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.

A story that simply needs to be told

This past Saturday, a beloved old roomie and I, whose name rhymes with Belly Bessler, decided to celebrate in style by going up to Greve, in the Chianti region, for some delicious and educational wine tasting. This classy excursion followed a night of celebrations that ended with secret bakery pizza and 4 in the morning and a couple of overly-enthusiastic Italian men who insisted on escorting us the 2 minutes home to our front door. Shrewdly avoiding the situation, us girls slid into our doorway and crashed, only to wake up for the adventure of the upcoming day:

9:30AM- Showering, getting ready, eating my Special K (important note about Italian takes on American food: IT IS BETTER. The Special K flakes are crispier, the KitKat bars have more wafer to their Kit, smoother chocolate to their Kat, and even the McDonald's, which I am getting to in the next 2 sentences of the story, at least almost passes as a semi-nutritious meal). Kelly is recovering in a slower manner than I, so we head over to the shining golden arches, conveniently (purposely?) placed right in front of the train station- she orders her 1 Euro hamburger, I try a "Chicken Legend"- breaded chicken, lettuce and Parmesan on foccacia bread- I was tempted to have the TIRAMISU McFlurry (yes, you read that right), but knowing what awaited, I had a mini pep talk with my tummy and told her to be patient.

We board the bus, seated by other Americans looking for a similar adventure, who talked about philosophically lofty topics the entire ride up- shortly into the hour bus ride, a horde of middle school Italian boys, clad in black leather and purple scarves, began scarfing up all free air, polluting it with vulgar profanities in both English and Italian, their voices escalating with every bump in the road. "Belly's" attempting to sleep, I'm trying to drown out the noise and occasional cat calls with some Chiddy Bang-Passion Pit mash ups, and finally, the bus driver slams the breaks. He glares backwards in the mirror and tells the boys that if they do not silence themselves, they will be walking on foot to Greve (I picked up the word piedra, which I'm assuming means something similar to foot...and therefore deduced the entire conversation perfectly...) We move onwards, curving into the hills of Tuscany, nearly careening off of the roadsides into the marshes below, and the boys' laughter grows louder as they scream line after line of American swear words that are not worth repeating. Next: An Italian middle aged man, clad in suo capelli (his hat), walks to the back of the bus, as it is moving, and just stands there, staring at them- doesn't say a word. They simmer, slightly, and when he goes back to his seat a few minutes later, I uttered my best Italian phrase: grazie (thank you) and he gave a small smile (a rarity among the Florentines).

Speed forward: BOYS GET LOUDER. I understand, they're middle schoolers, but this was putting American middle school boys to shame, and when the Italian girls got on the bus, they just giggled as these boys are shouting about the things they wanted to do...I actually started blushing. Middle aged man goes up to bus driver, tells him to pull over- bus driver yells another empty threat, but the boys aren't having it. Middle aged man, however, has had enough. He goes to the ring leader, a 16 year old bloke, lip piercing and all, and starts yelling back, telling him (in rapid Italian) what I assume is "You need to get off this bus immediately." Boy gives him lip, the man grabs his collar and tries to pull him off- boy hits head on the top of the bus roof- BAM! Punches thrown! Boy starts trying to punch middle aged man, but let's face it kid, you're a child. He looks older, but he still lands punches as though his fingers are feathers laying on the sidewalk. Middle aged man has a bit more sass and he is kicking this boy's ass, defending himself but clearly becoming victorious and so, in the manner of little boys, they all jump on the man, pushing him back a clear 10 feet, all 5, 6 of them punching, but middle aged man (MAM for short) holding his own! At this point, they are right next to us in the aisle, and we're jammed up against the window to save ourselves from the blows, both meager and hard. Bus driver pulls back man, boys pull back boys, and we all are told to get off the bus immediately- MAM calls the cops with the bus driver and as we're waiting for the cops to arrive, the boys, still on the bus, start showing each other their battle wounds (which, let's face it, they have more of than the practically unscathed man) and one boy, poofing up his feathers, shows a lip free of blood from where I sat, but in his mind, it was there, and, red in the face, he charges off the bus and proceeds to go after his nemesis...at this point, police have arrived, and we all started getting even more nervous/woke up from the daze of shock- we descend (scendere) the bus to a horde of Italian middle school children all casually smoking their cigarettes like this happens every day- we look to the hills, get directions from a curly haired lad, and the group of Americans sets off on foot for Greve, seriously deserving the beautiful Chianti Classico, crostini (toasted bread) with goats cheese and honey, and chickpea/kidney bean stew that awaited us in the flower basket of a town.

Just another day in Italy...

One month in- time to begin!

At this point in my journey, I have tripped over multiple slabs of cobblestone, thought about the various ways to break through security in museums to run my hand across the gleaming marble statues, and eaten my way through a most impressive listing of carbolicious delicacies- I have been in Florence, Italy for one month EXACTLY as of today, and in the trend of many things in my life, I have been too busy running about to sit down and write this long-needed post. But, surrounded by these works of art that seem to be breathing along with the pulse of the city, I can't help but think of Leonard DaVinci: word on the street is that this brilliant man, a genius in his own form that defied norms of thinking, boundaries of intellectualism, and created ideas that preceded dreams- this man slept less than 5 hours a night, cursing his day for not allowing him to have more hours to work, to create, to fuse the flight of his mind with the plight of reality. If DaVinci felt like he had not accomplished enough as he rested on his death bed, suddenly your life receives a gentle slap in the face, a blow horn to get going with the action of calves burning and eyes watering from staring too intently at paint speckling.

So, what have I done so far: I arrived in the streets of Florence, my dear friend at my side, after 32 hours of brain-throbbing lack of sleep. No sirree, I did not sleep AT ALL on the plane ride over from Philadelphia. Why? I would like to say I was attempting to be a savvy traveler, a saveler (if you will), but alas, my legs were cramping, I had a 6'4 woman behind me who told me not to put my seat back, and my neck was contorted in a Picasso formation that should not be humanly possible. So I thought, dreams running through my head, expectations building. After arriving in Rome, and receiving help from the airport ladies dressed up like 1970s flight stewardesses (Kelly green dress, white trim, hat on head, no joke), we then proceeded to wait for 7 hours until our flight left- we ordered some wine, a cappuccino or four, and watched the sun set, knowing that it was still throbbing in the Arizona sky. Upon arrival in Florence, we allowed our stomachs to walk us to the nearest pizzeria, sat down to heart-shaped margherita creations, ordered a glass of wine, befriended the waiter Mario, and walked into the night humming along, feeling very Lady and the Tramp like, sans meatballs, replaced with a free bicchiere de vino (ohh boy, here comes the Italian).


(Me bonding with the lucky hog)

The first two weeks in recipe form:
1 part blissful ignorance
2 cups intensified, condensed curiosity
1 liter complete frustration at having no way to communicate
5 pounds of leather jackets
2 teaspoons of homesickness
6 samplings of gelato
2 quarts pasta, complete with creamy sauce, tomato sauce, and funghi (mushrooms)
14 doses of sunny weather
1 dollop of panna (cream, whipped of course) to top it all off

I was in a state of awe. "There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle." Albert Einstein must have been to Italy, because this country is a world of miniatures miracles. There are formations of pigeons that have me convinced that birds are secretly plotting to take over the world. Gypsy women wander the streets in purple skirts and dangling jewels, asking for your change. Tour guides prance around the Duomo holding up an umbrella, occasionally topped with a Winnie the Pooh creature (I do not know why) so that the endless trains of cameras can proceed forward, hiding the faces of the wonderstruck tourists. These things, these details are what annoy most people, and yet for these first 2 weeks, even the most obnoxious practices mesmerized me.

We had Italian class for 4 hours every day, starting at 9 in the morning. Si, this was an adjustment. Such phrases that I've mastered: Sono americana di Tucson (o della Arizona). Studio storia del'arte. Mi chiami Kristen (although, this too would eventually get reworded, as many Italians have simply designated me "Kristina.") Mi piace gnocchi e gelato e pasta e vino rosso e...(the list was endless). These classes helped ground me in the reality of my situation: I am here to learn, to study, to embrace and breathe deep the cultural pathways of this country. I have to learn the language.

Before coming here, my philosophy was simple: branch out and explore, follow my curiosities, develop my passion, cultivate my spirituality, expand my culinary limits (fancy way of saying eat whatever I feel like) and, most importantly, adapt to the Italian way. The Florentines, in particular, are a group of simple folk. In an art history class, we recently read a document from the 1200s, during the dueling parties of the Guelphs and Ghibellines, that explained how Florentines prize simplicity and a humble mind over the elegance of the courts, the ornamentation of dress. Their wealth came from their ability to conserve. I wanted my experience to be like that- simple, understated, a natural wandering around the city to learn more, a transition into the practices of the Italians, an attempt to be seen as an informed and respectful American, someone who wasn't trying to bring my culture with me but instead, was entirely permeable to a new world laid before my eyes and well-worn feet.

During those first two weeks, the school at which I am studying, Lorenzo de'Medici, organized group activities: touring a leather factor, watching an Italian movie (Catarina va a la citta- highly recommended), an authentic multiple course Italian meal, a bus trip to the ancient Etruscan town that stares down upon our urban dwelling, wine tasting, and so on. In this way, we immediately became a part of the city, led by our Italian professors, becoming eagerly acquainted with the secret nooks of Florence. By day, we were avid intellectuals, seeking ways to blend in smoothly, and by night, the Americans explored the discotecas, the enotecas (wine bars) and the smothering of simmering restaurants. I have danced, performed karaoke, tasted the sweet, warm ooze of chocolate croissants at 3 in the morning, marveled at my friends maneuvering high heels in street cracks, attempted to mimic the outfits of the ever-fashionable Italian woman, found a late night Latin American place, befriended bartenders, and laughed and laughed and contently sighed, squirming between the jersey cotton sheets (brought from home) of my bed for many evenings. The nighttime is for the rambunctious and the thirsty, those quenching a desire to embrace the fire of Florentine energy. Here, a true Florentine has a croissant and coffee for breakfast, standing, a pranzo (lunch) of 3 to 4 courses, a dinner to match the lunch, endless pomeriggio (walking time) and wine, poured from bottles studied with care and a knowledgeable eye, to top off the evening- their energy is as free flowing as the Chianti Classico I have learned to love.

After my philosophical ponderings, wanderings, and wonderings, what else have I done that's concrete? In this city, everything is concrete! I'm in a world of stone. Literally, I must walk 10-15 minutes to see grass and yet, I'm from the desert, as long as I've got blue sky and a hint of green now and again, I'm temporarily satisfied. Some friends and I went to Siena (note the pictures) and saw Il Campo where they have the famous horse races, watched the sun begin to set from the infamous Panorama (where I snapped the pic of the cathedral), started at ancient scrolls and statues in the Museo dell'Opera, and stood, in silence, in the nave of the most beautiful cathedral I have ever seen, the Duomo of Siena. The walls were zebra stripes of marble with the most beautiful frescoes adorning the sides- even the tiles of the floor, spinning in circles and created from hand-laid mosaics, gave my neck a rest from the endless look upwards. To the heavens, the busts of all of the popes curiously glanced down at me, and the blue and yellow stars that covered the underbelly (artsy phrase, obviously) of the dome shimmered and glinted in the pseudo candlelight. This place is parent bring-back worthy: when they arrive in April, it will be the first on our list of stops, a cathedral deserving of as many jaw-dropping responses as possible.

The view from the top of the Panorama


The next weekend: Roamin around ROME! After a four hour train ride, watching the Tuscan hills crest and drip by, day churning to night, we arrived in the Italian city of lights, and we walked to our first hostel experience: Hotel Beautiful 2 (darn it all, 1 was taken). After ascending the stairs that encircled a metal grate elevator, we meet our "landlord," an overly flirtatious Indian man, who leads us girls (there were 10 of us traveling, 2 boys, 8 girls- typical ratio in our group with 35 girls: 5 boys) to our cozy red room, perfectly romantic, especially with the secret bunkbed- all it takes is a whop on top and BAM, it turns into two. We explored the night, making our way around relying on the glinting gold statues of the Capitol. Gelato in hand from the infamous Giolitti, along with some kisses on cheeks for a few of our travelers, we acquainted ourselves with this city that made Florence seem like a smurf, a tiny, gray, smurf.

The next day: the Catacombs, the Colosseum, an attempt to break into the Forum, a bit of vino-induced relaxation. On Sunday, the clouds rolled back to give us sunshine, and we paid (best 20 euro spent) for a tour of the Vatican with a Scottish man: neon yellow pants, red converse, felt cap, pointy beard, pink scarf, the usual- who told us every beautiful story of Michelangelo and the popes. My favorite:

Michelangelo and Julius II, the Pope who commissioned the Sistine Chapel, HATED each other. Both were "ugly, large, imposing men" who were used to getting what they wanted. Julius insulted Michelangelo by asking him to paint the ceiling of this chapel- he only wanted Michelangelo to paint geometric patterns, triangles and circles instead of the typical stars (bold move). Michelangelo refuses, runs back to Florence, a war almost commences, and returns paintbrush and demand in hand- he will only paint the ceiling if he is allowed free reign. For a year, he hung a canvas below his work so that nobody, including Julius II, could see his work- he painted in a cove of secrecy, his own world, working on something that he never considered himself talented enough to create.

Story 2: After the tour finished, we walked into St. Peter's where I was CONVINCED, 150%, that we saw the Pope...of course, and as a minor blow to my ego, the Pope does not lead the mass of St. Peters. Instead, I'm sure that the Cardinal that I saw is a top notch fellow, but at least I wasn't the only one who followed the procession, camera in tow, trying to catch a silhouette of the great man...maybe some other time.

In between my excursions, I have now started actual classes at LDM: Italian, Civilization and Culture, Art Renaissance History of the Italian courts, the Basics of Composition and Drawing, and the History and PRACTICE of Italian Cuisine. Friends and family: prepare yourselves. I can make eggplant. I can concoct orange risotto, saute red peppers, mash ground chicken to be fried into balls, brush a cookie with chocolate love, and tell you how to stare at the light in wine (this last attempt to describe my wine tasting abilities may still need a pinch of work). BUT, the other concoctions I have, indeed, created, and I LOVE COOKING. My teacher, Marco, is the head of the cuisine department and he tells us that if we want to take something away from his recipes, ok, but they are perfect, and we are not allowed to add a thing- why? Because, the Florentine way=simplicity. Smaller portions, stronger spices. A four course meal every Thursday that we prepare ourselves: I am striving to become a carbo-master, a cuoca of the cool (cook of the cool), a composer of the ingredients of life- overstated? Yes. But food here is always a topic of appreciation.

My other favorite (cooking just has that tiny hint of an advantage of being edible) is the Civilization and Culture course- we read Petrarca week, pouring over his love poems and watching his style evolve. His entire life, he battled with love, trying to express how he had mastered the irrational emotion, but always returning to it's ability to escape reason- it's ability to infiltrate his thoughts. Love in Italy: well worth another post- perhaps tomorrow on Valentine's Day when I will post FAR LESS because, we are almost caught up to present!

Most recent trip: biking around the Tuscan town of Lucca. This town, given to the wife of Napoleon by her big man, is surrounded by a wall that she demanded to be built, her protection when her hubby was away. Nowadays, tourists and locals can rent bikes (they come in big and small sizes, be prepared for some booty soreness the next day) and circle the 2.5 miles of the city's center- I decided that when I am old, gingerly but still powerfully strolling in my insoles and grandma sweats, I may have to move to Lucca- it is a town for the young and the old, the bambini (babies) and the elderly, who wander past the Cathedrals, the ancient Roman amphitheater, the pastry shops with local sweet, raisin bread- a town of habit, and smiles on well-worn faces.



As of now, I sit in my wicker chair, a bottle of white wine staring at me lovingly, waiting for my roommate to return from her school trip to Nice for the weekend. We have had multiple 21st birthday celebrations the last few nights- such an interesting comparison- since I turned 21 only a few days after arriving here, I can say from first hand experience that it is, by no means, as big of a deal- this is obvious, since even the tiniest toddlers can drink here (ok, probably not legally, and yet...) When I return home, I am going to get myself a glass of wine in between flights in whatever American airport I am lucky enough to frequent, and proudly show my license, and have my own climactic AHH-HAA moment. But, back to the present: I am purely, simply, warmly happy. There have been a few nights of home-aches, and yet I can use SKYPE like a pro (kristenanne4)- and these days are speeding beyond my comprehension. How have I been here for a month already? But at least now, you are updated, those loyal fans who wanted to know everything that I've been up to! I promise, there are more details, but even though my fingers are itching to type more (you know me...novels could be produced in a nighttime), I am letting your eyes rest as I reheat some risotto and plan my evening, a promising affair with live music, drinks with some Italian men met last night, and cozy wool socks + warm boots are in the line-up. I miss you all, and the beat of the American wild- the mountains of home, the porches of Chapel Hill, the quad lights elfishly bobbing in the dark, and yet, this place brings me such peace and so many open-ended possibilities, I'm overwhelmed by the daily and in awe of the past living in the present.