Poggio

I left Vienna on an overnight train, and once again the ride lulled me to sleep before 10 p.m. Coming from Venice I was lucky and didn’t have anyone in my cuchette. The trip back South, though, provided me with three Austrian roommates. An older couple headed to Venice for the weekend and a university student headed to Bologna to visit a friend. I left the station with the couple, who were immediately checking their watches to see how inefficient the time would be. We picked up the student in Linz, after I had fallen asleep, and I was immediately irritated that this newcomer had agitated my sleep. I was awake for maybe five minutes, irritated because I thought it was three in the morning, and I said nothing. The couple banged around for a while and student got her bags situated. I rolled over and let the trains rocking do its thing.

Later in the night – when it really was 3 a.m. – I was woken up once again. Full of attitude, I was thinking to myself, there are no other small, uncomfortable seat beds in here, so why is someone at the door?

They started talking in German and I got pissed. I assumed he was selling drinks or something. Are you kidding me? You want a freaking tea at this time of the morning? Jesus Christ. Once again, and with more pronunciation this time, I flipped over to go back to sleep. That’s when I was tapped. Oh my God! What do you want?!

The man gruffly asked for my passport. Ohhhh. Ok, here is my only official identification. Take it. Keep it if you would like. I’m legit. Just let me go back to sleep. After a minute, my passport was return and I was back asleep.

I didn’t process anything until the morning. I was cordially talking over breakfast with my three roommates that I was so angry with the night before, and they all thought it was strange that this man wasn’t in a uniform. I hadn’t even noticed. I’m glad I didn’t let him keep it after all. Who knows what it was all about, but people just shouldn’t disrupt my sleep. It makes me reckless.

We arrived over an hour late. The couple was uneasy from the moment they woke up. When we finally arrived, the student and I hung out while waiting for the train to Rome. We ate some disgusting gummy candy that I had been so excited to buy at the grocery store the day before. We chatted about travel and language. I helped her figure out her ticket, and we were off to our respective destinations.

I got on a full train to head back to Tuscany. I immediately pulled out my book. I knew I had at least an hour and a half before it would be safe to talk to anyone... the trip was three hours long, and I didn’t have an hour and a half’s worth of stuff to say to anyone. So I read and enjoyed myself. In Bologna, however, I was given no choice but to stop reading and start chatting. An Italian man from the South asked me what my book was.

Here we go. Not only was he going to speak Italian, he wanted to chat in Sicilian and swallow every other word. And contrary to many Sicilians, he didn’t want to speak loudly. No, he wanted to look down and ask a lot of questions. But I got through it. There were a few “Come?”s and “Scusi?”s (huh? and pardon?), and there were definitely a few times when I smiled or frowned because I had no idea what was going on and couldn’t ask him to repeat himself again. If he looked somber and I didn’t understand, I assumed it was about his wife Teresa. Maybe they weren’t doing so well in their marriage? Maybe the baby that is due in five months is keeping the mother sick? Maybe he is wondering if I have a husband? I couldn’t tell, so a somber nod seem appropriate. It got me through. We talked about the book and about travel – he has a brother like me who saves and travels and repeats. He works too much to travel, but he would like to. His son, a fifteen-year-old troublemaker (who has a cute school picture that I have now seen) wants to travel and probably will. He’s smart, he just doesn’t want to stick with stuff. By the time I got off, he knew I had family, I knew he had family and we both knew we were very different creatures. But both interesting and interested.

With that, I got to Florence. I then took my non-showered, unrested self to Poggio a Caiano, the small town I lived in after studying in Florence three years ago. I took the same bus I took often when I was here before, and it was like slipping back in time.

Chiara, the wedding planner I lived with, picked me up at the stop. After a big hug, we were off to the house to start laundry and check email. She had some questions about requests that she couldn’t understand, and I needed to shower. We unloaded, then headed back out to find Leo – her now 8-year-old son. Like clockwork, we went to the school to wait with all of the other Italian parents for the kids to get released. I saw the same parents who asked how I had been. I saw Milva, who was Chiara’s co-planner (if such a term exists), when I was there. She hugged me and held me and smiled at me. It felt nice to be back. Leo remembered me, but Elena and Mattia – Milva’s kids – raised their chins with a shrug. “Chi e questa?” (Who is this?) they wanted to know. But they warmed to me quickly.

We rode around town with me asking questions. Isn’t that where we went to the printer once? Isn’t that where we got gelato after going to the lake? Isn’t that Milva’s house? Is that the house you called a Horse House rather than stable and I thought you were talking about a whorehouse? Yes, I was back in my neighborhood.

When I first came, Leo was five years old. He was shy, and I was shy. We played soccer some, but didn’t talk to one another a lot because we couldn’t understand each other. He prattled in Italian sometimes, but mostly we coexisted. On particular nights when he didn’t want to go to sleep, tickling and wrestling wars would turn the living room into a danger zone. But it was all giggles and yelps.

Now Leo is older. After school he plays soccer with the boys in the playground. Everyone comes out every afternoon. Leo’s grandmom is there, and we come a bit later. Other parents mill about, watching their kids and talking about their kids. And the food their kids have eaten. And the homework their kids don’t have or don’t do. And the soccer their kids play. It’s very cute, but after a while I want to have a kid to talk about. And then I realize that something doesn’t fit.

Chiara wants me back. She wants me – or any diligent (laugh) person who speaks English – to come stay with her. As much as I love Poggio, I wouldn’t be able to do it on the same conditions. I’m a 23-year-old trapped in the life of married with children. When I stayed here, it was get up, take Leo to school, come back, check and respond to emails, sit outside and talk about idioms and grammar quite literally Under the Tuscan Sun, go to the store to look at overpriced shoes or shirt, go to the grocery store to buy dinner, go to the yard to watch Leo, fight with Leo about what time to come back home, make dinner, watch TV, go to bed. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Variation on the weekend included birthday parties, shopping and school field trips.

As much as I would love to be back here to learn Italian and experience the culture deeper, I couldn’t do it again under someone else’s terms. I would want to get an apartment and a bicycle, and I would want to be able to come to work rather than live at work. I would want to go see Leo & Co. in the yard when I want to. The work was great because I did learn to teach and be patient, and I learned Italian through recognizing Chiara’s spoken mistakes. But I would need to discover the under-30 crowd that must exist somewhere in the greater Poggio area. I would want to have nights where I cook for friends and drink wine and don’t end the night by watching Rai Uno with poorly dubbed According to Jim episodes. In short, I would want to have my life.

I think it is possible. This short stay has been wonderful... it has given me enough time to see and visit with everyone without getting restless. But to come again for a few months? Only if my Saturdays are available for life beyond birthday parties where everyone eats over-salted fries and pizza and talks about who is going to sponsor the kids’ soccer team.

Pictures

I have started something new for pictures:

http://picasaweb.google.com/winnab

It's not edited, but it'll do. Enjoy!

Vienna

One of my biggest fears is running out of things to say in a conversation or in a relationship. However irrational, I am terrified in most conversations of awkward pauses and I have convinced myself that all of my connections with people will come to an end because I will run out of things to talk about. Despite wanting to meet new people, especially on a trip like this, I often feel myself hesitating before starting a conversation. I think to myself, “We have this entire train ride. If I start talking now, I’ll have to talk until we reach the station or we both go uncomfortably quiet after I’ve found out the entire background of the person and his family. What more can I say once I realize that his mother is a shoemaker in Palermo? Do I even remember the word shoe? Whatever happens could be potentially catastrophic. I shouldn’t start a conversation now. I’ll just wait until we’re closer to where we are going. Good idea. But the train makes me sleepy...”

I mean, literally, this is what happens. Not all the time, mind you. There are those times – especially when my conversation partner initiates – that I am happy to muddle along with a language I don’t know well or talk slowly in English with people who probably don’t understand half of what I’m saying. These conversations are triumphant and exhilarating because each time it’s like I’ve proven the impossible. Though I know this is the feeling I will ultimately have, I have hesitation every time.

I have met many interesting people already during those freak times that conversation does get started. So the only conclusion I continue to draw is that I have to force myself into uncomfortable situations in order to feel accomplished with people in new places.

Cities, however, are not the same. Cities I can love immediately. I can meet a city and after a few hours fantasize living there for years. I imagine my life in the city, bustling around with people I am afraid to talk to. It’s wonderful. I think I have a thing for cities because I love them all. Big ones, small ones, clean ones, confusing ones, crowded ones, rainy ones. After I spent time going around the U.S., I was asked which city I liked the most. Sheepishly, I had to admit that they all gave me something good.

Vienna is a city I loved immediately. From the day I arrived, I was enchanted. Coming from Italy there were things I noticed immediately. First off, it’s cleaner. From the train station to the city’s many churches and most points in between, the walls are clean and without garish graffiti. As a designer, I can be attracted to graffiti; in Italy, the graffiti is not attractive. Also, the roads and sidewalks are roomier. You can walk five-people wide without being on the street. It’s cleaner audibly as well, as many Viennese have cars but not many have motorini... the biggest source of noise pollution in Italy. Instead, next to the extra-large sidewalks are paved and sanctioned bike lanes. The pedestrian light system has icons for bikes and people showing just how much respect the greener-minded Austrians get.

Austrians, like any group of people north of Italy, seem more... anal retentive. I say this in the most affectionate way because I am probably more anal retentive than an small town of Italians. Austrians wait at stoplights for the green man to indicate they may cross (out of fear of the 7-euro charge they may incur if they misstep), and move about the city like they’re all part of a well-oiled machine. As soon as possible, I tried to fall in line.

But there isn’t a total sense of order. Like any city or culture, there are standards and expectations. The metro (a great system) treats its people like grownups: you buy and validate your ticket as needed. There are no turnstiles at every exit. Occasionally officers are posted to check tickets, and if you irresponsibly decide not to use honor, they charge you a fee of consequence. It’s that simple.

Simplicity is also part of the Viennese coffee house tradition. Vienna has a tradition of these houses that is said to be more than 300 years old, with the first location opening after the Turks were defeated in the mid-1600s. Shops full of coffee, tea and pastries (and liquors, wines and beers at night) are on every street, and you are invited to patronize as long as you’d like. Order a coffee, stay for a few hours to read the paper, talk about politics or (in my case) plan the rest of your time in the city with your guidebook and hot chocolate to assist. I sampled pastries at a handful of coffeeshops and wasn’t disappointed. I started with an apple strudel from the Diglas coffee house, tried a multi-layered chocolate torte at Eiles near the Parliament and had a crumbly treat near the Graben. Yum.

When I wasn’t opting for a pastry as lunch, I explored (mostly with Rishi’s help) eateries with traditional Austrian fare. The first night in the city we went to a brewery for wiener schnitzel and home-brewed beer. Yum again. At the end of another night I was treated to a hot dog – frankfurter with cheese snug in a crusty baguette. For a final lunch I had frankfurter, potatoes, sauerkraut and beer. I was kind of jealous of myself on that last day.

The food was sustenance that I need to traverse the city, which I did. Over and over. Outside. A lot.

I really had no choice. The weather was beautiful and the city center – i.e. where are the tourist stuff is – packs itself tightly and is marked well enough to navigate easily. I walked through the Museums Quatier, Maria Teresa Platz, down by the University and Parliament, over to see the Graben and Stephansdom, around the see Karlsplatz and over to see Belvedere. I went to the Jewish Quarters and where Mozart when he worked on Figaro. I saw Klimt’s kiss and a neat exhibit on Yves Klein at the MUMOK. I also explored the city’s Jugendstil architecture at Wagner’s apartments, the Succession building and at Karlsplatz. I love this design period with its angles, colors and lines, so it was great to see the architecture in person.

One night I went to wait for a standing seat (oxymoronic, I know) at the opera. I waited outside the opera house with my paper and guide book, waited inside to get a ticket, then rushed with everyone to get a spot. People were running in from outside, pushing and shoving, and I had no idea what was going on. I asked someone who seemed to be a veteran (he brought a collapsible chair with him for his post outside), and he recommended the balcony and recommended I hurry. So I did. I had to be guided by the calm ushers amidst the store, and my spot was acceptable. I tied a scarf to my area and wandered for a bit. The opera house is pretty majestic and I was glad I paid two euro (less than I pay for a hot chocolate) to see the show. I only wished that the show was better. It was a french opera with a pretty good female singer and no good actors. It was a modern opera that tried to hard with the acting. The German-speaking audience got translations on screens by their seats (and above our heads in the standing section). It was the first time in a long time that my English didn’t help me out in any way. It was actually kind of a nice feeling, though I may have enjoyed the opera at least a bit more if I had more of what was going on.

My last night, as I was wandering around the Graben before going to the train station, I heard a pianist, two classical guitarists, a quartet with a clarinet (it rhymes and it’s an instrument after my heart) and singers. Mostly students, all out enjoying the evening and practicing music that just makes the heart happy. I got on the Ubahn to head to the station with a smile. It’s how I like to leave cities. I think it’s inevitable I’ll get back to that city before too long.

Vienna

I am in Vienna now, and I am not going to write up everything just yet. I am staying with my friend Rishi, who was my RA sophomore year at Carolina. He grew up in France and came to UNC as an international student, so it was only fitting that he was the RA for the diversity hall. He has lived in Vienna for a few years now. He did his masters here and is now working with the UN.

It’s been great staying in a city with someone who knows the city. I arrived on Sunday, and we went for a whirlwind walking tour to show the sites. He lived two blocks from the Museums Quatier, and we went to Maria Teresa Platz, HOfburg where the Chancellor lives, the Graben for shopping and to see Stafansdome, the Opera house, Schonbrunn a summer palace and finished the afternoon off with coffee, tea and pastries at Diglas. We had wiener schnitzel for dinner and a good beer to go with it. Since then, I have retraced steps and gone to the Succession Building, Wagner Apartments, the University and another great coffeeshop. Last night, oddly enough, we ate at an asian buffet that was delicisious. And today I’m planning to go into some of the museums. It’s great, and I will update more soon.

Fifth Day in Italy - Venice

We woke up early in Biassa to catch the train to Venice. The plan was to take an early train to Bologna and shoot over the Venice by early afternoon. Things do not always go according to plan.

Italians like to strike at random times. When I was living in Poggio a Caiano, the teachers went on strike at least three times in two months. The bus system in Florence shut down two days when I was studying there. It is what they do. It seems maybe they don’t have enough vacation days, so they have to rally for a cause to have more than 48 free days a year.

This Friday morning, we tried to buy tickets to Venice through Bologna and a nice man explained that that would not be possible. I had already heard Catso! (f***) and Pezzo di Merda! (piece of s***) exclaimed in the ticket line, so I knew something was up. It seemed the Tuscany Eurostar staff decided it needed to strike for a long weekend. So, rather than a speedy trip across northern Italy, we were going to be stopping twice and taking InterCity for a good part of the trip. Awesome.

In our first stop, Sestri, I took advantage of the waiting time to buy a few more decks of cards so that I could teach Erin the card game Canasta. On our way to Milan from Sestri we set up camp in our cabin and played a hand. While we played, an Italian man watched from the door with interest. After we finished the first hand, I invited him in the cabin to watch. In excited Italian, he began asking about the game and why a joker didn’t stop everything.

Before starting a new hand, as best I could I explained the rules and nuances. He had never seen the game, but liked the idea. We were going to continue to play, but a newcomer joined the cabin and our Italian friend wanted to chat anyway. He was a commander of an undercover drug unit in Genova, and he had been in the business for a long time. He was a paratrooper for the military in Sarajevo and Bosnia, and he was supposed to go to Iraq but his knee gave out on him. He was the type of man that I’ve only really seen in Italy. He had beaming pride for his country, and a love that would never take him far from home. In all of the world, he explained, the top three cities are Rome, Florence and Venice. Imagine. We told him we were en route to Venice, and he clutched his heart and confessed that he cried the first time he went to Piazza San Marco. He couldn’t understand why I would want to go to Vienna, and he desperately wanted Erin to come to Italy to study (go figure). Perhaps in the US there are these pockets of zealots, but I have mostly managed to miss them. In Italy, many people love their small homeland. Our friend, however, was very proud of his American cowboy boots that a cousin got him in Texas. With pride, he pulled up his jeans and showed off the light brown leather while proudly saying they were Marlboro and they cost 800 euro. He only wears cowboy boots and he has 20 pairs of them. Perhaps there is some similarity between this proud Italian man and American counterparts in the Lone Star state. Who knows.

For the rest of the way to Venice we were in the company of Italians who preferred to catch up on the news in La Republicca or make out with their boyfriends than befriend American girls, so we read and played more Canasta.

We arrived in Venice at sunset, and I don’t think there could have been a more perfect time to come out of the train station and see the city for the first time. The station opened a main canal and was bustling with people who were rushing to and from waterbuses. I felt almost like I was on a movie set. Everyone – even the lost tourists who were consulting maps and asking questions loudly – seemed to know what they needed to be doing at that moment. The buildings on the other side of the skinny canal were old and beautiful, and the light was framing them in a picture-perfect way. Pigeons were finding scraps and dogs were chasing pigeons. Small children were running around the piazza while parents, unconcerned, were figuring out where to go next or complaining about being overrun with tourists. It was quite a first impression.

In most ways, Venice was what I was expecting. I did not, at any point, cry from the emotion I felt. It is a small, beautiful old town that is overrun with visitors and managed by locals who are trained year-round to make a living on tourism pretty much exclusively. I empathized with the older shopkeepers who seemed resentful that they had to constantly cater to visitors in order to sustain, and I recognized friends from home in the young waiters and waitresses who seemed to have fun practicing English and finding out about their city’s guests.

The streets everywhere are labyrinthine, with alleys that lead nowhere and water everywhere as a false point of reference. The alleys and streets were barely four people wide, and the buildings were tall enough and compact enough that it was usually only possible to see what was directly ahead and behind. Street names changed in a single turn without indication and few paths were straight for more than 50 feet.

Our hostel was in the area near Rialto, which was one of the most commercial areas in the city. We found it only by asking three different people, and when we finally found it I thought it was going to be the Hostel That Didn’t Really Exist. We buzzed for twenty minutes without getting a response. I spent five dollars calling the number listed and it cut short without connecting. We waited for another 15 minutes to no avail. By this point it was 8:30 and we hadn’t yet done anything in Venice.

We retraced our steps to an Internet café that cost five euro for half an hour, and after frantically checking email I asked for assistance. The man, a local who was blaring American hard rock in the café and took five minutes to acknowledge us when we first came in, turned out to be much more helpful than I was expecting. He had never heard of the hostel – another strike against it – and was already suggesting other places to stay. Dammit. Before giving up completely, though, he phoned the number again, and they finally answered. He explained our situation, and the hostel owners said they would be at the hostel soon. After profuse thanks and paying 10 euro for the Internet, we maneuvered back to the hostel to wait. The owners’ children came 20 minutes later and admonished us for not calling, and then we finally had a room. It was quite a production for a highly underwhelming hostel, but we didn’t care.

We found dinner quickly after checking in, and – once again – Erin was the fancy of an Italian man. We started out with one waiter, who didn’t seem interested in paying attention to either of us, and then another waiter came when Erin requested another glass of wine. He teased her for having another drink, but he then paid extra attention to our table. He asked Erin’s name and where she was from. He asked how long she was in Venice, and he was visibly disappointed to find out she would only be in town for one night. As we wrapped up our meal, he beseeched her to let him take her out after he finished work, and he was striken when she turned him down to – of all things – go pack for the next day. It was the equivalent of being told she had to wash her hair, and he felt the sting of rejection. But to show an amicable farewell, he winked at her as we left the restaurant.

The next morning we woke up early to be able to see at least part of Venice before leaving. We found a bakery full of delicious cookies and pastries and got a handful of sweets for breakfast. Venice had an inordinate amount of bakeries, and one specialty was a cookie that was something like a cannoli. Its cream with a little bit denser, but it has a crumb shell with cream inside, chocolate chips on top and it was dusted with powdered sugar. I fell in love. They had variants all over the city, and it was amazing to me that I had willpower to not stop at each shop.

We then found Piazza San Marco, with its gorgeous church and Palazzo Ducale set on the canal and showered with the morning sun. The piazza was quite beautiful with a clock tower accented with midnight blue and gold. The church has wonderful bas reliefs showing Saint Marc being carried inside. There were ornate columns and small statues everywhere. Inside the piazza, there were people and pigeons everywhere. It was barely 9:30 and already there were at least 30 tour groups crowding the piazza, listening intently in Italian, French, Chinese and Japanese. Vendors were selling food for the pigeons, and people who had the crumbs were flanked with birds. The birds perched and pecked on people’s arms, shoulders and heads. Before we could get suckered into buying food, we headed out.

Erin needed to get back to Rome for her flight out, so we said goodbye as she headed to a waterbus for the station. I spent the rest of the day wandering Venice by myself. I went to the Guggenheim museum, which had a great collection of modern work. I saw the university and a handful of churches in various parts of the city. I snacked on meat-stuffed fried olives and a speck sandwich and sat on the water to read for a while. In the afternoon, I just wandered and looked. I went to some of the main shopping streets, and Italians from all over the country were out in full force. While Italy has banned smoking inside, it has not banned it altogether. As I walked the tight streets, I felt like I was in a bar with smokers because the air was so thick with smoke. I walked to the end of two of main streets to watch ferries coming in, and I snacked on honey and granola gelato as the sun was setting.

To end the day, I spend an hour or so waiting for my train and watching pigeons fly around the terminal. I left for Vienna on an overnight train, and for the first time in a few days, I was the only English-speaking person on the train.

Fourth Day in Italy - Cinque Terre

We left Florence to go to Cinque Terre, which is an area of five small seaside towns in northwest Italy. We trained to La Spezia, the main town close by, and then we took a bus from their to our hostel and our hostel to the trains to go to the towns. Needless to say, there was a lot of waiting involved.

We stayed in Biassa, a small town just before the coast. Women on a city bus were very helpful about getting us to what I think was the only hostel in the town. We got off where we were told to get off and started walking. I realized we had walked a bit too far, and just down the road a woman who had helped us on the bus was also yelling, « Go back! You’ve gone too far! » Her husband, who was also home for lunch, was motioning with her. When we figured it out, they smiled and waved before heading inside.

We dropped things off in the nicest hostel we’ve stayed in (it had a lift) and headed to catch the train. The day was beautiful. While waiting for a bus to get to the train, we laid out on some stairs and tried to read some, but the warmth and the sun pretty much forced us to just soak it in without doing much else. The neighbor who helped us had a dog, and he came over and kept us company for while as we waited. European dogs are – from what I’ve seen – all very well trained. He came when we called, and he tried to nestle his way into our laps immediately.

The towns that comprise Cinque Terre proper were even smaller than where we were staying. The local bus has permission to go in and out, but for the most part there was very limited car access. Roads were steep, windy and narrow. Gardens were terraces, and shops and houses were slammed together for support. There is an old train line that runs through the towns, which we took. But there is also a national park that you can walk to do all of them. If we had been there for more than an afternoon, I would have loved to walk the 6-hour trail. The beaches were stony with grey sand and rocks, and the towns were set above the beaches on steep, rocky cliffs. It made for a beautiful place. As we wandered and trained from town to town, we stopped in for a delicious seafood lunch with swordfish, octopus, mussels, cod and some other regional fare. It was delicious and we could taste the sea.

As with most things in rural Italy, the towns and their shops closed down by about 7 pm. We found some fruit and snacks for dinner and had a quiet night at the hostel. I did my first load of sink laundry, and since my packing consultants insisted I shouldn’t bring detergent I used my Italian shampoo to try to make things not as clean. I pulled out my clothesline and hung things all over the room, hoping that despite the seaside humidity the clothes (including jeans and lycra) would dry by early the next morning when we had to leave. I was wrong and schlepped around wet clothes in my luggage for a day and a half before finding a laundrymat in Venice.

Second and Third Day in Italy - Florence and Tuscany

It was nice to be back in my hood. We took the train up from Rome and hauled over to our hostel. We trudged up, and then were politely told that we would need to go to their sister hostel "nearby." Now, I may not be stellar at directions all of the time, but I spent some time wandering around the streets of Florence when I lived there. And Piazza della Republica and the part of Via San Gallo where the new hostel was - carrying a 35-pound bag after doing it once from the train station - is not "nearby." We had to agree, and left our bags there to come back later in the day and relocate.

Then I took Erin to the Duomo, which was my point of reference to find most things in Florence. It's giant and in the middle of things, so it served as a beacon... which sometimes helped us not get too turned around, but not always.
We then went around to some old buildings and piazzas. Piazza della Republicca is a square with with a great carousel and at night musicians came out to serenade. We headed over to Piazza della Signora where the David used to be before it was moved to the Galleria del'Accademia. The piazza had a copy with some other statues, and it's right next to Gli Uffizi, which is a great Renaissance museum. There were long lines because the gallery is small and very famous.

We also walked over to the Ponte Vecchio, which means Old Bridge. It's on of a few bridges that crossed over the River Arno, and it was the only bridge that survived during WWII. It has been around a long, long time. The Medici family used to use it to go to and from their house without having to fraternize with the public.
Then we had gelato, and we just stopped at the best biscotteria I've ever been to. Yum.

Then we went to relocate. We met our Bulgarian roommate Tzvete, who is very nice. She was in Florence for a conference about cancer growth.

After settling in, we wandered more then found dinner. We went to Trattoria Za-Za, which I had been to before but knew was good. We had great food. We had our first multi-course meal with pasta and mushroom sauce and swordfish. Erin got jumbo shrimp that she couldn't open. The restaurant was Italian family style, so we were seated next to two Italian men at the same table. After watching her struggle for some time with the shrimp, one man finally started motioning to Erin how to crack open the shrimp and get the meat out. She was pissed it was so much work,
and I was amused but glad I had ordered the fish. I think the Italian men were just happy to have to her stop playing with her food.

We wandered around a lot again after dinner then met up with Tzvete and headed to a pub that our hostel owner owns. We got some free shots (yikes) and the bartender loved Erin. Again. So she got some extra shots. Yikes. We had a beer, talked to the owner for a long time. The owner of this hostel was either really interesting or really full of junk. He says he owns five hostels and two pubs here. He's been in Florence for 28 years, and he came to get his degree in criminal law. Which he got. He was born in Switzerland to a Nigerian mother and a Phillipino father. He has 21 sisters who have the same father and two mothers. He is the only male. It was fun to talk to him, but I'm pretty sure that over the years he's made up some great stories that he likes to repeat. He started talking about how he wanted to find love, not lust, and I started to get bored. So after a while of listening and letting Erin banter back and forth, we headed back to the hostel.

We started Wednesday out by going to Boboli gardens, which is behind the Medici house Palazzo Pitti . It was great to walk around a lot, and I think it got us geared up for Cinque Terre. The gardens have a mix of structured and unstructured greenery with hilly paths and tree-framed walkways. It was expansive and steep, and definitely got the blood flowing before getting on the bus for a wine tour.

Which was awesome. We took a bus to Chianti in the afternoon for a wine tasting. The castle - Castello di Trebbio - was originally owned for a fairly powerful family in Florence, the Pazzi (which means crazy in Italian) family. They were contemporaries with the Medici family, who were by far the most powerful people in Italy at the time. The Pazzi decided times were changing, and the Medicis had to go. So in the castle we visited was where, in the 1400s, the Pazzi planned an assasination of both Lorenzo and Giuliani Medici, two powerful brothers. The Pazzi called up someone from the Vatican and had it all planned out. They would have to kill on a Sunday, the only time the two brothers were together for mass. And so it happened, but it was only partially successful. They only killed Giuliani, who was not the most powerful. Within two days, the Pazzi family had been all killed off by the Medici, and the castle was then part of the Medici property. Crazy.

The castle eventually was sold to a family who now currently owns it. They have both vineyards and olive tree groves, and they're known for their Chianti and fusion wines, and for their olive oil. We sampled wines with cheese, bruschette and meats and topped it all off with biscotti.

After the tasting, we walked to a more residential part of Florence for some of my favorite pizza at Pizzeria Spera. It's a sicilian pizzeria that I visited often when I was studying here. Erin and I got great pizza and beer for 20 euro, which was the cheapest meal we had the whole time we were in Italy. It was good to be back.

We woke up early the next day to head to Cinque Terre.

First Day in Italy - Rome

So, we made it. We actually made it a week ago, but I'm just now able to sit down and write about things. My cousin Erin and I came over from DC together and spent the first week tooling around Italy. First stop: Rome.

We got into Rome at 8:30 in the morning, immediately took the train to the Termini and headed to Hostel #1. It wasn't far from the station, but I still managed to get turned around. Then, as was the case all week, we trudged up four flights of stairs to our lodging for the day. We dropped stuff off and went exploring. I successfully maneuvered the Rome metro system throughout the day and our first stop was the Colosseum, where we got very overpriced street sandwiches and bottled water. But we enjoyed them outside of centuries-old ruins in the heat of very welcoming sunlight, and I was not about to complain.

We then took off for the Spanish steps and Trevi fountain. Again, I felt triumphant getting around the city. We wandered around the very old step leading up to the French church Trinita dei Monti and looked at Bernini's dad's sunken ship fountain. Both times I have been here the place was teeming with tourists and people selling bubble machines, purses and random toys that make noise and dance around. We headed down Via dei Condotti where we picked up a few things from Armani, Gucci, Dolce e Gabanna and the like. Inexpensive essentials for any trip abroad. We went to the Trevi fountain and Erin threw in a coin to make a wish on, and to ensure her return to Rome. The last time I tried the wind was blowing gale force, and I couldn't make it in the fountain. I'm back in Rome, so I decided I didn't need any luck to get me back to this country.

We wandered and walked and stopped and wandered, and by about four it was time to call it quits. We didn't get a chance to see much in Rome, but recuperation was necessary. So we went to our first real meal in Italy, and it was here that I discovered a secret: Italian men love blondes. Erin was a magnet all week long! It started in the restaurant. I started out the ordering process in Italian, and by the end of the meal our waiter was talking exclusively to Erin in English. He called her a princess, asked what we (him included) were doing tonight and bought us a beer. He was very sad to find out that we were planning to fall asleep before most Italians eat dinner, but it was necessary. We assured him we would be back with absolutely no intention of returning, and Erin walked out laughing. Needless to say, it was awesome having her around. :) Erin sampled her first gelato, of which she was a fan, and we crashed.

Photos aren't working on here for some reason, so I uploaded snapfish photos.