Feisty French ladies, caffe con ciccolata, calcio with fire, pasta indulgence, laundry matters

Let me paint a little picture: Bella and I are happily sitting in our living room, coral wall paper, our "pet" Tomasina-Pipa (nickname: Smitten) the kitten is stuck to our wall, keeping us company, when all of a sudden our doorbell starts screeching at us. We don't usually get visitors, being the slight homey hermits that we are, so we jump slightly. I go push I button that happens to open the door completely by chance and as my eye is glued to the peephole, I watch 2 carabinieri (ITALIAN POLICE) and 2 women storm into the apartment, speaking a French-English-Italian combo. One poor girl who lives upstairs is unfortunate enough to come down at this exact moment, only to get bombarded by the police and the women who claim that they live here...alas, for the last month and a half, only American students have been here. Had I been a kinder person, I may have opened the door and walked the 1.5 feet in front of me to where the action is taking place to help the poor girl...but I just watched. Bella and I made some Italian coffee in our ancient cousin of a kettle, pour in some Swiss Miss, a little panna (cream) for our American taste buds, and take turns watching through the peephole at the scene unfold. Eventually, the popo pop away, and the French women rapid-fire their tongues back and forth, anger escalating, Bella and I calmly observing and falling into fits of laughter and then hushing each other fervently. End of story: they are still outside right now, possibly with our landlord. We have postponed our evening stroll, passaggiato, for eavesdropping activities, and no rooms have been busted into yet, although apparently they lived here in December and are demanding their apartment back- this is quickly escalating to mafia madness. Also, if you want a look at my personal nook, do not be alarmed by this picture: yes, it resembles a cage, but it is quite cozy in its closed-off-from-the-world-I'm-a-crazy-person feel.

Background: When we were first here for orientation, we were warned to avoid all tangles with the policemen. When in doubt, we will be in the wrong- when it is an American up against an Italian citizen, we will be wrong. Consequences: they can hold you up to 60 DAYS in jail without a reason. Hence, Bella and I getting comfy in the apartment tonight and staring through our peephole.

It has been a few days, but I promise my desire to blog is still strong! I am splitting my emotional responses to every journey, gita (day trip), pasta dish, Italian encounter, class reading and so on between my journal and these lovely digitalized pages, which of course give my fingers way too much freedom to reach a Flo Jo speed and your eyes and ears (if you like pretending to hear my voice read this to you) bear witness.

This past weekend: Bella abandoned me, although it was an acceptable excuse, to spend the weekend with her family in Sicily! She returned home Sunday with scarves, perfume in scandalous bottles, shirts and, to be shared with me, homemade Sicilian desserts- they known how to do it right in Southern Italy- dabs of sugar and nutella on fried "chiacchiere" (similar to a funnel cake, cut into small squares, and it translates into "to chat" which I absolutely love- it just sums up the Italian take on pastries and fine dining- chatting, on the go, bite size munchies that are so marvelous, your sweet tooth becomes an addict in t-minus 2 seconds...or at least that's how it works for some of us). For me, I used the time to do laundry, an endeavor that you would not believe, so I will lay it out for you:

Recipe for Italian laundry completion
3.5 hours for ONE cycle to toss and turn its way around a robotic sounding machine
1 large ladle of soap, ours is lavender scented
A cauldron of softener because...
0 dryer usage at all, due to lack of existence of said item
1 drying rack, promptly placed over a towel
Possibly a sink, 2 hands, and extra detergent, along with a willful attitude for serious scrubbing
Approximately, but not limited to, 2 days for clothes to dry completely- many rubs of cloth are necessary to smooth out stiffness, and an extra shake shake of fabric to breathe a little life back into your favorites


Another addition to the weekend: What does the word Viper make you think of? Because if an image of a secret Italian club, cement floors and walls, strands of lights careening from the ceiling, the random Italian bambino (child) because apparently that's acceptable, and some hardcore rocking out comes to mind then...you just need an extra dose of whimsy. Yes, we went to said club and no, we were not VIP at Viper- we were, as usually happens, the standout Americans, boasting too much color and not enough black to blend with the backdrop. We thought we were prepared for what was about to hit us: we had done our research on Rio, a group that sounded similar to Akon, English lyrics, reggae, and yet, when we watch the crooning first act slip off stage, the following duo was not black, with dreads, or speaking in English. They were white, middle aged men, clearly Italian, one with long, greasy locks, the lead singer with gelled back, blondified hair and a jean jacket bedazzled with a naked woman on back who looked like a mermaid. Were we surprised? That's an understatement, especially when Blink 182 esque lyrics come rumbling forth from this slightly overweight man's mouth and yet, as we listen...we started singing along. "Singing" being Italian mumbling and chorus repetition, and before we knew it, we were jamming along with the enthused crowd, making oogly eyes at these clear have-beens who decided that "have-beens" is a word of the past, and that all good things come full circle. Two hours of heavy duty rocking and sweating, and I'm a convert- Rio, you rocked my world.



ALSO: Just remembered: Went to an Italian soccer game- CALCIO- watched Fiorentia (Florence) get, sadly, beaten by Inter (Milan) in an excellent match- we sat through the first half, got rowdy in the second, joined the fans on the bleachers and screamed VAFFANCULO (all encompassing swear word) at every foul move. Watched an American boy try to take an Italian man down and nearly get punched in the face- may have had to scream at a few American girls to slide on down and not block my view. You just can't watched Italian soccer and not give into the anger, frustration and feisty explosions that are all part of the love for the game.



And yes, this is smoke/fire being created by the hands of man after Florence scored in the first half.

So clearly, this was a weekend endeavor...not to mention securing the 2 washing machines that the 20 of us in the apartment use. After plotting my laundry takeover of the universe, I concocted a marvelous pasta dish for the enjoyment of some friends and I: penne, bit o' butter, panna, Parmesan cheese (which, fun fact, as a child I referred to religiously as scham-scham cheese) and then mixed in with some goat cheese, walnuts and sliced pears. Needless to say, we licked the pot clean, literally. After a night of 19 year old Italian boys attempting to seduce us at an Irish Pub, we called it quits early to prepare for...

BOLOGNA! And no, the sandwich meat does not exist there, much to my chagrin, but Bologna is known for many other delicacies, including: PASTA, TORTELLINI, and PARMESAN CHEESE. Since we got to Bologna in the afternoon, mezzagiorno (I think), we had to kill some time before the ensuing food fest unfolded. So, we climbed 495 stairs up one of the ancient Bologna towers, stared up at the giant statue of Neptune, known for his large manliness which apparently offended the Pope who commissioned the work- the artist got the last laugh, if you will observe the other classy fixtures to the fountain. Finally, 6 o'clock rolls around, and we proceed to walk back and forth, up and down, all around, until 7 comes and we can sit down to a heavenly meal of meaty, saucy pasta (saucy in its attitude and consistency), roasted chicken breast with FRENCH FRIES, fried zucchini slices, and a shared dessert of tiramisu and chocolate panna cotta with amaretto. Can you concoct happiness with the whip of a whisk and the ferocity of a fork? Yes, si, it is an Italian fact of life.




Sunday: Relaxation mode ensued, followed by taking advantage of the sunshine for a run along the River Arno, where one never gets lost because I run right or left and I know my bridge which leads me straight back home- I almost ran into a few tourists and possible Florentines- that's one thing that has been getting more and more difficult, dealing with the slow gliding side-walkers...it is called SIDE WALKING for a reason, please stay to your side, and me to mine, like a highway: left lane for speed turtles only, right lane for tortoises. Somehow, this inherent fact of life is lost on the Italians, and so I seek to adjust my mental state to become more of the Florentine mold, happily curved into the daily doldrums and delights of this city. Upcoming adventures: VENICE for CARNIVAL this weekend with the school! I have decided that, while I am here, I want to learn as much about Italy as I possibly can. While I am all for travel, I have been lucky enough to visit many of the hot spots of Europe already, and so I can devote my time and moolah to learning more about the Tuscan towns, the pizza of Napoli, the shopping of Milan, Juliet's balcony in Verona, and every little nook in between. More postings to follow but for now, keep the basil fresh and wine free flowing.