The Aly

It’s been really hard to come back to post after the hair experience.  Of my nine posts, it might as well have been my blog opus; after I wrote it, I was left in a heap on the floor, clinging to my hairbrush.  That and the fact that the days following were a blur of hairspray, Sky Photo and packing 6 weeks of art in two, 23 kg. bags.  Suddenly I was home again, speaking English and dressing for warmth rather than fashion.  I came back with a new body of work, some great boots and shorter hair, not to mention a line on my resume that says: fashion model.  Bit by bit I’ll be piecing the last couple of weeks of Firenze together.  For now though, here’s a selection from the joint exhibition I had with my Mom.

Artist Statement
I know this city now.  I know the curves, jagged edges and perfect symmetry that make up every footstep I take.  I love and appreciate the great works of art.  But this way of knowing is one-sided.  How can a piece of architecture love me back?  How fulfilling is a relationship in which only one piece of it is explored?

To truly know a place one must know its people.  The men of San Lorenzo Market will always initiate a conversation.  It doesn’t matter what the motive is for this conversation because it is an open invitation to engage as humans and move beyond simply knowing a place geographically.  I took advantage of this and formed relationships with the vendors near my apartment.  Their expressions are representative of a five-minute conversation and their first impression of me. To some of the vendors I have become good friends and others I slip by as an unnoticed tourist once again, but each have affected me in a way that makes me feel a part of Florence. I chose to have a relationship with Florence rather than it existing solely as a place I lived.

Intento dell’artista
Conosco questa cittá ora.  Conosco le curve i bordi frastagliati e la simmetria perfetta che esiste con ogni passo che faccio.  Amo e apprezzo le grandi opere d’arte.  Ma questo é solo un modo di conoscere l’arte.  Come puó l’architettura riamarmi?  Quanto é soddisfacente una relazione nella quale una parte solo é esplorata?

Per conoscere veremente un posto si deve conoscere la sua gente.  I ragazzi del Mercarto di San Lorenzo iniziano sempre una conversazione.  Non importa quale é il motivo di questa conversazione perche é un invito aperto a impegnarsi come esseri umani e andare oltre la semplice conoscenza geografica di un posto.  Ho usufruito di questo e ho instaurato relazioni con i venditori vicino al mio appartamento.  Le loro espressioni sono representative di una conversasione di cinque minuti e sono la loro prima impressione di me.  Per alcuni venditori sono diventata un buono amico, per altri sono scivolata via come una turista sconosciuta ancora una volta, ma ognuno mi ha influenzato in un modo che mi fa sentire una parte di Firenze.  Scelgo di avere una relazione con Firenze invece di lasciare Firenze esistere solo come un posto dove ho vissuto.

Hanging the Vendors

It wasn’t until dinner last night that I realized I had a hair experience.  One of the many thrills of living in a new place is finding your very own hairdresser.  For me, there are generally a lot of tears involved in my process.  You could say I am special about my hair.  It’s just so delicate.  It needs gentle and caring hands and I dare say, expensive products.  My hair doesn’t wake up in the morning and say, “I’m going to be fabulous, all on my own!”  No, it needs coaxing, time and effort.  It prefers to wake up in knots, snarls and the mixings for dreadlocks.  So to find a hairdresser that can make my hair look good is a feat.  Then comes the cut; even with full communication in the English language, I more often than not come away with a butchered do.  Enter tears.  I believe that my hair grows abnormally slow; I think genetically I was meant to be a shorthaired person but I fight it every day.  So, when I go in for a haircut and within seconds I’ve lost four inches of hair, I need to take a moment.

My fear of hairdressers was not enough to quell my urgency for a treatment in Italy, however.  The combination of hard water and cheap shampoo had given my hair the dazzling quality of straw.  I booked an appointment with a hairdresser that my Mom had gone to.  She had given him rave reviews, mostly based on his personality.  “He’s fun,” she said.  I was cautioned, though, that the haircut would take awhile.  He had washed my Mom’s hair three times when she was there.  I cleared my schedule and booked my appointment with the fun hairdresser.

It was a good thing I had cleared the entire day because after my appointment I definitely needed awhile to regroup and figure out, “what the hell had just happened.”  I thought my Mom had had the same experience with the fun hairdresser so we never really talked about it.  At dinner, a friend asked me if I recommended the hairdresser that cut my Mother’s and mine hair.  I started to explain some of what to expect.  My Mom looked at me in complete astonishment and it became clear that I had had my first Italian hair experience.

The place was young and hip.  I was greeted by a beautiful, young Italian girl who took my coat and led me to a couch.  Moments later in slid (literally) Luca.  He was young with perfectly mangled hair, the excitement on his face totally unforgettable.  His English, broken at times, was speckled with Italian animation, a Russian accent and New York City slang.  If I could have traded Giancarlo, the Italian on my language tape in my car I had been practicing with before I came here, for Luca, I would have in a heartbeat.  “Vwhaat vwill vwee be doing today my lovely.”  I explained with the best sign language and smattering of Italian I could come up with.  He led me, by the hand, to the washbasin.  Thus, beginning my hair experience.

this is what I felt like

Usually my favorite part of getting a haircut is getting my hair washed.  I like it when you get a mini scalp massage; for some reason it never feels like that when you try to replicate it at home.  He began with the scalp massage and then his fingers got free, or lose you could say, and before I knew it, my cheeks and forehead were all being smushed together like silly-puddy.  I imagined myself taking on a Picasso-esque façade.  I didn’t really know what to think.  Luca was singing to himself, dancing and would occasionally throw in a snoring sound as if to assure me it was ok to fall asleep.  I couldn’t help but wonder why my Mom had not mentioned this.  While my face was being pushed around my hair got the most thorough cleaning it had seen in a long time.  I believe you could see the remnants of pink, purple, blue, green and black dye that had once graced my hair in college during my color phase (the phase after the piercing phase).

After the wash, Luca snapped his fingers and a gorgeous young Italian guy in pants skinnier than my forearm ran over with a box of saran wrap.  My mind raced back to eighth grade when my best friend had me wrap her in a saran wrap dress for the homecoming dance.  I wondered where this was going.  With a few flicks of the wrist and some more singing my head was fully covered in saran wrap.  I looked like leftovers.

Dumb Blondes

I asked Luca what this was and he said, “dumb blonde.”  I laughed and he quickly apologized for his English.  I had laughed because I thought he had learned one of those phrases ESL students pick up and repeat like, “for sure” or “okay man” and he was trying it out.  But in fact it was the name of the hair product that was currently infusing my hair with nutrients.  Too difficult to explain, so instead I apologized for my Italian and we moved on.

He sat me down in the chair, vanished and came back with something that resembled virtual reality.  I always wanted to play a virtual reality game.  Really, how could my Mom not have mentioned this?  He manhandled this contraption onto my head.  It was pitch black.  Then he stuck headphones into my ears and put a remote in my hand.  He pressed some buttons, rattled off something in Italian and then I was magically teleported to Euphoria, a place I had recently visited by way of some really good cheese.  The contraption around my head started squeezing and then mashing, as if I were a piece of veal, followed by thirty seconds of serious vibrations that felt like the devil was being exorcized from me.  The headphones pumped melodies of clanking bells, but were somehow so soothing.  To top it off, a large heating contraption was simultaneously rotating around my head.  This went on for ten minutes and I swear I had no idea where or who I was when it was over.

I was then led back to the washbasin, where I’m pretty sure I passed out for a little bit.  My hair was cut, to perfect dimensions I might add.  Then it time for the blow out.  Usually it takes a good two minutes to dry my hair with a blow dryer because it is so thin.  Luca somehow managed to blow-dry my hair for forty-five minutes…and I had to participate.  He would swing the chair around and I would have to throw my head down, hold it there and then throw my hair back in a big, dramatic motion as if I were a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Model.  He would not accept me merely rolling my head back to upright position.  He demonstrated this to me in a very theatrical way.  It turns out that Luca is a hairdresser for the stars.  He has a friend in the United States that gets him gigs as one of the hairdressers for the Oscars amongst other celeb-heavy events in addition to gigs for Bollywood.  His average cut in the U.S. starts at $300.  He says he is quite popular there because he’s seen as exotic.  He has an accent and his clients just eat it up.  But he tires of LA and enjoys coming back to his small shop in Florence where he charges 25 euro a cut.  Lucky me.

from the back

I throw my head back for the last time and he spins me around and turns off the hairdryer.  I look as though I have been electrocuted.  He is delighted.  I should be going somewhere more fabulous than my apartment.  So I give my praise and head out into the city.  As I pass by a vendor I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror.  I look like a rock star.  My face is relaxed, my mind at ease and I consider myself up 275 euros.  I should get my hair done more often.

As I snap myself back into reality, I realize that I am at a dinner table with 6 jaws dropped wide open.  I say, “yes, I would recommend going to the fun hairdresser.”

Today is dedicated to my friend G who inspired so much love and joy in the world around her and who could always make you laugh. Become aware and share her story*

It’s been awhile since I’ve had to make a new friend.  The first nineteen years of my life were a piece of cake.  My parents did half the job for me when I was little.  Really, it’s whomever you get plopped in front of when you’re a baby.  Any addition to the group is the sole result of what bus you ride to school.  It’s perfectly formulaic. College involves slightly more effort but not much.  It’s maybe more apparent who you don’t want to be friends with; usually a roommate along the way that you had dirty-dish wars with.  I know I’m not the only one out there that has contemplated piling the dirty dishes in my roommate’s bed.  I made my first friend in college, not surprisingly, when I was lost in my map of the campus looking for the Humanities building at orientation.  She was lost too: instant bonding.  And somehow we travel really well together.  After college there’s generally another “move” and then the real test begins.  How do you make friends when you’re not forced into a living situation or assigned a research partner or lost on a campus with 35,000 people your age?  You get a job and hang out with your co-workers!  To me though, this doesn’t count as a real challenge.  It’s another gift.  I think during a typical application review they strongly consider whether or not you will mesh well at Happy Hour at the pub down the street.  So what happens when you end up in a foreign country, living with your Mom?  Your job consists of you, alone in an apartment on a computer and you take private classes?  It is time to put yourself out there.

Hello Shadow, will you be my friend?

Don’t get me wrong though, my Mom is a very good friend and we are very grown up about doing the dishes.  She is always willing (if not eager) to have yet another cappuccino with me too.  We got out all the time…just not until 3am.  Which, I was kind of craving.  I had had it with all the noisy kids outside my bedroom window, singing and zooming around on their mopeds and then the clackity-clack of the high heels on the marble staircase of the building.  I wanted to make noise!  I wanted to find the club I used to go to here, every night with my roommates 6 years ago, that you could only find in the darkness of night after a few beers.  It was then I fully realized my situation.  I must make a friend.  I had to figure out away to come off as cool and confident not awkward and desperate.  Do I just bump into someone and ask if she will be my friend?  Should I have my Mom set up a play date for me with one of her friends?  My Mom it seems has no problem making friends; within the first week of her living here she had already gathered an entourage of twenty-year-olds to hang out with.  Kudos Mom.  Do I call someone and ask if they’d like to go to dinner with me?  Oh right, the only number I have in my phone is my Mom’s Italian cell number.  Finally, I thought of someone who might want to adopt another friend, an acquaintance from the fashion design sector.

I drank a glass of wine and sat down to engineer the perfect email.  Blah, blah, blah…oh, and by the way, could I tag along with you and your cool fashion friends sometime?  I sent it.  I drank another glass of wine and waited it out.  Within moments I was already dissecting the email.  Did I say too much?  Did I come off as weird?  My Mom assured me that we could go out with her friends if I got denied.

Mom-friend

After the first day without a reply I knew I had blown it.  I remained confident though.  I thought, this ok, it is only my first attempt to make a friend.  I will try again.  Then day two came and I began to revisit my qualities as a human being.  I questioned whether it was possible for me to make another friend in my life, ever.  That night I got a response that made me feel utterly ridiculous and warm and fuzzy at the same time.  It started with, “Alyssa, darling…” and ended with a big, “of course!”  I had made a friend.  I had asked a girl out and she said yes!

One of my new friends

With that test completed, within days I had many new numbers in my phone.  I didn’t think twice about going up to friendly looking people and saying, “hey, we’re both in Florence, let’s hang out some time.”  I can’t walk out of my apartment now without running into someone I know.  Many a night now, I have been that girl clackity-clacking up the marble steps in the middle of the night.

Smile today.

*visit Glenna’s blog >link on the right

I recently had the pleasure of opening a bottle of tomato sauce that had gone bad.  I had been trying to convince my Mom that tomato sauce didn’t ever go bad.  Back at home I usually stick an opened jar next to the salsa and olives in the back of the refrigerator and let the preservatives do their thing.  And then on a cold night in the middle of winter when I can’t convince Domino’s to deliver to my house in the woods, I push aside the condiments that have taken over my refrigerator (anyone will tell you my refrigerator is known for its abundance of condiments and lack of any real food) and find that half jar of tomato sauce.  Aside from the icky skin that has formed on the top it usually does the trick.  But my Mom was persistent in telling me that tomato sauce goes bad.  So in my attempt to prove her wrong, I grabbed the half eaten tomato sauce from the refrigerator and opened it…only to be dry heaving moments later.  It seems that little men decided to build a whole city of black towers in our jar of tomato sauce.  Some of the towers were even furry.

Sometimes it takes a moldy jar of tomato sauce to realize that your Mom is usually right and that you indeed, do not know everything about the world.  So I learned my lesson.  And speaking of dry heaving, a word on tripe if you will…

a spinach ball

I have had the good fortune to live next to the Mercato Centrale both times I’ve lived here.  It is a magnificent place.  Think farmer’s market times 100 in a huge two-story warehouse.  The first floor is all meat, fish and cheese and the second floor is all fruits and vegetables.  Every single item in the market has been picked or filleted that day.  It is the epitome of fresh.  My first trip back to the Mercato was full of anticipation and excitement.  After buying some proscuitto and brushing shoulders with hanging meat carcasses (yes, that’s my idea of fun) I was going to head upstairs for some grapes twice the size of my eyeballs.  But there it was.  I think I must have blocked out the memory of tripe.  I had completely forgotten that every butcher stand there sells it.  And it’s not like they acknowledge that it is totally disgusting and they keep it in the back.  No, it’s right in your face, a cross between whale blubber and an albino porcupine with a haircut.  I can’t even picture someone eating tripe; is it chewy?  Does it get stuck between your teeth like steak?  Or does it just ooze down your throat?  Even if you were to tell me eating tripe is good for the hair, I still wouldn’t go near the stuff.  I wouldn’t even talk to someone who had eaten it in fear of inhaling the pungent odor of freshly chewed cow stomach.  But enough on tripe…

not tripe, yummy

I am usually one to try anything and everything (except, obviously, tripe), a fact that my Mom tried to take advantage of last night.  Grilled rabbit.  Bunny.  I agreed to a bribe –I would try bunny only if I could get tiramisu and cappuccino after dinner (very mature, I know).  My Mom agreed.  To my relief they were out of bunny that night…and I still got my tiramisu and cappuccino.  I was actually very relieved.  My cat used to bring me baby bunnies all the time.  In fact, I believe my cat singlehandedly annihilated the bunny population on our street.  When I was younger it would have seemed as if the soil on our property were infused with carrot juice because there were hundreds of happy bunnies everywhere.  After ten years of having a cat, however, there were maybe 3 or 4 left that escaped the natural selection process.  Kissing my cat on the forehead and thanking him for the sacrifice has pretty much been the extent of my interaction with bunnies, so I guess I just wasn’t ready for grilled rabbit.

these are real

My intention for telling you this is really to disguise the fact that every single morsel of food and drop of beverage I have put in my mouth since I’ve been here has been absolutely delicious.  My day begins with homemade espresso and as of today the addition of frothed milk and chocolate siftings, fresh bread, fresh fruit and creamy yogurt that must have been churned by someone’s grandmother in the back of the grocery store.  At around 11am I usually have the urge to buy some hot pastries or some biscotti.  There is nothing like fresh biscotti.  A fresh biscotti is very unstable though – it can only remain in that state for a mere 3 or 4 minutes.  It’s as if you made chocolate chip cookie dough, and then injected liquid chocolate chip cookie dough into it and baked it.  After pulling it out of the oven you have only moments to enjoy it in pure heaven form before it solidifies into concrete.

squash blossoms

At 2pm or so my stomach usually tells me it’s ready for a hot panini from my favorite two-table café near my Mom’s art studio.  Since it’s too hard to make a decision between all of the delectable creations they have there, I buy two and split them with my Mom.  On the way back to the apartment I grab a cappuccino in a friendly Mom and Pop Bar.  Sometimes the pastries call out to me there too and I gobble down a croissant filled with warm Nutella.  Then I “get cultured” as I like to say and stop in a museum here, a chapel there and eventually find my way home and prepare the appetizers for dinner.  Every day I like to buy a new cheese that I’ve never heard of before and a 3 euro bottle of wine.  My Mom is in charge of picking up olives and salami.  We blast some happy-hour tunes and finish off a block of cheese and bowl of olives – and I try to limit myself to half a bottle of wine.  Then, since we are so full from appetizers we wait a few hours and then cook dinner around 10pm.

Basilico!

My new favorite for dinner is the bag of fresh pasta you can get along the Arno for 1.48 euros.  You can watch them make it in the back of the shop.  It only needs to be boiled for 2 minutes.  It is unbelievable.  Our salads often include one or all of the following: arugula, radicchio, endive, mozzarella (sometimes buffalo mozzarella, which is near to heaven as well), basil, tomatoes and mango.  I mix up olive oil, balsamic vinaigrette, salt, pepper and freshly grated parmesan for dipping the bread in.  My Mom has been on a zucchini kick lately which she sautés with a mixture of spices and sometimes throws in a slice of eggplant or proscuitto.  Lastly, we have an agreement that we must walk every night after dinner.  The streets are always hopping and there really is nothing like the Duomo at night.  Our walk more often than not leads us directly to the gelataria.

fresh!

In addition, I’m consuming wine here like I consumed water in Colorado.  It makes me feel really good just like water does at 5000 feet.  I’ve traded in my Nalgene bottle for a brown paper bag, which I think, is healthier for me because it doesn’t leech toxic plastic particles.  You might say I’m enjoying myself here.

I told an old lady she was pushy yesterday.  Normally I would just push back (lightly).  Anyone who has tried to get on a ski lift in the Alps would agree that you won’t get one run in if you attempt any kind of order or etiquette.  You have to be aggressive and pushy.  There are no alternating lines or seniors go first.  Rather, it’s a mish-mosh of nationalities that all come from different upbringings of cuing up.   But I would say my parents raised me right.  I respect my elders and my peers.  I’m usually one to say excuse me first.  However, traveling has made me realize the hard truth: sometimes you’ve got to push back…or in yesterday’s case, flat out say, “you’re pushy.”

I have been so fortunate as to have not encountered a line for any site or museum since I arrived.  It is the off-season and for Firenze standards, the city is deserted.  I felt like Mary Lennox (minus her temperament) in the Secret Garden when I went to Boboli Gardens the other day; acres upon acres of magical secret paths all for me.  But I popped my magical little bubble of pure happiness when I encountered…the tour group.

Somehow I got caught up in the middle of an aggressive group (yeah, shocking), very, very eager to see the Medici Chapels.  Or perhaps, their aggression should best be interpreted as fear – the fear of losing the tour guide – gasp!  Now, maybe in front of the Uffizi or the Pitti Palace this is a rational fear, where there are dozens of tour groups, each guide with their black umbrella to lead them; it can get confusing.  However, completely irrational at the Medici Chapels where the main gallery is barely large enough to hold that particular tour group – one couldn’t lose the group if they walked around with their eyes shut.  So about 100 people are jammed into the closet like space between the outside and the metal detector, while the guide is sitting perfectly calm on the other side.  She does nothing to calm their fears like, “don’t worry, you will not lose the group…let this poor girl go through the metal detector while you have your hip replacement examined by the guard.”  After getting, literally shoved by elderly people trying to jam through the detector, I told a lady she was pushy.  All meaning was lost, however, when I realized it was a German tour group, which explained the very quizzical look the woman gave me.  Oh well.  Next time I push back.

Purple!

After our President-elect was announced the stars started aligning in new ways for me.  I was asked to be a model.  Yes, a real life fashion model…and to my astonishment the proposition was not from a sketchy man in an ally…it was from a young American girl!  How could this be?  I’m 5’3 and have a sometimes-lazy eye.  Up until a week ago I had always dressed as Brooklyn would say, shabby-chic – airing more on the side of shabby; coupled with my nickname of Colorado for the trail shoes that I can always be found wearing.  Ah, it must be my new skinny jeans!  Skinny jeans can change your life.  Just like shoes.  My mom and I had originally taken the skinny jean and purple oath: to not succumb to the obsession with the seasons must haves, which is anything purple and skinny jeans.  We didn’t, however, take the boot oath and we realized that trying on tall boots with flared jeans just doesn’t cut it, not to mention every saleswoman smirked to herself as she watched us try to jam our jeans into the boots.  So skinny jeans it was for both of us.  And we still stand by our purple oath.

young pretties

My new career is taking off because of the economy, so it goes.  Enrollment in international schools, particularly, is very low.  A city that is consistently saturated with young, beautiful fashion design students is nearly devoid of them now.  At the end of every semester the fashion design students have a fashion show.  Hand picking models from the plethora of fashion design students is the norm.  But there is no surplus of young, pretties this semester…just me and my trail shoes.  So, taking advantage of the economic crisis, I said yes.  I mean they’re going to do my hair and makeup, how could I say no?  A model was never anything I had dreamed about being, in fact when I was little I told my parents I wanted to grow up to be a big rig truck driver.  I think they cried. This city is infectious though; every one is dressed to the nines all the time, which has even inspired me to wear heels when taking out the trash.

my favorite - waist measurements!

So the day before I head back to reality in December, I will be strutting the catwalk at Club 21 in freshly designed couture, perhaps a better fit for me than the big rig.

In the words of Paul Krugman, “If the election of our first African-American president didn’t stir you, if it didn’t leave you teary-eyed and proud of your country, there’s something wrong with you.”

word in the streets

In Italian time it’s November 4th, so bear with me.  Actually, if you look at the second hand on your watch while standing within the boarders of Florence, you can actually see time moving slower – it’s fascinating.  It would be difficult to explain the feeling I had when I went to sleep at 4am the night of the 4th – a cross between extreme nausea and total euphoria.  But I’ll spare you more details; those of you watching the contest probably felt either both…or just the nausea.

the Boulder Bubble, Popped

My Mom and I went out in search of a watch party on election night.  We both had a mixed bag of Italian words, monuments and landmarks written down that would supposedly lead us to a “Democrats Abroad” gathering with CNN.  My love for the scavenger hunt was really tested that night as we traipsed around for 2 hours all decked out in our get-on-CNN-clothes: myself in a young-Jackie O.-meets-sun-in look and my Mom in an American-living-in-Italy “see my new tall boots!” look.  The two of us were fit to be on TV…we even had our Obama buttons on, handmade by a real American Union!

Our compilation of directions led us to the Ponte Vecchio and then over to the American Embassy.  We were supposed to look for a big tent, “just go to blah, blah, blah* and you will see the tent.”  After deciphering the directions we decided that CNN was somewhere between the US embassy and the Opera House.  We seemed it likely that if there were a party, certainly the US embassy would be at the center of it!  Oh, how wrong we were.  As we walked along the Arno on that dark Tuesday night our eyes played tricks on us.  “I see it!  I see something…is that something?  Do you see anything?”  Yes…that would be total darkness…and a man with a rifle.  The US embassy is indeed, heavily fortified.  And as one could probably have guessed initially, the US embassy was not throwing a Democrats Abroad watch party.  So we walked all the way back to the apartment and I treated myself to a (second) bottle of wine while hitting the refresh button on my computer a hundred times.  We heard later that there was in fact a (really fun!) watch party but it was at the opposite corner of Florence.

I kept my eyes peeled to the screen watching the blue add up.  It was incredible…whomever you voted for – it was incredible.  And hurray for Colorado (my Alma Mater being CU Boulder)!  The Boulder bubble finally infiltrated the rest of the state!

We finally got word of a victory party on that Friday.  At a club, literally 50 ft. from our apartment (I can wear my 3” heals!) there was to be a gathering of Obama supporters sponsored by Democrats Abroad.  The pizzeria next door was involved too, providing food for the hungry expats.  It was there that I believe the chef may have either fallen in love with myself, my Mom or the two of us “sisters” as we were called, because our pizza came out in the shape of a heart.  Not an experience I have ever had at Dominoes.  But we were not to be won over that night; no, we had some celebrating to do.

a first

Donkey Stamped

We wandered into the club, after getting donkey stamped at the door by the bouncer and bought “Americans living in Italy for Obama” gear.  The next few hours definitely rivaled the coolest Bar Mitzvah I had ever been to.  Everyone was just SO excited.  It was a marvelous event to be a part of.  The room was filled with expats, Italians for Obama and Italians that wanted to see what a room full of middle-aged Democrats dancing to the Village People looked like.  We danced and drank all night long to an Italian DJ that had compiled a mix of the greatest dance music of all time, that which can be heard at any US Bar Mitzvah from coast to coast.  We did everything short of the Hora.  The music was synced with a video he put together that took us on a tour of American pop culture starting with the 60s, getting mildly stuck on the 80s, hovering in the 90s and ending with an overlay of Obama’s victory speech.  It was brilliant.

Obama Victory Party – Firenze, Italia from the ALY on Vimeo.

Americans in Italy for Obama

Every day since then I have chosen to celebrate in my own way which consists of desert with every meal (even breakfast number 2!) and purchases in the leather markets – my most recent acquisition being a pair of Italian leather boots…I mean I must enter the new era with a good pair of shoes, right?

*A word on “blah, blah, blah.” The Italians have somehow picked up on this American phrase that is, quite frankly, rarely ever used in the English language.  I mean, when is the last time you heard someone say out loud (not just in your head), “blah, blah, blah?”  It is the strangest thing.  My Italian teacher says it all the time- someone who is perfectly fluent in English, “read this, recite that and then…blah, blah, blah.”  It’s almost like a Seinfeldism  – phrases that became mainstream from the TV show (although I have no idea where blah, blah, blah could have come from).  “Circle the correct verb, underline the noun and then…yada, yada, yada.”

Buongiourno Firenze!

I did it.  I’m here.

What started with a big heap of dirty laundry on my floor ended with a carefully planned wardrobe read: fledgling fashionista from Cape Cod meets modern day Italian woman aspirant, nicely hung (and cleaned) in my walk-in closet with a bona fide beaded curtain, in a spacious apartment within spitting distance (although you would never try) of the Duomo.

I’ve come to live with my Mom for six weeks while she is an artist in residence at the Santa Reparata School in Florence, Italy for three months.  She’s been here over a month, knows the ropes, knows when to bat off the Italian boys when they prey on her not-quite-got-her-sea-legs-yet daughter.

I didn’t think about actually being here until I was actually here.  I was packing, tying up loose ends, chipping away at my “task list for life,” shopping for more electronics, saying goodbye to friends and vacuuming my house; perhaps the same things I would do had I been given one week to live.  But I was so not about Italy; I was about the list, even on my flight to Zurich when they handed out Toblerone bars.  I was not in Swiss chocolate heaven, I was crunching numbers: did I save enough money for this?  Could I have gotten a lower APR rate on my credit card?  Should I have brought the 4” heals instead of the 3” heals?  If the Euro keeps going down and our economy continues to crumble will I be able to afford eating gelato every day?  What is my weight in metric?  My mind was racing.

We flew on a puddle jumper to Florence, which meant cramming on a hot bus and driving to the plane.  I had always wondered what happened when the weather was bad; did you still have to walk out on the tarmac and climb up the stairs or did they have a special underground elevator that would transport you onto the plane, completely evading the elements?  Turns out, NO.  It was snowing and windy and our bus driver made sure everyone was off the bus before he sped away so we could all stand there, in the frigid cold, while one by one passengers climbed the stairs.  But herding cattle through the gate is no quick thing and yes, I might as well have been last because by the time I got on the plane my faux fur collar of my vest was not looking as euro as I had intended.  Drowned cat was not the look I had envisioned stepping off the plane in Florence.

I got my first dose of “I’m not in America anymore” when I tried to ask the man sitting next to me if I could get out to use the restroom.  There were some odd hand movements and facial expressions that I didn’t follow and then he gave me a look of total sympathy…and then he leaned in, handing me the barf bag.  And as he did that, the lady next to him freaked out, grabbed all of her belongings and booked it to another seat.  Oh, how a little miscommunication can go a long way.  And this is why I LOVE to travel.

I took a cab to my Mom’s apartment and after a lovely lunch and half a bottle of wine we headed out on the town.  We walked around the city and it all started to come back to me.  The sites, the smells, the gyro joint I used to frequent at 4am.  Our dinner was right out of an Italian guide book:  and if you go down that little ally off the beaten track, ask for a guy named Luigi and he WILL take care of you.  We had our own version, Chef Marco, a cheery, well-fed man who used to work on the corner of 77th and Columbus in NYC.  He doted on us the entire meal and then sat down with a bottle of port and poured the three of us an after dinner drink while we talked about the journey that led us all to meeting each other on that particular night.  Oh, I love Italy.

The moment when I had the realization of, I’m really in Florence, was when we stopped to get some waters at a little shop.  We floundered while we counted out 2.30 in euro coins while the shopkeeper had the hugest grin on his face.  He couldn’t keep it in, “Madre, Figlia?” And then, “Mother, Daughter!  Mother, Daughter!”  We had been discovered.

But the best moment of the night, the validation for all the work I had to do to get to this point, the moment where I thought, I could go home right now and it would have all been worth it was when, about 15 minutes later my Mom and I were walking back to the apartment and we heard a little toot, toot from a bicycle horn and then, “Mother, Daughter!  Mother, Daughter!”  As the little shop-keeper, with one arm waving in the air and one arm navigating his bike down the narrow alley, totally pleased with his new discovery, announced to the city that we were in fact: Mother and Daughter.

After discovery