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

Omid, Bancarella 205

Junior, Bancarella 187

Toni

Vergil, Bancarella 165

Aldemo, Bancarella 90

Massimo, Bancarella 45

Felipe

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.”

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

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 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.

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.”

and the inside is AMAZING too!

Vatican City is nothing short of magnificent. I would like to start my own city one day, so it was good for me to spend a lot of time there to see how much one can fit in 110 acres. My friend Brooklyn invited my Mom and I to join their tour to the Vatican. It was the most thorough tour I’ve ever been on. I mean, the guide could tell you the significance of the markings on a door hinge. I probably learned more in that 2 ½ hours than I did in a semester of Art History in college; not to mention, I have never seen so many busts in my life! I did hit my capacity though, so by the time we made it to the Sistine Chapel, Adam came right down from the ceiling and sat next to me and then the flood came and I realized I should drink some more water. It was pretty unreal sitting in there. The Sistine Chapel had always been on my life list of things to see. It’s wonderful to be able to cross something off your life list, you feel like you can slack off the rest of your life and it won’t matter.

my tripod for the Basilica shot

Brooklyn, her Mom, my Mom and myself went out to dinner that night and that’s when I realized Clowns are scary in other countries too. We were walking down a perfectly quaint Italian alley lined with restaurants and outdoor seating filled with all the happy tourists. There was a street clown in between two of the restaurants and usually I have better sense and I avoid eye contact but this one time I smiled at him – I smiled at a street clown. So stupid! He immediately grabbed my wrist and yelled, “I love you!” At which point my Mom, feeling a wee bit protective grabbed my other wrist and yelled, “I’m her Mother!” At which point the hundreds of happy tourists turned in their seats to watch as the two Americans were getting haggled by the clown. The clown’s grip on me tightened harder, “But, I looove her!” And as I’m standing there while the true elasticity of my arms (and organs) is being tested I’m thinking someone should be putting a few euros in my pocket for this highly entertaining street act. We finally broke away and I swear I heard a faint applause from the happy tourists.

lots of busts

After we tucked the Moms in bed for the night at the hotel, Brooklyn and I went out in search of some much-needed libations. As we turned down one of the alleys, I saw a man leaning against the side. Figuring he was embracing the art of public urination we continued walking completely unfazed. At closer observation, however, this man seemed to be wearing all black and was not in fact using the street as a toilet…rather, he was taking advantage of the absence of light and people to put on a black ski mask. I immediately grabbed Brooklyn and turned us around to head back to the piazza. Being a typical New Yorker, Brooklyn was still completely unfazed by this man. Sometimes my country bumpkin roots really shine through…or was that common sense shining through? I guess the difference is that the New Yorker would walk down the alley perfectly aware of the threat of being mugged, but would be carrying mace.

documenting the busts

After a delightful drink on the town we headed back and decided we would have a drink at the hotel before calling it quits. Unfortunately, the hotel bar had closed hours before but the man at the front desk took no hesitation to offer opening the bar back up and serving us as well as opening the outdoor patio. So, while Brooklyn and I sipped our Italian beers in the beautiful patio adjacent to the Pantheon I thought clowns and muggers aside – it could not get any better than this.

Roma

Rome has a Great Wall kind of awe and curiosity to it.  I just don’t get how they did it; I can’t even begin to comprehend it.  It is so immense, so huge…just very diligent work.

the Forums - a little taste of some serious ruins

Rome is amazing.  You have to see it to believe it because it is totally unreal.  You can imagine that my trip to Rome was everything you would read in a guidebook so I don’t need to elaborate further.  I saw the sites, I took the pictures and I even sent a letter from the Vatican City post office.

I strongly believe that if you can learn the mail system in a foreign country, you can do anything

But what you won’t read in the guidebooks, and what everyone will keep from you when they return from their fabulous trip to Rome is this: Rome is like one big scavenger hunt; everyone in Rome carries a map and they live in their map, even the Italians!  It is the most bizarre site.  Just picture every New Yorker carrying around a map, stopping at every corner to double-check where they are.  And no one asks anyone for help and everyone gets lost.  They concentrate very hard and rotate the map around a bunch of times.  And then they spin around a few times take a picture, walk a few yards and then repeat.  It’s my heaven.  Anyone who has traveled with me knows this is me.  I don’t try to fit it; I play the part.  I relish in being the conspicuous tourist with camera and fanny pack (well, at least a cool looking one for my gear) and sunglasses and layers tied around my waste and hanging off my bag; but most of all, I really like to get inside my map.  I like to whip it out in large crowds of tourists and say, “look at me!  I’m not from here!”  Then I take a bunch of pictures and I pull out my map again and put it on the ground so I can become one with the map.  Rome is full of my people!  I’m so at home here.

A map in daylight, much more useful

And we did get lost, very lost.  After my Mom, the 10+ marathoner led us around by foot (and they say that Rome is too big to walk the whole thing, but we did…twice) we were at mile 15 or so (for real) when we decided we should head back so we could fit in a nap before dinner.  Well, I got in my map, but my map was poorly lit as the sun was setting so we set off in the wrong direction, actually the total opposite direction.  And then we took a short cut and it was not a short cut.  This is the point where I became a very irritable eight-year-old, once again sitting in the back seat of a grey Oldsmobile rental in Arizona with no air conditioning en route to the Grand Canyon.  Yep, took me right back…and I was not happy.  It’s amazing how easy it is to shed years off your life.  I was eight again, just like that.  And Mom was still Mom…and oh, was I a brat.

We finally got back to the hotel two hours later, a luxurious hotel only made available after a, “you’re not that poor” moment.  We had arrived in Rome specifically on this day to meet up with my friend Brooklyn, a fellow world-traveling companion from college, and her mother who were touring Italy.  They were staying at the Albergo Santa Chiara, literally adjacent to the Pantheon;

I mean they probably shared the same plumbing (yes, you could call the hole in the floor of the Pantheon, plumbing).  It was beautiful and clean and just so Roma.  But, being the travelers Rick Steves would have been proud of, we decided to walk around the block to check out if there was anything cheaper.  The concierge at the Santa Chiara recommended the Pesione down the street.  We rang a little buzzer and were let in.  A mangy looking man in mangy clothes with a careless walk led us to a room for us to check out…the most depressing, dimly lit, creepy room I had seen in a long time for a fraction of the price of the Santa Chiara.  It reminded me of my first frat party I had gone to.  It was in the basement of the frat house, dark, smelly and certainly creepy and I remember wondering, “this is what all the hype is about?”  Well, we decided, this was not what Rome was about and that we weren’t that poor.  So after our long hike back to the Santa Chiara a well-groomed man with a confident walk led us to our beautiful room.

Shooting Brooklyn. Yes, that would be the Pantheon behind us

Brooklyn and the latest heart throb of Roma - this head shot of a handsome young priest was on every street stand. The JTT of Roma.

In the U.S. we have deemed staring rude and inappropriate for specific circumstances.  We’re not supposed to take an extended look at a person in a wheel chair or wait to see if an obese person will fit in their airplane seat.  It’s offensive to get a double take of someone who is missing an arm.  If a man looks at a girl’s assets as she walks by it’s chauvinistic and repulsive.  In Italy apparently, they didn’t get the memo.  This guy is sitting diagonally across from me and just staring.  I glare at him several times and it’s my meanest stare I can come up with.  To him though, I probably look as though I am partaking in the ritual dance of man and woman.  He stares and then I stare and then we get married on the Ponte Vecchio.  The dance I’m imagining, however, involves me ringing his neck.

He came off as one of the guys at the gym I go to back home.  When he sat down he immediately took off his shirt to reveal his tight, sleeveless workout shirt with his big arms exposed.  In all honesty he really lacked good definition and I was far from impressed.  Then he began eating one of those fatten-up-bars to achieve the maximum calorie intake for the day.  And then he took off his shoes…and then his socks.  It should be noted that I hate feet.  I mean, I really hate feet.  I deal with my own but I have no desire to look at other peoples’ feet.  So when he started picking at his toes I could barely sit still in my seat.  Why had we opted for the cheaper, regional train over the sleek and sophisticated Eurostar train?  When confronted with the ultimate quandary of the avid traveler, to splurge or save on accommodations and transportation our Roma tour guide would say always remember,  “you’re not that poor.”