating system, cold bedrooms, and all are places like Le Fonticine or the foggy mornings at the Arno that make being here totally worth it.
6: This Nuovo Apartamento
Original Post Date: 1/25/2011 12:55 pm Florence Time
It is only natural that a new place, in a new country, in a new language is overwhelming at best. The 30-minute frantic car ride around Florence’s center trying to find exactly where my apartment is, while humorous and provided me a chance to try some Italian out on Signore Bartollini, dampened my fizzling excitement. Add the sudden and soaking Tuscan rain as I walked around my new neighborhood and you’d find yourself terribly homesick. Actually, I was overcome with the feeling of, “what the fuck did I sign up for?” This gut reaction is normal, right?
I tried to combat this blues by taking a stroll around my hidden apartment (so hidden, in fact, that I couldn’t find it for a bit on my way back). There are a few gelato places on the main via, and an H&M about two blocks down. I passed a group of gypsy women gossiping I assume in their crackling and raspy Italian. I hoped they weren’t talking to me; I tried to blend in as much as possible. I’m not sure I succeeded, hah! Turning down a side street with no name, I saw a sign for a minimart. Having not eaten anything since the wee hours of the morning ho fame. The silver-haired woman working greeted me with a big Boungiorno! To which I replied meekly, Salve, hello. When I put my items on the counter to purchase, she was extra careful to say the total in English. And she smiled at me. And I felt better.
Back at the cold apartment, where even though the heat had been on for 2+ hours, I ate my Nutella sandwich and thought that despite the rain, Florence is okay so far. A word of advice to travelers: arriving at your destination in the morning is a buzzkill and you’ll be tired and cranky the rest of your first day there.
It is only natural that a new place, in a new country, in a new language is overwhelming at best. The 30-minute frantic car ride around Florence’s center trying to find exactly where my apartment is, while humorous and provided me a chance to try some Italian out on Signore Bartollini, dampened my fizzling excitement. Add the sudden and soaking Tuscan rain as I walked around my new neighborhood and you’d find yourself terribly homesick. Actually, I was overcome with the feeling of, “what the fuck did I sign up for?” This gut reaction is normal, right?
I tried to combat this blues by taking a stroll around my hidden apartment (so hidden, in fact, that I couldn’t find it for a bit on my way back). There are a few gelato places on the main via, and an H&M about two blocks down. I passed a group of gypsy women gossiping I assume in their crackling and raspy Italian. I hoped they weren’t talking to me; I tried to blend in as much as possible. I’m not sure I succeeded, hah! Turning down a side street with no name, I saw a sign for a minimart. Having not eaten anything since the wee hours of the morning ho fame. The silver-haired woman working greeted me with a big Boungiorno! To which I replied meekly, Salve, hello. When I put my items on the counter to purchase, she was extra careful to say the total in English. And she smiled at me. And I felt better.
Back at the cold apartment, where even though the heat had been on for 2+ hours, I ate my Nutella sandwich and thought that despite the rain, Florence is okay so far. A word of advice to travelers: arriving at your destination in the morning is a buzzkill and you’ll be tired and cranky the rest of your first day there.
5: Salve! Hello!
Original Post Date: 1/24/2011 6:45 pm EST
I am surprisingly cold abroad this Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt, Germany. Unlike other aircrafts, this plane (and other Lufthansa airplanes, I’m assuming) has no passenger control switch to adjust the cool recycled air blowing on my head. Thankfully they provide free blankets, so at least my legs are relatively warm.
Bess and I are duo-seated by the aisle, with an empty seat to my left and the passingway to her right. There’s an abundance of room, which I totally love at this point. Throw in an airplane meal and I’m set. I do really love airplanes and airports. As we were perusing around the Hudson News magazine section, I told Bess this. Flash forward a couple hours and we find ourselves not even half way into our flight. Having already watched Eat, Pray, Love (well, at least the Italy section on my part—Bess is watching the rest now), I’m wondering what else one can do on a flight. I suppose there’s always the possibility of sleep, but considering it’s only 6:50 pm EST at this point, that seems a little senior-citizen to me.
The duty-free cart just passed by with slender German flight attendant ladies softly saying, “in-flight shopping” with their Bavarian accents, calling like sirens from the North. And I muse on this because that’s all there really is to do on a 7-hour flight. Well, I guess I could try to learn some Italian from the CDs Bess let me download to my ipod. That would be the best thing to do, however, after enjoying (as much as anybody can) a glass of red wine, or two, I’m feeling more inclined to not exercise my brain’s language center. The lights have just been shut off in the cabin—indicating sleepy time, although I’ll stay awake for a few more hours. It is a strange thing to fly into another time zone; one seems without time and the constraints of such, when in the air.
I am surprisingly cold abroad this Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt, Germany. Unlike other aircrafts, this plane (and other Lufthansa airplanes, I’m assuming) has no passenger control switch to adjust the cool recycled air blowing on my head. Thankfully they provide free blankets, so at least my legs are relatively warm.
Bess and I are duo-seated by the aisle, with an empty seat to my left and the passingway to her right. There’s an abundance of room, which I totally love at this point. Throw in an airplane meal and I’m set. I do really love airplanes and airports. As we were perusing around the Hudson News magazine section, I told Bess this. Flash forward a couple hours and we find ourselves not even half way into our flight. Having already watched Eat, Pray, Love (well, at least the Italy section on my part—Bess is watching the rest now), I’m wondering what else one can do on a flight. I suppose there’s always the possibility of sleep, but considering it’s only 6:50 pm EST at this point, that seems a little senior-citizen to me.
The duty-free cart just passed by with slender German flight attendant ladies softly saying, “in-flight shopping” with their Bavarian accents, calling like sirens from the North. And I muse on this because that’s all there really is to do on a 7-hour flight. Well, I guess I could try to learn some Italian from the CDs Bess let me download to my ipod. That would be the best thing to do, however, after enjoying (as much as anybody can) a glass of red wine, or two, I’m feeling more inclined to not exercise my brain’s language center. The lights have just been shut off in the cabin—indicating sleepy time, although I’ll stay awake for a few more hours. It is a strange thing to fly into another time zone; one seems without time and the constraints of such, when in the air.
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