The Aly

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.