Because Bess has the most courage out of all of us she had already ventured to the Mercato Centrale and consequently met the Tomato Woman. She is precious. I'd imagine shorter than my mother, who is 4'10". The Tomato Woman reminds me of a mother-mouse from The Wind in the Willows, or some fanciful and aging childhood tale. She wears a navy cap, similar to the sea-faring folk from the coast. She is called the Tomato Women because, although she sells a wide variety of vegetables and spice, her tomatoes are outstanding. I've never ate a tomato before eating a plump and pint-sized pomodori, cherry tomato, which are grouped in bunches still slinging to a partial vine. I am not sure if she remembers me or not; I've been to her stall every time I go to the market.
Actually, I assume it's easy to remember an Asian young man in this vast Italian-looking (if there is such a thing) populous. The Cheese Lady remembers me because I stop by often and buy a block of cheese for a few euro. She also has samples and I'm normally hungry. Even the bread sister know me. Today when I asked for il pane di toscano, molto piccolo, the older sister pointed the exact size and type of bread I usually get before smiling at me. I could be mistaken and have fallen victim to Italian charm, though.
Dinner tonight is potato gnochi in homemade pesto over a bed of fried zucchini and cherry tomato slices.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
10: A Florentine Wish List (#1)
After almost 3 weeks of observing Florentines, I've begun to compile a list of essentials if one were to try to emulate that special something that is so Tuscan (at least Tuscan in this kind of weather...):
1. A fur coat: There are hundreds of stores that sell fur coats, but some of the women walking around Florence are decked out, to the nines really. Especially with the older women. They have those decadent fur coats that look lived in, they looked like heirlooms. While wearing a fur coat in the states might indicate a special occasion or a reason to look glamorous, Florentine women wear fur coats everyday. This means 2 things: first, that these Italian women have enough confidence and gusto to pull of wearing these grandiose coats. And I have to love that! Second, that it may be in fact that in Italy, everyday is an occasion to look drop-dead-luxurious.
2. A great set of legs: No skin is really shown here. Even miniskirts are paired with tights or leggings, but it's rare to see a miniskirt in this weather. Perhaps it's because people walk everywhere, but both men and women here have great legs. Like really great. I'd kill for a pair... Yesterday alone I walked north past the Duomo to via Guelfa for class, after which I stopped by the supermarket at Corso del Tintori, then walked back to the Duomo for lunch, and finally to my apartment. My feet are sore every night, yes, but I think it's worth it. And it beats the bus.
3. Humongous scarves: I think everyone knows how "European" pashminas are, but it is the excessively chunky knitted scarf that I see most people wearing. Younger men tend to zip their coats up to the neck before wrapping their 2-meter long scarves around their necks, creating a nest around their heads. Women tend to tuck their scarves (designer-name and high end ones) into their jackets, as do middle-aged men but theirs are criss-crossed rather than wrapped.
4. Something leather: Today I saw a girl that must have been fourteen or so, carrying around a gorgeous black leather Prada bag. I suppose that says something about accessories here in Florence, as well as how big of a leather industry is here. Also, Prada is having a sale. But aside from designer name handbags, I've seen all sorts of people with Florentine leather wallets, gloves (oh my God, the gloves!), the greatest variety of boots, jackets, tutto. My only leather purchase so far is a keyring tab with an embossed "Firenze" label. I did buy a pair of very quirky and comfortable loafers from a vintage shop, but they were made in Switzerland back in the 90's. Despite the vintage shopping and lack of leather goods I possess (or don't, rather), Florence is a place where it's hard to find the "good quality" leather over any bag at the San Lorenzo market. There's an abundance of leather goods, which I suppose why many, if not all, Florentines own something leather.
More edits to come throughout the semester!
1. A fur coat: There are hundreds of stores that sell fur coats, but some of the women walking around Florence are decked out, to the nines really. Especially with the older women. They have those decadent fur coats that look lived in, they looked like heirlooms. While wearing a fur coat in the states might indicate a special occasion or a reason to look glamorous, Florentine women wear fur coats everyday. This means 2 things: first, that these Italian women have enough confidence and gusto to pull of wearing these grandiose coats. And I have to love that! Second, that it may be in fact that in Italy, everyday is an occasion to look drop-dead-luxurious.
2. A great set of legs: No skin is really shown here. Even miniskirts are paired with tights or leggings, but it's rare to see a miniskirt in this weather. Perhaps it's because people walk everywhere, but both men and women here have great legs. Like really great. I'd kill for a pair... Yesterday alone I walked north past the Duomo to via Guelfa for class, after which I stopped by the supermarket at Corso del Tintori, then walked back to the Duomo for lunch, and finally to my apartment. My feet are sore every night, yes, but I think it's worth it. And it beats the bus.
3. Humongous scarves: I think everyone knows how "European" pashminas are, but it is the excessively chunky knitted scarf that I see most people wearing. Younger men tend to zip their coats up to the neck before wrapping their 2-meter long scarves around their necks, creating a nest around their heads. Women tend to tuck their scarves (designer-name and high end ones) into their jackets, as do middle-aged men but theirs are criss-crossed rather than wrapped.
4. Something leather: Today I saw a girl that must have been fourteen or so, carrying around a gorgeous black leather Prada bag. I suppose that says something about accessories here in Florence, as well as how big of a leather industry is here. Also, Prada is having a sale. But aside from designer name handbags, I've seen all sorts of people with Florentine leather wallets, gloves (oh my God, the gloves!), the greatest variety of boots, jackets, tutto. My only leather purchase so far is a keyring tab with an embossed "Firenze" label. I did buy a pair of very quirky and comfortable loafers from a vintage shop, but they were made in Switzerland back in the 90's. Despite the vintage shopping and lack of leather goods I possess (or don't, rather), Florence is a place where it's hard to find the "good quality" leather over any bag at the San Lorenzo market. There's an abundance of leather goods, which I suppose why many, if not all, Florentines own something leather.
More edits to come throughout the semester!
Saturday, January 29, 2011
8: Andiamo il mercato
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!
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!
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.
Friday, January 21, 2011
4: Pronto?
They say that packing is a sobering experience; the task of fitting the contents of one's life into a singular sack, that is. I am told that planning to bring 10-14 days worth of clothing will be enough, basta. And being a Taurus and ergo loving practicality and structure, I have made an updated packing list and further begun to arrange the listed items on the guest-room bed. The departure date is drawing closer and closer, I think 3 days now. Lufthansa allows me one free checked bag weighing in under 50 pounds, which I take to be a challenge that ultimately boils down to this fundamental traveler's question: Am I really worth less than 50 pounds?
4 dress shirts (all from J.Crew), 3 pairs of shorts, 2 pairs of jeans, 8 tee shirts, 2 long sleeved shirts, 2 pairs of shoes, assorted medicines and toiletries--are they really going to weigh more than 50 pounds? Any given dress shirt doesn't even weigh 1 pound. In fact my box of drawing supplies weighs more than my 3 pairs of shorts and 4 dress shirts combined. How could these things that I have, the clothing I wear, ever amount to a total that surpasses 50 pounds? When I eventually find my duffle bag, I'll know for sure. At the moment I remain skeptical and, perhaps, a little naive.
At this point I'm "over" caring so much, I'm "over" feeling anxious, I'm "over" trying to prepare. No, at this point I want to go. I'm ready for that airport smell, the excitement of buying a $7 sandwich even though it's worth less, the waiting, the flight crew and pilots walking around the terminals just like everybody else. I'm ready for that brain-twisting idea that in a handful of hours I will be in a completely different place.
On a different note, I've abandoned Dianne Hales' book and instead dusted off an old copy of Frances Mayes' "Under The Tuscan Sun, A Home in Italy," that I never got around to reading. Mi sono innamorato with the film adaptation and the book, so far, is proving the same. This witchery and spellbinding power of just hearing the word, "Tuscany," makes me crave a glass of red wine, to sit at an old cast-iron patio table, feel the burnt sienna and umber waves of sunlight radiating over my skin. Yes, that is the Tuscany that seduces me. I doubt that it is the Tuscany that will greet me when I land in Florence on some January morning. I pray there isn't any snow. And I suppose this is another thing to pack, my expectations. Expectations within reason, dreams and realism, the duality of the two that would fight, but in my head they are fast friends. How much does the sepia stained Tuscany of my dreams weigh? How much does my realism weigh? (I assume realism weighs more than dreamism--that feels right).
So, to conclude: Bring it on, Lufthansa!
4 dress shirts (all from J.Crew), 3 pairs of shorts, 2 pairs of jeans, 8 tee shirts, 2 long sleeved shirts, 2 pairs of shoes, assorted medicines and toiletries--are they really going to weigh more than 50 pounds? Any given dress shirt doesn't even weigh 1 pound. In fact my box of drawing supplies weighs more than my 3 pairs of shorts and 4 dress shirts combined. How could these things that I have, the clothing I wear, ever amount to a total that surpasses 50 pounds? When I eventually find my duffle bag, I'll know for sure. At the moment I remain skeptical and, perhaps, a little naive.
At this point I'm "over" caring so much, I'm "over" feeling anxious, I'm "over" trying to prepare. No, at this point I want to go. I'm ready for that airport smell, the excitement of buying a $7 sandwich even though it's worth less, the waiting, the flight crew and pilots walking around the terminals just like everybody else. I'm ready for that brain-twisting idea that in a handful of hours I will be in a completely different place.
On a different note, I've abandoned Dianne Hales' book and instead dusted off an old copy of Frances Mayes' "Under The Tuscan Sun, A Home in Italy," that I never got around to reading. Mi sono innamorato with the film adaptation and the book, so far, is proving the same. This witchery and spellbinding power of just hearing the word, "Tuscany," makes me crave a glass of red wine, to sit at an old cast-iron patio table, feel the burnt sienna and umber waves of sunlight radiating over my skin. Yes, that is the Tuscany that seduces me. I doubt that it is the Tuscany that will greet me when I land in Florence on some January morning. I pray there isn't any snow. And I suppose this is another thing to pack, my expectations. Expectations within reason, dreams and realism, the duality of the two that would fight, but in my head they are fast friends. How much does the sepia stained Tuscany of my dreams weigh? How much does my realism weigh? (I assume realism weighs more than dreamism--that feels right).
So, to conclude: Bring it on, Lufthansa!
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