So I was super pumped up when I moved in. I'm not anymore. I live in the San Lorenzo and I've come to the understanding that this area of Florence is this city's ghetto. It is the ONLY sketchy part of town, meaning this is the only part of town I feel uncomfortable walking through during the nighttime. Its always loud outside of my window because rambuctious drunks hang around outside of a bar down the street. I've been coo'ed at and harassed by these drunks on many different nights, coming home from school or from a night out. Luckily, I'm never alone. There is garbage all over all of the time which blows in the wind and turns into small garbage tumbleweeds. I've also come to realize that the cobblestones in my neighborhood are the American equivalent to unpaved roads, making the place feel run down. Eff. All of these things would be inconsequential if only I didn't live in the strangest and creepiest of all the school-provided apartment buildings.
When I walked into my apartment building on my very first day I was overjoyed. There was an elevator. I wouldn't have to walk up a million flights of stairs to get to my apartment! Too bad my elevator is hell-bent on killing all of the students in the building. I've had to pry the elevator doors open because it refuses, sometimes, to let us out. I've had to bang on the lights inside the elevator to get them to go back on after they've flickered and died. I've had to push the elevator buttons repeatedly to remind the elevator that stopping in the middle of its ascent wasn't what I'd asked it to do. I've had to jump up and down inside the elevator to get it to move back towards my floor after it stopped a good 10 feet too far up. Thank god it went to a good spot or else I'd have been climbing through the elevator shaft pretending I was James Bond. Once, Fresco rode the elevator and had to pry himself out. The elevator started to move while he was getting out and very literally almost chopped him in half.
I walk up all those flights of stairs anyway. They are exactly as weird as the elevator. I promise you that sometimes I really feel like the stairs add an extra flight. Admittedly, I have anxiety and tend to get scared about things that aren't actually happening. I really feel like this is happening, though, and am legitimately freaked out about it. I would pass it off on my anxiety if it weren't for the white thing. After climbing the stairs a few times I began to notice, at a certain bend in the stairwell, the presence of a white thing. It was kind of like an aura that would only show up if the lights were out. I've mentioned before that in this building the hall lights go off of their own volition and so I'm often in the stairwell in the dark. I would pass this presence off on my anxiety, too, if Selvaggia hadn't exclaimed loudly one night as we descended the stairs in the darkness about a white thing hovering in the stairway. I never mentioned to her that I'd noticed it before. This bend happens to be the same bend where the mysterious extra flight appears. Hopefully this is the ghost of someone cool like a Medici or Michelangelo, but I doubt it.
The creepiest thing that has happened so far, though, was the high heeled girl. Selvaggia and I had just gotten home from a very fun night out and were sitting at our kitchen table at around 5 a.m. one morning. We heard clacking coming down our hallway and assumed that our neighbor was on her way home. The clacking stopped, but a door didn't open. We heard someone making noises that sounded like crying and called out to the person. No one answered. We kept on trying to get them to answer but no one ever did. We finally opened the door to ask them what they were doing and no one was there.
I think my building needs to be exorcized.
Arrivederci, fow now.
Love, Gabby.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Florentine Family Dinners
I've mentioned in older posts that I'm grateful to have made friends that I get along with so well so quickly. My experience here in Florence wouldn't be half as incredible as it has been so far if it weren't for them. They have become, in short, my Florentine family. Spending time with them is my absolute favorite thing about this experience. This isn't something I say lightly, either. I mean, shit, I eat the best food in the world every day, I can drink in the streets, I live in a city that houses all the art I worship, and I choose these people as my favorite thing about this place. I'm going to go home and they are going to be the thing that I miss the most. The fun we have will never be the same as it is while we are here now, no matter how often we see each other when we get home.
This is why I get so excited to have dinner with them. I'm used to big family dinners. I have them at home with my family at least once a month. I love homemade food, I love helping to cook with my Mom, and I love sitting around the table and laughing with the people who I love. I was really unhappy when I left Jersey because I was going to miss my family. Thank God I fell into a family here and thank God we've made a habit of having weekly family dinners. I swear, the very best nights I've had in this town have been those spent around tiny tables with huge groups of friends. These dinners are homemade. We cook together. We listen to good music. We drink lots of delicious wine. We laugh so hard we lose a pound a piece. There is nothing to complain or worry about. Our homework woes are long forgotten. Our stress over our dwindling bank accounts dissipates (no matter how strong the stupid Euro is that day). We forget to hate our teachers, we forget that we're all gaining weight, we forget to miss our homes and our dogs and our beds and Doritos. We forget how much it sucks that Italy hasn't adopted a Starbucks yet. There is nothing better than these nights.
I haven't mentioned this yet but Selvaggia is an incredible cook. The first family dinner I had was with her and the boys. Let me tell you how gratifying this meal was, readers. Selvaggia, Carino, and I cooked up a storm in the boys kitchen. Selvaggia head chefed it up with some incredible recipes, Carino Su chefed with equally delicious additions to Selvaggia's artistry, and I kind of just did the bitch work. Whatever. I felt important. We tend to eat late here in Florence and our cooking spree started at around 8:30 at night. Selvaggia wrapped some chicken around an incredible rosemary ricotta filling and then wrapped that in proscuitto. Carino made a spicy sauce to put over our pasta (because obviously we had to include pasta in the meal somehow). The two of them together roasted potatoes and carrots and although this sounds simple it was the most delicious roasted anything I've ever had. I chopped and mixed and washed whatever those two handed my way. By 10:30 at night our meal was ready. We set nine places around one coffee table and sat down to enjoy what tasted like a combination of Heaven and Shangri-La. Poeta read a poem for us, the best grace I've ever heard, and we all sat in awe of him for a minute or two before digging in. As much as Italian cooking rocks, they can't touch this.
The next week we did it again. Guess what? It was even better this time. We started cooking around 9:30 at night. I can't explain why we eat so late but thats how we do it here in Florence, readers. It has had a steep contribution to the weight I think I'm gaining. We wanted to have baked ziti (which is totally not an Italian food, I'll have you know) and we went all out for it. We made garlic bread (also not very Italian), chopped up tomatoes to make sauce from scratch, layered our rigatoni with ricotta, and threw a ton of mozzarella cheese on top. Oh Mio Dio (thats Oh My God in Italian). We honestly outdid ourselves. Selvaggia, Carino, and I were all in the kitchen again with Buzzarro bartending and Fresco deejaying. We cooked, listened to Jimi, and drank rum and coke until 12 o'clock at night. When the food was finally ready and we all sat down to eat our stomachs were grumbling in a cacophony of eagerness. Poeta came out and stood up to read us grace again-a new, fresh poem we were all ready to hear. Too bad we all got a case of the giggles. We laughed uncontrollably. Poeta's poem was absolutely breathtaking; his poems always seem to resonate in people's souls. It certainly wasn't the content of the poem that had us laughing the way we were. We just couldn't stop. When we would finally quell our silliness one of us would look at the other and we'd start laughing all over again. I was trying so hard to be quiet and listen to Poeta speak but found my giggle affliction so overpowering I couldn't even pause to breathe. The poem ended and we started to eat but the laughter just didn't stop. I was so hungry when I sat down but found I only ate a small serving because I was laughing too hard to get food into my mouth. Moda was espeically funny, cracking jokes every time I lifted my fork; I therefore had to set my full fork down because I was shaking so hard from laughter that my rigatoni kept falling back to my plate. I doubt I'll ever laugh so much again. What little of the meal I did get to eat was delicious and we capped it off with limoncello. We were all pumped up to have it for desert and cin cin'd to a great night. Thank God one of us remembered that limoncello shots aren't to be taken in the traditional way. Had I have downed the stuff like a regular shot I'd probably have suffered from a minor heart attack. The stuff sucks. I'll shotgun a can of teqiula before I sip on a limoncello again.
The last family dinner I had was a potluck in my apartment complex. I've made great friends with alot of the people who live in my building. Selvaggia, my other roommate who will henceforth be known as Benny Lava and her boyfriend who will henceforth be known as Sway, and I are all extremely friendly with different rooms of people in the building. One of my sculptor friends is the roommate of Sway and has become a regular in our apartment. My other sculptor friend and two of her roommates are also close friends of ours. We are all connected by a series of courtyard windows and it's a bond that can only be understood by those in this building. We're all friends with a group of girls who live near the Santa Croce and so we invited them and the boys over for our potluck. It was awesome. Selvaggia made the most amazing homemade macaroni and cheese in the history of homemade macaroni and cheeses. My sculptor friends and their roommates made a variety of different pizzas. One was spicy, another had ricotta cheese and tomatoes, and the last was pesto. Our girlfriends from Santa Croce baked a chocolate cake for desert and we covered it in gelato. The boys and I contributed to the potluck with a ton of wine. We sat around another very small table, played cards, talked and laughed loudly, and spent time enjoying good company.
It may not sound like a world of fun to you, reader, but it is. Its the very best thing that studying abroad has had to offer me so far. If my classes sucked, if I hated Italy, if I were so homesick I cried myself to sleep every night, family dinners would make the whole thing still worth it. Lucky for me, most of my classes rock, I love Italy, and feel like I could never go home again and be fine. Which means family dinners have gone ahead and pushed my level of happiness past astronomical proportions and straight out of this universe. Readers here in Italy who've been a part, I love you guys.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby
This is why I get so excited to have dinner with them. I'm used to big family dinners. I have them at home with my family at least once a month. I love homemade food, I love helping to cook with my Mom, and I love sitting around the table and laughing with the people who I love. I was really unhappy when I left Jersey because I was going to miss my family. Thank God I fell into a family here and thank God we've made a habit of having weekly family dinners. I swear, the very best nights I've had in this town have been those spent around tiny tables with huge groups of friends. These dinners are homemade. We cook together. We listen to good music. We drink lots of delicious wine. We laugh so hard we lose a pound a piece. There is nothing to complain or worry about. Our homework woes are long forgotten. Our stress over our dwindling bank accounts dissipates (no matter how strong the stupid Euro is that day). We forget to hate our teachers, we forget that we're all gaining weight, we forget to miss our homes and our dogs and our beds and Doritos. We forget how much it sucks that Italy hasn't adopted a Starbucks yet. There is nothing better than these nights.
I haven't mentioned this yet but Selvaggia is an incredible cook. The first family dinner I had was with her and the boys. Let me tell you how gratifying this meal was, readers. Selvaggia, Carino, and I cooked up a storm in the boys kitchen. Selvaggia head chefed it up with some incredible recipes, Carino Su chefed with equally delicious additions to Selvaggia's artistry, and I kind of just did the bitch work. Whatever. I felt important. We tend to eat late here in Florence and our cooking spree started at around 8:30 at night. Selvaggia wrapped some chicken around an incredible rosemary ricotta filling and then wrapped that in proscuitto. Carino made a spicy sauce to put over our pasta (because obviously we had to include pasta in the meal somehow). The two of them together roasted potatoes and carrots and although this sounds simple it was the most delicious roasted anything I've ever had. I chopped and mixed and washed whatever those two handed my way. By 10:30 at night our meal was ready. We set nine places around one coffee table and sat down to enjoy what tasted like a combination of Heaven and Shangri-La. Poeta read a poem for us, the best grace I've ever heard, and we all sat in awe of him for a minute or two before digging in. As much as Italian cooking rocks, they can't touch this.
The next week we did it again. Guess what? It was even better this time. We started cooking around 9:30 at night. I can't explain why we eat so late but thats how we do it here in Florence, readers. It has had a steep contribution to the weight I think I'm gaining. We wanted to have baked ziti (which is totally not an Italian food, I'll have you know) and we went all out for it. We made garlic bread (also not very Italian), chopped up tomatoes to make sauce from scratch, layered our rigatoni with ricotta, and threw a ton of mozzarella cheese on top. Oh Mio Dio (thats Oh My God in Italian). We honestly outdid ourselves. Selvaggia, Carino, and I were all in the kitchen again with Buzzarro bartending and Fresco deejaying. We cooked, listened to Jimi, and drank rum and coke until 12 o'clock at night. When the food was finally ready and we all sat down to eat our stomachs were grumbling in a cacophony of eagerness. Poeta came out and stood up to read us grace again-a new, fresh poem we were all ready to hear. Too bad we all got a case of the giggles. We laughed uncontrollably. Poeta's poem was absolutely breathtaking; his poems always seem to resonate in people's souls. It certainly wasn't the content of the poem that had us laughing the way we were. We just couldn't stop. When we would finally quell our silliness one of us would look at the other and we'd start laughing all over again. I was trying so hard to be quiet and listen to Poeta speak but found my giggle affliction so overpowering I couldn't even pause to breathe. The poem ended and we started to eat but the laughter just didn't stop. I was so hungry when I sat down but found I only ate a small serving because I was laughing too hard to get food into my mouth. Moda was espeically funny, cracking jokes every time I lifted my fork; I therefore had to set my full fork down because I was shaking so hard from laughter that my rigatoni kept falling back to my plate. I doubt I'll ever laugh so much again. What little of the meal I did get to eat was delicious and we capped it off with limoncello. We were all pumped up to have it for desert and cin cin'd to a great night. Thank God one of us remembered that limoncello shots aren't to be taken in the traditional way. Had I have downed the stuff like a regular shot I'd probably have suffered from a minor heart attack. The stuff sucks. I'll shotgun a can of teqiula before I sip on a limoncello again.
The last family dinner I had was a potluck in my apartment complex. I've made great friends with alot of the people who live in my building. Selvaggia, my other roommate who will henceforth be known as Benny Lava and her boyfriend who will henceforth be known as Sway, and I are all extremely friendly with different rooms of people in the building. One of my sculptor friends is the roommate of Sway and has become a regular in our apartment. My other sculptor friend and two of her roommates are also close friends of ours. We are all connected by a series of courtyard windows and it's a bond that can only be understood by those in this building. We're all friends with a group of girls who live near the Santa Croce and so we invited them and the boys over for our potluck. It was awesome. Selvaggia made the most amazing homemade macaroni and cheese in the history of homemade macaroni and cheeses. My sculptor friends and their roommates made a variety of different pizzas. One was spicy, another had ricotta cheese and tomatoes, and the last was pesto. Our girlfriends from Santa Croce baked a chocolate cake for desert and we covered it in gelato. The boys and I contributed to the potluck with a ton of wine. We sat around another very small table, played cards, talked and laughed loudly, and spent time enjoying good company.
It may not sound like a world of fun to you, reader, but it is. Its the very best thing that studying abroad has had to offer me so far. If my classes sucked, if I hated Italy, if I were so homesick I cried myself to sleep every night, family dinners would make the whole thing still worth it. Lucky for me, most of my classes rock, I love Italy, and feel like I could never go home again and be fine. Which means family dinners have gone ahead and pushed my level of happiness past astronomical proportions and straight out of this universe. Readers here in Italy who've been a part, I love you guys.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby
Saturday, February 6, 2010
La Passegiata
I walk around Florence every day. I know, you can't believe it, either. At least once everyday I'll be walking and think something like "This is so unreal!" or "Am I really here right now?" or "Holy Shit." On my way to and from school everyday I toss David a peace sign, say whats up to Brunelleschi, and smile at Ghiberti. "FOR REAL?" Thats another one. In those moments I really appreciate everything I am doing while I'm here. I feel sometimes like I'm living someone else's life-like these experiences couldn't possibly be happening to me. The best part is when I realize that these experiences are, in fact, happening to me. I see something beautiful on every via I walk down. For instance: Nothing like some Bob to bring the world together. There is a man who stands on another corner who plays his accordion (video to come, be sure to check back) and two guys on another who play the saxophone and guitar. I am sure to pass by at least one musician playing sweet music every single day. I walk past art. There are sculptures built into the walls of random homes here. There are sculptures everywhere you look, actually. You'll see paintings in random holes in the walls and there is an art store on every street. Its incredible how artistic this city is. Sometimes I'll be walking and suddenly realize I'm walking through a post card: the picture perfect Italian road post card with the narrowness and the stucco buildings and the one shining lamp. I walk across the Arno and look at the Ponte Vecchio from afar, sometimes in the daytime with the mad Italian chatter and tourists all over and sometimes in the nighttime when the stars shine down (because somehow stars come out in this city) and the streets are empty. Its becomes more and more unbelievable every day. But I only get that feeling in the day for just a moment. Walking around Florence is an art that must be perfected in order to stay clean, stay sane, and actually survive.
I wrote in an older blog posting that I would post my assignment for my Travel Writing course about the most suprising phenomenon I've experienced while in Florence. Here it is: It’s been two weeks since my arrival in Florence, a bustling city rich with history and host to a culture very different from my own. The experiences I’ve had here have been fresh and exciting. I’ve been exposed to works of art older and more magnificent than any in my country. I’ve climbed 463 steps to view a city so beautiful that I could never do it justice with words. I’ve learned to exist in a culture where I cannot walk around in my sweatpants or bring my leftovers home with me. Gelato has become something of an addiction and I must always include wine with my lunch and dinner. Sometimes I’ll even include it with my breakfast. I’ve met people and been places I’d never have dreamed of in America. New things are around every corner and I find myself looking forward to each turn. The only surprise I don’t look forward to when I turn those corners is one underneath my foot. This town offers an excess of phenomenal things different than in my country yet there is only one that never fails to stop me in my tracks: poop.
I come from what I’m beginning to realize is a very clean country. Even the Manhattanites, whose lives are so busy they never seem to pause for a breath, stop to pick up their dog’s poop. Florentines seem to think that their sidewalks will magically absorb their dogs poop and so they just leave it. A person can’t take two steps in this town without coming across a fresh pile. Pooper-scoopers were invented a long time ago, Florence. I think it’s time to get with the program. Walking down the streets in this city is like walking through a mine field. What’s the use in spending 150 hard-earned euros on a pair of leather boots from Pollini if the first time I wear them I’m going to step in poop? I’ve seen huge golden labs leave heaping mounds of the stuff smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk as I’m trying to walk down it. It wouldn’t be so disconcerting of the owners didn’t walk away from the mess completely unashamed. It doesn’t take a lot of effort to get rid of those messes. You Florentine dog owners need use your leftover busta’s and pick up the poop. It’s unbecoming.
This, my dear readers, isn't all the Florentine streets has to offer. Litter. I swear, after the San Lorenzo closes up at around 9 p.m. there has formed on the streets an entire landfill. Its filthy (and directly outside of my apartment). There is also graffiti, accept not the good kind. My friend Fresco once mentioned that he felt weird peeing on buildings so old. In his words "I could pee on a building thats maybe 250, but once you get to 5 and 600, thats a little uncomfortable". I think if I were a guy and able to do such a thing I would feel the same way. This is precisely why I am so completely baffled by the amount of ugly graffiti on the walls of these buildings. Hundreds and hundreds of years old and the poor things are covered in graffiti that simply says "Yogurt" in green. It's not even good graffiti. If you're going to put graffiti on a building, any building, at least have a modicom of skill in the art form. Don't, for Christ's sake, put one word (and not even an Italian word at that) in a shade of ugly neon green.
I have to admit, though, I lucked out. I come from the Jersey Shore and am therefore well practiced in the art of tourist evasion. I know how to weave my way in and out of tourists whose feet seem to rise and fall in slow motion. I feel for those who haven't had the opportunity to hone this skill. The Japaneese tourists are the worst ones. Trying to walk through the waves of asian tourists is literally like trying to walk through waves. Waves during high tide. That is to say it is nearly impossible. They don't speak English OR Italian and trying to communicate "Get the fuck out of my way!" to them is impossible. The only alternative is to push straight through them-right through the center of their packs.
Finally, the most horrible thing about walking along Florentine streets is that I fear for my life when I do it. I imagine most of you readers have heard that Italians drive a little crazy. I assure you, that was an understatement. Even the people on bicycles seem to aim themselves at the pedestrians. I'm required to look both ways exactly 600 times before I can cross a street safely and even then my window of safe passage is limited and I must haul ass across the street. Italians WILL hit you with their cars. Beeping at you over and over is a courtesy. I've jumped out of the way of speeding cars more times than I've crossed the street here. Speeding probably isn't the right word, though. Speed limits are a suggestion here, and so I suppose the only word to describe the speed at which the Italians drive is normal. Normal speed. Speaking of suggestions, the pedestrian stop/go signs here are jokes. When the "walk" sign turns on I know better. They are trying to trick me, I'm convinced. They want me to get hit by a car. Or closelined by a guy on a Vespa. One day I'm going to become so frustrated that I'll turn the tables and closeline a guy on a Vespa myself.
Regardless, I still love walking around in this city.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby
I wrote in an older blog posting that I would post my assignment for my Travel Writing course about the most suprising phenomenon I've experienced while in Florence. Here it is: It’s been two weeks since my arrival in Florence, a bustling city rich with history and host to a culture very different from my own. The experiences I’ve had here have been fresh and exciting. I’ve been exposed to works of art older and more magnificent than any in my country. I’ve climbed 463 steps to view a city so beautiful that I could never do it justice with words. I’ve learned to exist in a culture where I cannot walk around in my sweatpants or bring my leftovers home with me. Gelato has become something of an addiction and I must always include wine with my lunch and dinner. Sometimes I’ll even include it with my breakfast. I’ve met people and been places I’d never have dreamed of in America. New things are around every corner and I find myself looking forward to each turn. The only surprise I don’t look forward to when I turn those corners is one underneath my foot. This town offers an excess of phenomenal things different than in my country yet there is only one that never fails to stop me in my tracks: poop.
I come from what I’m beginning to realize is a very clean country. Even the Manhattanites, whose lives are so busy they never seem to pause for a breath, stop to pick up their dog’s poop. Florentines seem to think that their sidewalks will magically absorb their dogs poop and so they just leave it. A person can’t take two steps in this town without coming across a fresh pile. Pooper-scoopers were invented a long time ago, Florence. I think it’s time to get with the program. Walking down the streets in this city is like walking through a mine field. What’s the use in spending 150 hard-earned euros on a pair of leather boots from Pollini if the first time I wear them I’m going to step in poop? I’ve seen huge golden labs leave heaping mounds of the stuff smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk as I’m trying to walk down it. It wouldn’t be so disconcerting of the owners didn’t walk away from the mess completely unashamed. It doesn’t take a lot of effort to get rid of those messes. You Florentine dog owners need use your leftover busta’s and pick up the poop. It’s unbecoming.
This, my dear readers, isn't all the Florentine streets has to offer. Litter. I swear, after the San Lorenzo closes up at around 9 p.m. there has formed on the streets an entire landfill. Its filthy (and directly outside of my apartment). There is also graffiti, accept not the good kind. My friend Fresco once mentioned that he felt weird peeing on buildings so old. In his words "I could pee on a building thats maybe 250, but once you get to 5 and 600, thats a little uncomfortable". I think if I were a guy and able to do such a thing I would feel the same way. This is precisely why I am so completely baffled by the amount of ugly graffiti on the walls of these buildings. Hundreds and hundreds of years old and the poor things are covered in graffiti that simply says "Yogurt" in green. It's not even good graffiti. If you're going to put graffiti on a building, any building, at least have a modicom of skill in the art form. Don't, for Christ's sake, put one word (and not even an Italian word at that) in a shade of ugly neon green.
I have to admit, though, I lucked out. I come from the Jersey Shore and am therefore well practiced in the art of tourist evasion. I know how to weave my way in and out of tourists whose feet seem to rise and fall in slow motion. I feel for those who haven't had the opportunity to hone this skill. The Japaneese tourists are the worst ones. Trying to walk through the waves of asian tourists is literally like trying to walk through waves. Waves during high tide. That is to say it is nearly impossible. They don't speak English OR Italian and trying to communicate "Get the fuck out of my way!" to them is impossible. The only alternative is to push straight through them-right through the center of their packs.
Finally, the most horrible thing about walking along Florentine streets is that I fear for my life when I do it. I imagine most of you readers have heard that Italians drive a little crazy. I assure you, that was an understatement. Even the people on bicycles seem to aim themselves at the pedestrians. I'm required to look both ways exactly 600 times before I can cross a street safely and even then my window of safe passage is limited and I must haul ass across the street. Italians WILL hit you with their cars. Beeping at you over and over is a courtesy. I've jumped out of the way of speeding cars more times than I've crossed the street here. Speeding probably isn't the right word, though. Speed limits are a suggestion here, and so I suppose the only word to describe the speed at which the Italians drive is normal. Normal speed. Speaking of suggestions, the pedestrian stop/go signs here are jokes. When the "walk" sign turns on I know better. They are trying to trick me, I'm convinced. They want me to get hit by a car. Or closelined by a guy on a Vespa. One day I'm going to become so frustrated that I'll turn the tables and closeline a guy on a Vespa myself.
Regardless, I still love walking around in this city.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby
I love chocolate
I love Italy. This past weekend they had a fesitval here and I promise you it was the greatest festival in the world. The Santa Croce was transformed into the world's largest chocolate hub and let me tell you, readers, it was absolutely delectable. So good there are no other words than delectable, and that word isn't even fun to say. It is the only word that comes close to adequately describing how good this fucking chocolate was. I'd noticed that something was going on there a few days before when I walked past and saw them setting up rows of tents. A few days later one of my friends came walking into my apartment with a hunk of tiramisu chocolate she had bought at the festival. It was delectable. I decided I needed to get down there and buy my own hunk the very next day and gathered some friends for the occasion.
Selvaggio, Scorrere, and two others I haven't introduced you to yet came along and we had a blast. One of the guys is this down-to-Earth, extremely nice guy who came here with Selvaggio from their school in Boston and always manages to make my night better. He is the type of guy everyone wants to be friends with, and we are therefore calling him Fresco. The other guy is this funny southerner with an accent I love so much I always adopt it whenever we're hanging out. He knows how to drink vodka and shoot a deer at the same time and even though I love animals but he makes me want to shoot them, too. His blogname is now Buzzurro. Anyway, us four went down to Santa Croce and we were completely overwhelmed by the vastness of the chocolate there. Chocolate bricks, chocolate logs, chocolate circles and squares and triangles, chocolate shaped like ducks and elephants, chocolate pouring from fountains and vats of chocolate to dip other pieces of chocolate in. There was chocolate gelato, chocolate rum, chocolate cheese, chocolate cookies and cakes and biscotti and bread. They had shots of chocolate and chocolate wine, chocolate liquor and chocolate glasses to drink it out of. Everything was chocolate, and it was all delicious.
We did a once-around collecting free samples, which were available at every single stand, and then went back around purchasing. I had white chocolate and tiramisu chocolate, dark chocolate and milk chocolate and chocolate with nuts and all of it was free. I paid 2 euro for a chocolate pastry the size of two of my hands filled with chocolate and hazlenuts and covered in powdered sugar. It was incredible. I had a shot of chocolate with rum and had a glass of the Italian version of hot cocoa. They melt chocolate and give you a cup. It was heaven on Earth and was within fifteen minutes walking distance from my apartment. Hell yes. By the end of our chocolate eating experience we were ready to explode from chocolatey delightfulness. I swear, I love Italy. Hope you enjoyed the photos. Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby.
Selvaggio, Scorrere, and two others I haven't introduced you to yet came along and we had a blast. One of the guys is this down-to-Earth, extremely nice guy who came here with Selvaggio from their school in Boston and always manages to make my night better. He is the type of guy everyone wants to be friends with, and we are therefore calling him Fresco. The other guy is this funny southerner with an accent I love so much I always adopt it whenever we're hanging out. He knows how to drink vodka and shoot a deer at the same time and even though I love animals but he makes me want to shoot them, too. His blogname is now Buzzurro. Anyway, us four went down to Santa Croce and we were completely overwhelmed by the vastness of the chocolate there. Chocolate bricks, chocolate logs, chocolate circles and squares and triangles, chocolate shaped like ducks and elephants, chocolate pouring from fountains and vats of chocolate to dip other pieces of chocolate in. There was chocolate gelato, chocolate rum, chocolate cheese, chocolate cookies and cakes and biscotti and bread. They had shots of chocolate and chocolate wine, chocolate liquor and chocolate glasses to drink it out of. Everything was chocolate, and it was all delicious.
We did a once-around collecting free samples, which were available at every single stand, and then went back around purchasing. I had white chocolate and tiramisu chocolate, dark chocolate and milk chocolate and chocolate with nuts and all of it was free. I paid 2 euro for a chocolate pastry the size of two of my hands filled with chocolate and hazlenuts and covered in powdered sugar. It was incredible. I had a shot of chocolate with rum and had a glass of the Italian version of hot cocoa. They melt chocolate and give you a cup. It was heaven on Earth and was within fifteen minutes walking distance from my apartment. Hell yes. By the end of our chocolate eating experience we were ready to explode from chocolatey delightfulness. I swear, I love Italy. Hope you enjoyed the photos. Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby.
Nostalgia del cupolone
I climbed to the top of the Duomo. I know, you cant believe it either. It was magnificent. People in this town consider the Duomo their central masterpiece. Brunelleschi's arcitectural genius is the pride of all the Fiorentines, and having the opportnity to go and see it was something my friends and I were all looking forward to. I got up early in the morning and set out with my girl and two of our boys with this in mind. Best 8 Euro I've ever spent. We met up outside of the Gates of Paradise, created to adorn the Romanesque exterior arches of the Battistero after an intense aristic competition between Filippo Brunelleschi and Lorenzo Ghiberti (and yes dad, when I saw them for the first time after I got here I thought of you). My roomie and I sat waiting for the boys and people watched for about twenty minutes, hated on some pigeons, and when the guys finally came we were excited to get our adventure through history started.
The Duomo's construction began in the year 1296 and wasn't completed until 1887 so we knew we were in for a day of awesomeness. The second we walked into the cathedral I'm pretty sure all our jaws dropped right onto the mosaic floor. The statues are huge; they look like they are so old they should be crumbling into dust and the fact that they are just as beautiful now as they were hundreds and hundreds of years ago amplifies that beauty by maybe 45 thousand. We saw incredible frescos and stained glass. We were able to look up at the gigantic fresco of The Last Judgment inside the dome, painted by Vasari after the Duomo's completetion. It was 25 different sorts of flabbergasting. It was gigantic and that made the place feel eerily empty. It was a cool sort of eerie, though. You could almost feel the energy that a place like the cathedral would produce packed full with worshipers on a good Sunday. We hung around for a little while and then decided we'd seen enough and were ready to get our workout on. I'm extremely excited to get back into the cathedral for mass.
We walked around to a side door and mentally prepared ourselved for the intensity of what we were about to do. When Brunelleschi designed the Duomo, he designed it to include an exceptionally rigorous route to the top. The final construction consists of 463 steep steps that wind around and around; the idea of climbing this was almost torturous but the four of us knew that it would be worth it and approached the challenge with gusto. We paid our 8 Euro and were swiped inside, not knowing what to expect. Its a small coridoor and then steps. And steps and steps and steps. The sign outside of the door says in a variety of languages that this climb is not for pregnant women, people with heart disease, etc. etc., and they aren't kidding. What they don't mention that is important to know is that this climb is also not for anyone whose claustrophobic. Its super narrow. Only one person can climb up at a time and its very difficult to get by when there are people moving downwards. After the first 30 or so steps you're huffing and puffing and dreading the rest of your ascent. It definitely helped to have friends there to encourage each other, because when one of us started cursing the others would help with jokes and motivating words. Its kind of a shame to see, though, because the walls are COVERED in graffiti of things like "Gianna was here 2005" or "Ti Amo Moreno sempre!". I hate those people for ruining something so much more important then they are. My legs were yelling at me after about 20 minutes and I was extremely relieved when the stairway opened up because it was finally over.
Yeah, it wasn't over. I wasn't even halfway done. I was happy, though, because stepping onto that little walkway and being so close to Vasari's painting was absolutely incredible. Seriously. It was amazing, magnificent, beautiful, extraordinary, astonishing, gorgeous, inspring, awesome, fabulous, wonderful, prodigious, marvelous, unimagineable, terrific, remarkable, outstanding, phenomenal, and wicked sweet. There are more adjectives, but honestly there just aren't enough to adequately describe the excellence of this fucking place. I couldn't believe my eyes. For a solid ten minutes we all just stood around and pointed at the different things in this fresco. Its a really fun scene to look at, there are images of heaven and hell, monsters and angels and people ripping themselves in half. Theres a really sweet scene of Jesus in a halo of golden light and another sweet scene of a demon stuffing his ripped open stomach with humans. We were reluctant to leave but knew we'd be even more amazed by the sight of Firenze from so high up. We hit the stairs again and guess what? It was even narrower and even steeper and literally wound around at an impossible angle. The staircase was as spiral as they come. More than you're thinking, reader. We got dizzy after 10 steps and as we approached the top our brains were still spinning. We saw a little coridoor on the way up and the room at the end was occupied by a little security guard. I asked him if he had to climb those steps everyday and the look he gave me made me feel so bad that I'm sure those steps weren't included in the job description. Poor guy. Beware when doing this that as you get to the top it only gets harder. The stairs get to be ladderlike and feel like they are three steps deep. Its hard, but worth it, because once you make it through the little trap door the sight will leave you speechless.
After we hung out up there for a while, more contented than we'd been since we arrived, we started to make our way down. The vertigo, guys, is enough to send any person reeling. I wonder about the unfortunate people who couldn't handle it and fell down. Imagine falling down 463 steps? Its not pleasant even walking down them. Again the graffiti will make you sick, but there was one thing written that said "Brunellechi is Magic" and it made all four of us smile. We got stuck behind an Asian guy who after every 5 steps or so woud look back and gesture "1 second" at us, take 30 seconds to get some pictures, and then move on and do it again. My roomie kept looking back at us and pulling on her eyelids to make herself look Asian, making the same silly gesture at us. We were ready to push him down but thankfully there was a brief stop in a small room. It held big statues of what I think were the people who helped in the design and contruction of the Duomo. The Asian guy stayed there to take pictures, hes probably still there taking them, and we got go around him. We made it all the way down a couple minutes later, all of us significantly happier and feeling like we'd been touched, for a short little while, by God himself. You should all definitely make the trip up if you're in Florence. Arrivederci, for now! Love, Gabby
The Duomo's construction began in the year 1296 and wasn't completed until 1887 so we knew we were in for a day of awesomeness. The second we walked into the cathedral I'm pretty sure all our jaws dropped right onto the mosaic floor. The statues are huge; they look like they are so old they should be crumbling into dust and the fact that they are just as beautiful now as they were hundreds and hundreds of years ago amplifies that beauty by maybe 45 thousand. We saw incredible frescos and stained glass. We were able to look up at the gigantic fresco of The Last Judgment inside the dome, painted by Vasari after the Duomo's completetion. It was 25 different sorts of flabbergasting. It was gigantic and that made the place feel eerily empty. It was a cool sort of eerie, though. You could almost feel the energy that a place like the cathedral would produce packed full with worshipers on a good Sunday. We hung around for a little while and then decided we'd seen enough and were ready to get our workout on. I'm extremely excited to get back into the cathedral for mass.
We walked around to a side door and mentally prepared ourselved for the intensity of what we were about to do. When Brunelleschi designed the Duomo, he designed it to include an exceptionally rigorous route to the top. The final construction consists of 463 steep steps that wind around and around; the idea of climbing this was almost torturous but the four of us knew that it would be worth it and approached the challenge with gusto. We paid our 8 Euro and were swiped inside, not knowing what to expect. Its a small coridoor and then steps. And steps and steps and steps. The sign outside of the door says in a variety of languages that this climb is not for pregnant women, people with heart disease, etc. etc., and they aren't kidding. What they don't mention that is important to know is that this climb is also not for anyone whose claustrophobic. Its super narrow. Only one person can climb up at a time and its very difficult to get by when there are people moving downwards. After the first 30 or so steps you're huffing and puffing and dreading the rest of your ascent. It definitely helped to have friends there to encourage each other, because when one of us started cursing the others would help with jokes and motivating words. Its kind of a shame to see, though, because the walls are COVERED in graffiti of things like "Gianna was here 2005" or "Ti Amo Moreno sempre!". I hate those people for ruining something so much more important then they are. My legs were yelling at me after about 20 minutes and I was extremely relieved when the stairway opened up because it was finally over.
Yeah, it wasn't over. I wasn't even halfway done. I was happy, though, because stepping onto that little walkway and being so close to Vasari's painting was absolutely incredible. Seriously. It was amazing, magnificent, beautiful, extraordinary, astonishing, gorgeous, inspring, awesome, fabulous, wonderful, prodigious, marvelous, unimagineable, terrific, remarkable, outstanding, phenomenal, and wicked sweet. There are more adjectives, but honestly there just aren't enough to adequately describe the excellence of this fucking place. I couldn't believe my eyes. For a solid ten minutes we all just stood around and pointed at the different things in this fresco. Its a really fun scene to look at, there are images of heaven and hell, monsters and angels and people ripping themselves in half. Theres a really sweet scene of Jesus in a halo of golden light and another sweet scene of a demon stuffing his ripped open stomach with humans. We were reluctant to leave but knew we'd be even more amazed by the sight of Firenze from so high up. We hit the stairs again and guess what? It was even narrower and even steeper and literally wound around at an impossible angle. The staircase was as spiral as they come. More than you're thinking, reader. We got dizzy after 10 steps and as we approached the top our brains were still spinning. We saw a little coridoor on the way up and the room at the end was occupied by a little security guard. I asked him if he had to climb those steps everyday and the look he gave me made me feel so bad that I'm sure those steps weren't included in the job description. Poor guy. Beware when doing this that as you get to the top it only gets harder. The stairs get to be ladderlike and feel like they are three steps deep. Its hard, but worth it, because once you make it through the little trap door the sight will leave you speechless.
After we hung out up there for a while, more contented than we'd been since we arrived, we started to make our way down. The vertigo, guys, is enough to send any person reeling. I wonder about the unfortunate people who couldn't handle it and fell down. Imagine falling down 463 steps? Its not pleasant even walking down them. Again the graffiti will make you sick, but there was one thing written that said "Brunellechi is Magic" and it made all four of us smile. We got stuck behind an Asian guy who after every 5 steps or so woud look back and gesture "1 second" at us, take 30 seconds to get some pictures, and then move on and do it again. My roomie kept looking back at us and pulling on her eyelids to make herself look Asian, making the same silly gesture at us. We were ready to push him down but thankfully there was a brief stop in a small room. It held big statues of what I think were the people who helped in the design and contruction of the Duomo. The Asian guy stayed there to take pictures, hes probably still there taking them, and we got go around him. We made it all the way down a couple minutes later, all of us significantly happier and feeling like we'd been touched, for a short little while, by God himself. You should all definitely make the trip up if you're in Florence. Arrivederci, for now! Love, Gabby
Friday, February 5, 2010
Pick-pockets and sex trafficers
I went to a seminar last week that my school offered about what our experiences here were going to be like. It was run by the activities coordinator here at school and was meant to give us advice about where to go and tips on how to look less like tourists and more like Italians. The seminar was very informative and I found myself feeling more Italian by the end of it. The reason I mention this is because the guy who ran it, a pretty funny little guy, gave us advice about pick-pockets and sex-trafficers. These things are real here and while they don't happen often or in plain sight they do happen. The first bit of advice he gave about pick-pockets was not to set down your coats or pocketbooks when you're out because they'll get stolen. Duh. He then said not to put a hundred different things inside your pockets unless you wanted them stolen. Its very easy for the pick-pockets around here to slip things from you in crowds. Again, Duh. The useful advice we were given is also sort of obvious but isn't something you'd think of normally. When walking along the streets, wear your pocketbook on the side closest to the buildings. I wouldn't normally think of this but it makes alot of sense. Pick-pockets here are mostly drive-bys. Guys on Vespas and bikes will speed up, snatch your bag, most likely make you fall, and speed away. He mentioned a little later in his seminar that sex-trafficers aren't easy to spot but are easy to avoid. "Sex trafficing," he said, "is not going to happen on the street. Men aren't going to jump out of a big van and take you away. Mainly because we don't have big vans here but also because they are smarter than that", and this is true. It takes men of a certain intellect to sex traffic without getting caught. Sex trafficing, according to him, takes place in the bars and clubs. If someone orders you a drink, gives you a drink, or if your drink is delivered, you're most likely being roofied. Order your own drinks, he says, and you'll avoid being a sex-slave for the rest of your life.
Its only been a week here and already I've seen pick-pocketing and sex-trafficing in action. I went to a bar called the Red Garter/Sizzle the other night. This bar would be totally awesome if it weren't teeming with American students and Italian guys who are all DTF. The restaurant portion of the place, Sizzle, specializes in American delicacies like burgers, fries, and milkshakes, plays American sports on their huge plasma televisions, and offers discounted prices on American beers every Tuesday during the beer pong tournament. The Red Garter portion, the dance club, plays nothing but American favorites like "I Kissed a Girl" and "Sexy Bitch". Boys and girls turn into sloppy messes from 12:30 onward; girls make dates with Italian boys and boys get angry at American girls for it. I never allow myself to get this way in these places because, as my dad so often demanded of me, "Do not make yourself a target." This proves to be a good thing because I reduce my risk of pick-pocketing/sex-trafficing and am able to observe the frenzy of American stupidity the way Italian's probably do.
I met an Italian guy there who was clearly all about the ladies, but he took the time to notice how drunk I wasn't and struck up a conversation with me. His name was Vinny, his English was nearly perfect, and he complemented me on managing to remain sober. "It's nice to speak with someone who is pretty and also not fucking falling." We talked for quite a while. He made fun of me for being from Jersey and we joked around about my bad taste in beer when a man starts pushing past us to get to the edge of the table where I was sitting. This was strange because I was in the corner and Vinny was directly in front of me. The guy literally shoved me over and stood standing next to me for about five solid minutes. He was grimy and ugly with some seriously busted teeth and reeked of Italian B.O. Vinny whispered to me "I'm watching him in the mirror (which was directly across from us). If he does anything I'll start something with him." Tough guy. Anyway, Vinny explained to me that this man was a pick pocket and we watched together in the mirror while this man picked approximately 45 different pockets. There was a coat-hanger behind me and it was disconcerting to watch because his body remained stock-still but his hands were a frenzy of motion. I'd been smart and was wearing my coat and holding my small pocketbook undearneath my hands and so had nothing to fear. Vinny warned me not to raise any sort of alarm because this man probably carried some sort of knife and you could never tell what guys like that would do. The guy took a couple of jackets and then left. I witnessed the art of the pick-pocket firsthand and later found out one of my really good friend's jacket had been stolen. There you have it, readers, pick-pockets alive and well in Italy.
Sex trafficing is a completely other matter. I have a friend who got roofied. She'll deny it if you ask her but she definitely was roofied. For one of our school orientations the school rented out a club from 8:30 until 10:30 for us to dance and eat some free food. They gave us some free drinks and we were allowed, if we chose to, to stay at the club without paying cover for a regular night out. The club was called Space Electronic and I had heard already from some Italian friends I had made that this club was notorious for putting roofies in drinks. My group of friends and I went for the orientation and the club was actually pretty cool. It was three levels, the middle had a gigantic dance floor and the top was for VIP's. The underground level was also pretty sweet, with fish tanks and a really smooth looking bar. The DJ for our little party kind of sucked but as soon as the night started to come to an end he started putting on better music. My friends and I decided to leave though because we weren't feeling it and knew the place was about to get way too wild. The next day I asked a friend of mine how her night had turned out. She didn't remember. She purchased one drink in the VIP lounge she and her friends had aquired and had it delivered to her by a shot girl. She said her night ended in her head after the first drink. If she hadn't of been with another group of guys, she'd most certainly have been sex trafficed. Sometimes I wonder how people get comfortable so quickly in foreign places when we're warned time and time again not to. Upon further investigation I discovered that Space Electronic was one of the only bars in town slammed for roofies. I'll not be going to that bar again.
In short, I'm learning valuable lessons in Italy about how to be less of a target. I'm learning how to be more careful and cautious with my drinks here. I know better than to let myself get out of control wasted when I go out with my friends. I've gotten some useful tips on how to spot a pick-pocketer. I'm feeling pretty good about myself here, but not so good that I'll let my guard down.
Anyway, enough blogging about scary things. Arrivederci, for now!
Love, Gabby.
Its only been a week here and already I've seen pick-pocketing and sex-trafficing in action. I went to a bar called the Red Garter/Sizzle the other night. This bar would be totally awesome if it weren't teeming with American students and Italian guys who are all DTF. The restaurant portion of the place, Sizzle, specializes in American delicacies like burgers, fries, and milkshakes, plays American sports on their huge plasma televisions, and offers discounted prices on American beers every Tuesday during the beer pong tournament. The Red Garter portion, the dance club, plays nothing but American favorites like "I Kissed a Girl" and "Sexy Bitch". Boys and girls turn into sloppy messes from 12:30 onward; girls make dates with Italian boys and boys get angry at American girls for it. I never allow myself to get this way in these places because, as my dad so often demanded of me, "Do not make yourself a target." This proves to be a good thing because I reduce my risk of pick-pocketing/sex-trafficing and am able to observe the frenzy of American stupidity the way Italian's probably do.
I met an Italian guy there who was clearly all about the ladies, but he took the time to notice how drunk I wasn't and struck up a conversation with me. His name was Vinny, his English was nearly perfect, and he complemented me on managing to remain sober. "It's nice to speak with someone who is pretty and also not fucking falling." We talked for quite a while. He made fun of me for being from Jersey and we joked around about my bad taste in beer when a man starts pushing past us to get to the edge of the table where I was sitting. This was strange because I was in the corner and Vinny was directly in front of me. The guy literally shoved me over and stood standing next to me for about five solid minutes. He was grimy and ugly with some seriously busted teeth and reeked of Italian B.O. Vinny whispered to me "I'm watching him in the mirror (which was directly across from us). If he does anything I'll start something with him." Tough guy. Anyway, Vinny explained to me that this man was a pick pocket and we watched together in the mirror while this man picked approximately 45 different pockets. There was a coat-hanger behind me and it was disconcerting to watch because his body remained stock-still but his hands were a frenzy of motion. I'd been smart and was wearing my coat and holding my small pocketbook undearneath my hands and so had nothing to fear. Vinny warned me not to raise any sort of alarm because this man probably carried some sort of knife and you could never tell what guys like that would do. The guy took a couple of jackets and then left. I witnessed the art of the pick-pocket firsthand and later found out one of my really good friend's jacket had been stolen. There you have it, readers, pick-pockets alive and well in Italy.
Sex trafficing is a completely other matter. I have a friend who got roofied. She'll deny it if you ask her but she definitely was roofied. For one of our school orientations the school rented out a club from 8:30 until 10:30 for us to dance and eat some free food. They gave us some free drinks and we were allowed, if we chose to, to stay at the club without paying cover for a regular night out. The club was called Space Electronic and I had heard already from some Italian friends I had made that this club was notorious for putting roofies in drinks. My group of friends and I went for the orientation and the club was actually pretty cool. It was three levels, the middle had a gigantic dance floor and the top was for VIP's. The underground level was also pretty sweet, with fish tanks and a really smooth looking bar. The DJ for our little party kind of sucked but as soon as the night started to come to an end he started putting on better music. My friends and I decided to leave though because we weren't feeling it and knew the place was about to get way too wild. The next day I asked a friend of mine how her night had turned out. She didn't remember. She purchased one drink in the VIP lounge she and her friends had aquired and had it delivered to her by a shot girl. She said her night ended in her head after the first drink. If she hadn't of been with another group of guys, she'd most certainly have been sex trafficed. Sometimes I wonder how people get comfortable so quickly in foreign places when we're warned time and time again not to. Upon further investigation I discovered that Space Electronic was one of the only bars in town slammed for roofies. I'll not be going to that bar again.
In short, I'm learning valuable lessons in Italy about how to be less of a target. I'm learning how to be more careful and cautious with my drinks here. I know better than to let myself get out of control wasted when I go out with my friends. I've gotten some useful tips on how to spot a pick-pocketer. I'm feeling pretty good about myself here, but not so good that I'll let my guard down.
Anyway, enough blogging about scary things. Arrivederci, for now!
Love, Gabby.
The battle between peanut butter and nutella
I'm an American. Peanut butter is my standard sandwich filling. I eat peanut butter in my ice cream, on my crackers, with my fruits, and on a spoon. I love peanut butter. When I came to Italy I knew I would miss it, but I have to admit I was excited to replace it with Nutella. I figured that something to compare peanut butter to would only make me appreciate it that much more. People in Europe go just as crazy over Nutella as we Americans do over peanut butter. The Europeans put Nutella in their sandwiches, in their ice cream, on their crackers, with their fruits, and they too eat it right off the spoon. I've done all these things with Nutella, and guess what, its also a delicious spread. But which is better? I've been having this debate with myself and with my friends since my arrival here in Florence. Hazlenuts or peanuts? Chocolately or buttery? Its such a hard choice to make and so I therefore decided I'm going to analyze my feelings toward the two spreads in order to compare and contrast them.
There are a variety of reasons why both of these spreads are so incredible, the first and most foremost being that both are good with virtually anything. People in the U.S. eat peanut butter on hotdogs while people in Europe eat nutella on pizza. Both things sound equally disgusting and yet both are equally delicious. The two spreads are unique in their power to make anything and everything taste better. Furthermore, both are good at all times of the day. Peanut butter is a breakfast delight when eaten with bananas or on toast while crossiants baked in nutella or with nutella fillings are standard Italian breakfast items. At lunch I'm satisfied by a sandwich filled with nutella or peanut butter in totally different yet exactly the same ways. And like I mentioned before, people have experiemented with different dnner items containing these two substances, which is where nutella spaghetti and peanut butter burritos come from. Dessert items are ordered continuously with these two spreads as toppings and both have been made into a plethora of different candies. People eat both peanut butter and nutella as snacks. I've got a roommate who puts nutella on her potatoe chips and I myself am guilty of sandwiching my chocolate chip cookies with peanut butter. People even include both peanut butter and nutella in their drinks: peanut butter milkshakes and nutella flavored coffee do exist, readers.
Are there any bad qualities to these items, though? Yes. Peanut butter gets stuck to the roof of many a mouth. Nutella gets caught in between your teeth. Peanut butter gets oily and nutella gets crusty. Both spreads will make you fat and they are both quite addicting. So how was I ever to decide which was better between the two? The task seemed quite impossible until I came up with the perfect solution. I would combine the two and whichever flavor I found myself more attracted to while the two competed inside my mouth would be the winner.
Reader, please, go and buy yourself some Skippy. Then buy a jar of nutella. Combine them, please, and wait for your foodgasm. Because NEITHER spread could win my favor over the other. The two mixed together into the most amazingly wonderful taste sensation I've ever had. I therefore conclude that neither peanut butter or nutella can ever be chosen over the other and both are food items worthy of the Gods.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby
There are a variety of reasons why both of these spreads are so incredible, the first and most foremost being that both are good with virtually anything. People in the U.S. eat peanut butter on hotdogs while people in Europe eat nutella on pizza. Both things sound equally disgusting and yet both are equally delicious. The two spreads are unique in their power to make anything and everything taste better. Furthermore, both are good at all times of the day. Peanut butter is a breakfast delight when eaten with bananas or on toast while crossiants baked in nutella or with nutella fillings are standard Italian breakfast items. At lunch I'm satisfied by a sandwich filled with nutella or peanut butter in totally different yet exactly the same ways. And like I mentioned before, people have experiemented with different dnner items containing these two substances, which is where nutella spaghetti and peanut butter burritos come from. Dessert items are ordered continuously with these two spreads as toppings and both have been made into a plethora of different candies. People eat both peanut butter and nutella as snacks. I've got a roommate who puts nutella on her potatoe chips and I myself am guilty of sandwiching my chocolate chip cookies with peanut butter. People even include both peanut butter and nutella in their drinks: peanut butter milkshakes and nutella flavored coffee do exist, readers.
Are there any bad qualities to these items, though? Yes. Peanut butter gets stuck to the roof of many a mouth. Nutella gets caught in between your teeth. Peanut butter gets oily and nutella gets crusty. Both spreads will make you fat and they are both quite addicting. So how was I ever to decide which was better between the two? The task seemed quite impossible until I came up with the perfect solution. I would combine the two and whichever flavor I found myself more attracted to while the two competed inside my mouth would be the winner.
Reader, please, go and buy yourself some Skippy. Then buy a jar of nutella. Combine them, please, and wait for your foodgasm. Because NEITHER spread could win my favor over the other. The two mixed together into the most amazingly wonderful taste sensation I've ever had. I therefore conclude that neither peanut butter or nutella can ever be chosen over the other and both are food items worthy of the Gods.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby
One Wild Weekend
I'm having far too much fun in this town. I've only been here for a short while and I've had more fun here than I've ever had in my life. Little Cayman was a totally different situation and I had loads and loads of fun there, but the fun there was supervised, stressful, and was incumbent on my ability to sneak out. I had to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for two days straight as a punishment there. Here, though, I'm totally free. Its regular, relaxed, and unrestricted college here. I'm not given a curfew or forced to wake up at certain times of day for breakfast. Its bliss, and I love it. I've had some boisterous nights out and feel better than I have in ages.
The first night was a weeknight and my roommates and threw an apartment complex party. We live in one of the only completely student-habitated apartment complex's in town and so we invited our neighbors over for some wine pong. I wound up so drunk I fell asleep with my toilet bowl as a pillow. It was definitely the perfect start to my weekend.
I'm so so grateful that I have a roomie (I'm leaving people's names out because I refuse to invade privacy or be sued and am instead making up fun nicknames in Italian for them and I'll from now on call her Selvaggio), whose on the same page as me. She is one of my three roommates and we are quickly becoming extremely close friends. We've got these friends we hang out with all the time, and we all decided last Friday that we were going to go out and have a wild night. We went over their house and got ourselves ready to go by pre-gaming with lots of wine and some Sauza. Our friends are honestly the funnest group of guys you'll ever meet. There are seven of them and each of them has a personality totally seperate from the other. They mix together perfectly. Honestly, readers, the amount of grateful I am to have made a group of friends I like so much so quickly is unbelievable. Having them to hang with all the time is the best, and pre-gaming with them for nights out is always a good time. We were amped up to go at around 12 and hit the town happy as clams.
I'd like to take this opportunity to explain to you all why I put "Blonde" in the title of my blog. I mention in one of my older posts that I hated the stupid American girls who clop around in their heels and stumble along on the streets. I'm the world's biggest hypocrite, everyone. I decided I wanted to look hot and wore the sexiest pair of purple boot-cut heels. Two of the boys who never ever ever look messy complimented me on them and I was feeling good until we started walking. Not only did I hold up our group of 9 but my feet were hurting so badly that Selvaggio kept offering to give me a piggy back ride. After a solid twenty minutes of torture I took the fucking shoes off and walked around Florence bare-foot.
We went out to this little joint that one of my friends, who I'll from now on call Poeta, found. He is this totally deep and inspired guy who gets up early in the morning to write poetry on the Arno, plays guitar, and sings us all songs late at night. Poeta made friends with an Italian guy who owns two bars in Florence, I'll call him Divertimenti, and invited us all to go and meet him. Sei Divine was the name of the bar and on Thursday nights they host this little jazz band until around 1 a.m. When we got there the little place was packed-that is to say there were about 20 people and the addition of my friends and I filled the place to the rafters. All the people were Italians, so incredibly refreshing to get away from the Americans, and they were dancing their Gucci pants off. The jazz band was incredible, all Italians singing Italian songs, and we stayed and all danced off our Levi's. I had a Pineapple Mojhito Divertimenti made for me and it was absolutely the most alcoholic beverage I've had here so far. I was set for the night on that one drink and it gave me the courage to chat amicably with the Itals. We started to leave at around 4 a.m. and Selvaggio and I danced down the streets of Florence with our friends. One of the boys, Carino, a totally suave and super fun guy, walked arm and arm with me all the way home. Partly because he was stumbling but still able to skip with me down the narrow vias. We wound up stopping and chatting with some Italian guys who tried to invite him back to their place (creeps) but Selvaggio rescued us by calling Carino her raggazo and pulled him away!
When we got back to their place one of the funniest kids I've ever met did one of the funniest things I've ever seen. Scorrere, as we'll call him, spits mad flow pretty much always, and I promise you he is hysterical. He is rauncy, fun and inappropriate and I love every second of it. The other day he and two of his other roommates were walking through San Lorenzo and were stopped by some Ethiopians selling watches. They'd set out that day to haggle and wound up buying some really nice watches for really cheap. They got home excited and showing off their new bling when what should Scorrere discover but that his watch was broken. He spent about an hour trying to fix it and when he finally did the ensuing excitement was enough to blow down a house. He wore that watch to Sei Divine and when we got home gingerly took it off and placed it down on his dresser. As he is changing into his pajamas he bumps into the dresser and the watch slowly fell off and cracked on the floor. There are strict rules for no noise past 10 in their apartment building because they live with Italian residents and I'm certain that the long, drawn out "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" that Scorrere shouted woke up the neighbors. I don't even want to talk about how hard I was laughing.
The very next night we made plans to meet up with Divertimenti who promised us another wild night. He definitely delivered. We went to his other bar, The One Eyed Jack, which is this small place over the river that is extremely fun and has become my favorite bar here. Divertimenti is the best, totally rivaling my bar tender from LC, and I'm so incredibly happy to have met him. We got to the Jack and hung around, drinking pitchers of beer and eating DELICIOUS french fries. I'm not kidding, these fries were so good they were nearly better than the fries get at home. The night started getting interesting when people started buying shots. Rounds and rounds of shots. Divertimenti kept testing out his inventions on us, bringing over rounds once every half hour. Some random German guy who couldn't speak a word of English who was friends with Divertimenti kept paying for rounds, too.
It was definitely starting to get wild and Carino and I noticed there was a guy sitting in the bar who was wearing the Thriller jacket. We were cracking up about it and when he turned Carino and I swear we were seeing MJ reincarnate. The guy was the spitting image. We took pictures on his iphone. When the Jack closed it was around 2 in the morning and Christian told us he was taking us someplace special for the rest of the night. He passed us around these little wine cooler type things which made music when you took sips out of them. I found out the next day those drinks were 10% absinthe or something ridiculous like that. We drank our drinks as we walked (which may be my favorite thing about Florence) and within fifteen minutes we were there.
I wish I knew where it was located but its the Florentine secret gem and so of course its exact coordinates are a fucking mystery. This place was honestly the coolest club I've ever been to in my life. It opened up into three levels after walking through a dark hallway filled with people rolling and tripping. HOUSE MUSIC was playing, finally, and they even put on some Billy Idol which basically got me wild. The different rooms were all equally awesome and I wish I could describe them to you. I was kind of drunk and the minor details are eluding me. Pretty much everyone in that club was on some drug or another; the DJ was so drugged out she had red lipstick all over her pasty white face and her dark black hair had tangled itself into a rather cozy looking bird's nest. Carino, another of our friends Moda (whose so well-dressed I have a mini-crush on him), and a girl from my apartment building all wound up dancing on stage with me and the DJ for approximately an hour. There was a girl on the bar so drugged up she was slinking across it like a cat, gyrating her hips in awkward ways and hissing at people. The night is honestly a blur but I had more fun at Club Babylon than at any other club I've been to and plan to spend alot of crazy nights there. I promise I didn't do any drugs, it was just such a cool place. I had a couple free shots since Divertimenti knew the bartenders there and then the place started to close. As we walked outside into the alleyway there were Carabinieri (cops) all hushing everyone and making sure we all got out okay. People were pouring out of the place, just as many middle aged people as young teens, and for the first time I noticed that many were dressed up with masks and capes and face-paint. There was even a girl with a tiger-suit on. Divertimenti rounded us all up and we realized that half of us hadn't made it to Babylon. It was now only myself, Selvaggio, Carino, Moda, Poeta, and Divertimenti, and my one friend from our building.
It was 4 a.m. at this point but Divertimenti had one more suprise in store for the night. We walked another fifteen minutes to another place called Montecarla. Seriously, holy shit. I walked in and my jaw hit the floor. Leopard print EVERYTHING. Leopard print seats, pillows, tables, ceiling, bar, staircase. I'm not joking. The place was decked out in so much leopard print I'm certain the interior designer is the reason leopards are on the endangered species list. When we got in we were stopped at the door by a very old man checking IDs. This was extremely odd because there is not drinking age here. Divertimenti gave us these cards, leopard print logos, and I'm now a member of Montecarla. You've got to be a fucking member to get in. We sat down at a table and I was happy to learn that this place offered all its guests free chips and peanuts, party favors like streamers and little blowy-things, free masks to wear, and free-coloring books with day-glo markers. What the fuck? We got free drinks (again) and hung out wearing masks and coloring octopii and frogs in day-glo. Selvaggio and I decided we wanted to check out the upstairs. We walk up into a leopard print jungle littered with fucking beds. I'm not kidding. Circle beds. We sat down for half a second in a corner with some peanuts before two lonely Italian guys came up and plopped down next to us. "Ciao, ragazza, come stai? Do you speak Italian?" Its so easy to spot Americans. Anyway, their names were Massimo and Matteo and they wound up asking us to join them in their beds. We told them we needed to get our coats and we'd be right back, bounded down the stairs two at a time, gathered our friends, and hauled ass out of the place. Montecarla.
The next night we went back to Jack. Divertimenti promised us the superbowl, in English and with front row seating. No crowds of Americans all vying for good locations or Italians questioning the logic of our version of football. It was fabulous. I met an American sushi chef who moved to Italy to cook for them and had a really fun time catching him up on the whats what from the states and in American sports. We got to see the whole game, eat delicious french fries, drink discounted beer because we knew the tender, and hang out with good friends. It was an amazing finish to my crazy weekend and I feel like a rock star. I'm living the rock star lifestyle and I'm loving every second of it. Anyway, I'll update you all on my crazy weekends when I have more.
Arrivederci, for now!
Love, Gabby
The first night was a weeknight and my roommates and threw an apartment complex party. We live in one of the only completely student-habitated apartment complex's in town and so we invited our neighbors over for some wine pong. I wound up so drunk I fell asleep with my toilet bowl as a pillow. It was definitely the perfect start to my weekend.
I'm so so grateful that I have a roomie (I'm leaving people's names out because I refuse to invade privacy or be sued and am instead making up fun nicknames in Italian for them and I'll from now on call her Selvaggio), whose on the same page as me. She is one of my three roommates and we are quickly becoming extremely close friends. We've got these friends we hang out with all the time, and we all decided last Friday that we were going to go out and have a wild night. We went over their house and got ourselves ready to go by pre-gaming with lots of wine and some Sauza. Our friends are honestly the funnest group of guys you'll ever meet. There are seven of them and each of them has a personality totally seperate from the other. They mix together perfectly. Honestly, readers, the amount of grateful I am to have made a group of friends I like so much so quickly is unbelievable. Having them to hang with all the time is the best, and pre-gaming with them for nights out is always a good time. We were amped up to go at around 12 and hit the town happy as clams.
I'd like to take this opportunity to explain to you all why I put "Blonde" in the title of my blog. I mention in one of my older posts that I hated the stupid American girls who clop around in their heels and stumble along on the streets. I'm the world's biggest hypocrite, everyone. I decided I wanted to look hot and wore the sexiest pair of purple boot-cut heels. Two of the boys who never ever ever look messy complimented me on them and I was feeling good until we started walking. Not only did I hold up our group of 9 but my feet were hurting so badly that Selvaggio kept offering to give me a piggy back ride. After a solid twenty minutes of torture I took the fucking shoes off and walked around Florence bare-foot.
We went out to this little joint that one of my friends, who I'll from now on call Poeta, found. He is this totally deep and inspired guy who gets up early in the morning to write poetry on the Arno, plays guitar, and sings us all songs late at night. Poeta made friends with an Italian guy who owns two bars in Florence, I'll call him Divertimenti, and invited us all to go and meet him. Sei Divine was the name of the bar and on Thursday nights they host this little jazz band until around 1 a.m. When we got there the little place was packed-that is to say there were about 20 people and the addition of my friends and I filled the place to the rafters. All the people were Italians, so incredibly refreshing to get away from the Americans, and they were dancing their Gucci pants off. The jazz band was incredible, all Italians singing Italian songs, and we stayed and all danced off our Levi's. I had a Pineapple Mojhito Divertimenti made for me and it was absolutely the most alcoholic beverage I've had here so far. I was set for the night on that one drink and it gave me the courage to chat amicably with the Itals. We started to leave at around 4 a.m. and Selvaggio and I danced down the streets of Florence with our friends. One of the boys, Carino, a totally suave and super fun guy, walked arm and arm with me all the way home. Partly because he was stumbling but still able to skip with me down the narrow vias. We wound up stopping and chatting with some Italian guys who tried to invite him back to their place (creeps) but Selvaggio rescued us by calling Carino her raggazo and pulled him away!
When we got back to their place one of the funniest kids I've ever met did one of the funniest things I've ever seen. Scorrere, as we'll call him, spits mad flow pretty much always, and I promise you he is hysterical. He is rauncy, fun and inappropriate and I love every second of it. The other day he and two of his other roommates were walking through San Lorenzo and were stopped by some Ethiopians selling watches. They'd set out that day to haggle and wound up buying some really nice watches for really cheap. They got home excited and showing off their new bling when what should Scorrere discover but that his watch was broken. He spent about an hour trying to fix it and when he finally did the ensuing excitement was enough to blow down a house. He wore that watch to Sei Divine and when we got home gingerly took it off and placed it down on his dresser. As he is changing into his pajamas he bumps into the dresser and the watch slowly fell off and cracked on the floor. There are strict rules for no noise past 10 in their apartment building because they live with Italian residents and I'm certain that the long, drawn out "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" that Scorrere shouted woke up the neighbors. I don't even want to talk about how hard I was laughing.
The very next night we made plans to meet up with Divertimenti who promised us another wild night. He definitely delivered. We went to his other bar, The One Eyed Jack, which is this small place over the river that is extremely fun and has become my favorite bar here. Divertimenti is the best, totally rivaling my bar tender from LC, and I'm so incredibly happy to have met him. We got to the Jack and hung around, drinking pitchers of beer and eating DELICIOUS french fries. I'm not kidding, these fries were so good they were nearly better than the fries get at home. The night started getting interesting when people started buying shots. Rounds and rounds of shots. Divertimenti kept testing out his inventions on us, bringing over rounds once every half hour. Some random German guy who couldn't speak a word of English who was friends with Divertimenti kept paying for rounds, too.
It was definitely starting to get wild and Carino and I noticed there was a guy sitting in the bar who was wearing the Thriller jacket. We were cracking up about it and when he turned Carino and I swear we were seeing MJ reincarnate. The guy was the spitting image. We took pictures on his iphone. When the Jack closed it was around 2 in the morning and Christian told us he was taking us someplace special for the rest of the night. He passed us around these little wine cooler type things which made music when you took sips out of them. I found out the next day those drinks were 10% absinthe or something ridiculous like that. We drank our drinks as we walked (which may be my favorite thing about Florence) and within fifteen minutes we were there. I wish I knew where it was located but its the Florentine secret gem and so of course its exact coordinates are a fucking mystery. This place was honestly the coolest club I've ever been to in my life. It opened up into three levels after walking through a dark hallway filled with people rolling and tripping. HOUSE MUSIC was playing, finally, and they even put on some Billy Idol which basically got me wild. The different rooms were all equally awesome and I wish I could describe them to you. I was kind of drunk and the minor details are eluding me. Pretty much everyone in that club was on some drug or another; the DJ was so drugged out she had red lipstick all over her pasty white face and her dark black hair had tangled itself into a rather cozy looking bird's nest. Carino, another of our friends Moda (whose so well-dressed I have a mini-crush on him), and a girl from my apartment building all wound up dancing on stage with me and the DJ for approximately an hour. There was a girl on the bar so drugged up she was slinking across it like a cat, gyrating her hips in awkward ways and hissing at people. The night is honestly a blur but I had more fun at Club Babylon than at any other club I've been to and plan to spend alot of crazy nights there. I promise I didn't do any drugs, it was just such a cool place. I had a couple free shots since Divertimenti knew the bartenders there and then the place started to close. As we walked outside into the alleyway there were Carabinieri (cops) all hushing everyone and making sure we all got out okay. People were pouring out of the place, just as many middle aged people as young teens, and for the first time I noticed that many were dressed up with masks and capes and face-paint. There was even a girl with a tiger-suit on. Divertimenti rounded us all up and we realized that half of us hadn't made it to Babylon. It was now only myself, Selvaggio, Carino, Moda, Poeta, and Divertimenti, and my one friend from our building.
It was 4 a.m. at this point but Divertimenti had one more suprise in store for the night. We walked another fifteen minutes to another place called Montecarla. Seriously, holy shit. I walked in and my jaw hit the floor. Leopard print EVERYTHING. Leopard print seats, pillows, tables, ceiling, bar, staircase. I'm not joking. The place was decked out in so much leopard print I'm certain the interior designer is the reason leopards are on the endangered species list. When we got in we were stopped at the door by a very old man checking IDs. This was extremely odd because there is not drinking age here. Divertimenti gave us these cards, leopard print logos, and I'm now a member of Montecarla. You've got to be a fucking member to get in. We sat down at a table and I was happy to learn that this place offered all its guests free chips and peanuts, party favors like streamers and little blowy-things, free masks to wear, and free-coloring books with day-glo markers. What the fuck? We got free drinks (again) and hung out wearing masks and coloring octopii and frogs in day-glo. Selvaggio and I decided we wanted to check out the upstairs. We walk up into a leopard print jungle littered with fucking beds. I'm not kidding. Circle beds. We sat down for half a second in a corner with some peanuts before two lonely Italian guys came up and plopped down next to us. "Ciao, ragazza, come stai? Do you speak Italian?" Its so easy to spot Americans. Anyway, their names were Massimo and Matteo and they wound up asking us to join them in their beds. We told them we needed to get our coats and we'd be right back, bounded down the stairs two at a time, gathered our friends, and hauled ass out of the place. Montecarla.
The next night we went back to Jack. Divertimenti promised us the superbowl, in English and with front row seating. No crowds of Americans all vying for good locations or Italians questioning the logic of our version of football. It was fabulous. I met an American sushi chef who moved to Italy to cook for them and had a really fun time catching him up on the whats what from the states and in American sports. We got to see the whole game, eat delicious french fries, drink discounted beer because we knew the tender, and hang out with good friends. It was an amazing finish to my crazy weekend and I feel like a rock star. I'm living the rock star lifestyle and I'm loving every second of it. Anyway, I'll update you all on my crazy weekends when I have more.
Arrivederci, for now!
Love, Gabby
Thursday, February 4, 2010
My classes
For the past three semesters I've been in school, I've fucking hated it. My college education began at an isty-bitsy school in the heart of Manhattan. It's a liberal arts college that used to be an all-girls catholic high school. You know, nuns, priests, body and blood of christ, the whole Roman Catholic nine yards. You'd figure a place with that backround would be able to deliver a quality education. My Writ101 class was based on a contemporary novel: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Yup. I spent an entire semester analyzing Harry Potter. Me, the girl whose senior Advanced Placement World Literature readings included Waiting For Godot, The Metamorphosis, Crime & Punishment, Hamlet, and Tess of the D'Urbervilles, was subjected to critically analyzing Harry Potter. I love Harry and will re-read those books once every year, but honestly I would rather shoot my own brains out than try to pretend that Harry Potter is good enough to be analyzed at a college level. I quit that school and went to high school two, as they like to call it in my town, which is the county college nearby. I went into my Saturday morning classes hung over every single Saturday, managed to help my Art History professor teach his own class (because he had no fucking clue how to do it), and completed not a single one of my Foundation Drawing assignments and pulled an A. A brief respite from that insanity in Little Cayman, and then back to county college for another semester of not trying. I didn't hand in one single assignment and got straight B's. Imagine the frustration I've been dealing with, please? To go from doing nothing but school all day every day to twidling my thumbs in college really grates on a person's brains.
Thank you God for this study abroad! The school I am at now is actually going to be challenging. I'd have thought it challenging in high school at the height of my educational OCD. I think I may actually be intimidated. It's probably because I'm taking mostly studio classes, for the first time structured classes where I'm actually going to have to learn something. I definitely like the feeling.
I start class on Monday afternoons at 3 (which is excellent so I can travel or party on weekends). I have Intermediate Painting in the Raffaelo painting room, which, guess what, used to be the bedroom of a prince. Absurd. It lasts until 8:30 at night and I'm required to stay til the very last minute. We're expected to finish drawings and paintings that are assigned during class and we actually have homework. Not only do we have to paint at home but we've also got writing assignments. IN ADDITION TO THE READINGS WE HAVE EACH WEEK! Call me crazy but thats impressive. My professor is this really strange looking Italian woman with kind of a snooty attitude. "I'm the director of the art program here so anything you ever need you should come to me immidiately" she said with her thick Italian accent in the smallest voice ever. She hovered over my shoulder the entire first half of our intro exams, required of all students in advanced art classes. I realized upon reflection that this was probably her dumb idea. What if a student really sucks at art but passed Foundation level and just really loved to draw? We had to first sketch an item in the room with charcoal and for the second part paint the object. I spent twenty minutes looking at various shapes and sizes of different bottles and ugly boxes, a few lamps and candles, and a mortar and pestle?, before striking gold with a plastic lily. I love drawing with charcoal and I'll go ahead and admit that my drawing was totally the best in the class. I started my painting with the professor STILL at my shoulder right before our half hour break. The good thing is these classes are structured into two sessions. One with our instructor and another with a Teachers Assistant. I went out and got pizza with a girl from class at Ti Amo next door. Pizza by the slice is a rarity in this country and I was overjoyed to find it so close to my school. Our teachers assistant was there after our break and not the professor. He also hovered at my shoulder but instead of just watching me work gave me advice and joked with me about my lily painting which had become a half Georgia O'Keefe half Jackson Pollock that reflected my anger. I had been getting irritated at the painting because I was given only black, white, yellow, half dried out blue, and pink acrylic paint made for children's projects (i.e. finger painting) to mix colors with. We joked together even though he could barely speak English and I love him. In my brain I'm having a whirlwind romance with him that is not only Italian and romantic but also illegal.
Tuesdays start at 12 with Italian class. I hate this class because it's all review of things I know already. My dumpy little professor (whose lipstick is terrible) teaches the class dreadfully slow; basically this class makes me miserable. It's the only one reminiscient of the other shitty college classes I've had. Whatever, I can deal with this one annoying class because I'll learn Italian on the streets. My second class is Intermediate Drawing at 3 which again lasts until 8:30 and again insists on my presence until that exact time. My professor in this class is much cooler than my Painting professor. For our first class she walked us to the store that will sell us our art supplies and scored us all a 15% discount (which will also apply for the other supplies I'm buying for my other classes. Hell yes!). Our entrance exam for this class was to choose between the busts of a man or a woman and draw it. I chose the woman. Big mistake. I suck at drawing portraits, especially when I am meant to draw them in a limited time. By the end of the first half of class I was ready to run up to the stupid sculpture and kick it over. I went to Ti Amo again during break with another friend I had made and went back to class feeling a little better. My contentment turned to pure delight when I discovered that my T.A. for this class was the same guy as in Painting. We joked again about my drawing, which was shitty and we both knew it. He gave me some tips to make it look halfway decent and hung around with me pretty much the whole time. I love him.
Wednesdays are my favorite. I start my day at 12 for Travel Writing. This class is already my favorite class. Travel writing is what I want to do, if you couldn't figure that out already by the blog and references to becoming a journalist. The professor is this cute little lady with an outstanding sense of humor and an extensive knowledge of the history of Florence and Italy. Her class is going to be the most fun, I can already tell. Her class requires curiosity and the amount I have is certainly enough to stack up. Our first assignment is to write about a phenomenon we've experienced since we've been in Florence. I'm definitely going to blog about the subject I choose after I had in my paper. After her class I ventured with a friend for some lunch and had a seriously refreshing meal. We went to a hole in the wall joint called The Oil Shoppe. They specialize in greasy, nasty, delicious sandwiches complimented by french fries. Praise the good Lord for a place whose menu includes french fries! I'm from New Jersey; grease is integral to my blood circulation and my stomach has a difficult time processing food that hasn't already been processed with chemical terribleness. Eating a sandwich from The Oil Shoppe gave me that gross feeling that lingers with you all night and into the next day and is a feeling you need to love when you live on the Jersey Shore. The best part is it's only 5 Euro for a sandwich and fries and includes a bottle of water. I'll be frequenting this place. When I got to my second class, Foundation Sculpture, at 3 p.m. I was feeling wonderfully foul. I sat down in the ceramic lab before the other students and who should walk in but my T.A.? Guess what? He's my professor for this class. God, I love him. We had an intro to the course and were given out intro exam, which was drawing objects from around the class to show all their dimensions. Mine was the best again, for sure. Even better, I think, than the drawings of some super-seasoned sculpture professionals. Their sculptures will beat mine any day, for sure, but my drawings were kind of sweet. I didn't go to Ti Amo during break because I was still so full from lunch but instead hung around with my future husband and finished up my drawings. I met my T.A., who turned out to be my Drawning professor, and got to go home early.
I had my second Italian session on Thursday at 12 which sucked exactly as much as on Tuesday but still managed to come at 1:30 feeling really great about this semester. Not only do I start classes at 12 every day, which theoretically means I could go out every single night in this place, but I met my soul mate, spent a solid 15 hours making and learning art, and am taking a class that will potentially help to skyrocket me into my future career. Yeah, it's safe to say this is going to be my best semester ever.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby
Thank you God for this study abroad! The school I am at now is actually going to be challenging. I'd have thought it challenging in high school at the height of my educational OCD. I think I may actually be intimidated. It's probably because I'm taking mostly studio classes, for the first time structured classes where I'm actually going to have to learn something. I definitely like the feeling.
I start class on Monday afternoons at 3 (which is excellent so I can travel or party on weekends). I have Intermediate Painting in the Raffaelo painting room, which, guess what, used to be the bedroom of a prince. Absurd. It lasts until 8:30 at night and I'm required to stay til the very last minute. We're expected to finish drawings and paintings that are assigned during class and we actually have homework. Not only do we have to paint at home but we've also got writing assignments. IN ADDITION TO THE READINGS WE HAVE EACH WEEK! Call me crazy but thats impressive. My professor is this really strange looking Italian woman with kind of a snooty attitude. "I'm the director of the art program here so anything you ever need you should come to me immidiately" she said with her thick Italian accent in the smallest voice ever. She hovered over my shoulder the entire first half of our intro exams, required of all students in advanced art classes. I realized upon reflection that this was probably her dumb idea. What if a student really sucks at art but passed Foundation level and just really loved to draw? We had to first sketch an item in the room with charcoal and for the second part paint the object. I spent twenty minutes looking at various shapes and sizes of different bottles and ugly boxes, a few lamps and candles, and a mortar and pestle?, before striking gold with a plastic lily. I love drawing with charcoal and I'll go ahead and admit that my drawing was totally the best in the class. I started my painting with the professor STILL at my shoulder right before our half hour break. The good thing is these classes are structured into two sessions. One with our instructor and another with a Teachers Assistant. I went out and got pizza with a girl from class at Ti Amo next door. Pizza by the slice is a rarity in this country and I was overjoyed to find it so close to my school. Our teachers assistant was there after our break and not the professor. He also hovered at my shoulder but instead of just watching me work gave me advice and joked with me about my lily painting which had become a half Georgia O'Keefe half Jackson Pollock that reflected my anger. I had been getting irritated at the painting because I was given only black, white, yellow, half dried out blue, and pink acrylic paint made for children's projects (i.e. finger painting) to mix colors with. We joked together even though he could barely speak English and I love him. In my brain I'm having a whirlwind romance with him that is not only Italian and romantic but also illegal.
Tuesdays start at 12 with Italian class. I hate this class because it's all review of things I know already. My dumpy little professor (whose lipstick is terrible) teaches the class dreadfully slow; basically this class makes me miserable. It's the only one reminiscient of the other shitty college classes I've had. Whatever, I can deal with this one annoying class because I'll learn Italian on the streets. My second class is Intermediate Drawing at 3 which again lasts until 8:30 and again insists on my presence until that exact time. My professor in this class is much cooler than my Painting professor. For our first class she walked us to the store that will sell us our art supplies and scored us all a 15% discount (which will also apply for the other supplies I'm buying for my other classes. Hell yes!). Our entrance exam for this class was to choose between the busts of a man or a woman and draw it. I chose the woman. Big mistake. I suck at drawing portraits, especially when I am meant to draw them in a limited time. By the end of the first half of class I was ready to run up to the stupid sculpture and kick it over. I went to Ti Amo again during break with another friend I had made and went back to class feeling a little better. My contentment turned to pure delight when I discovered that my T.A. for this class was the same guy as in Painting. We joked again about my drawing, which was shitty and we both knew it. He gave me some tips to make it look halfway decent and hung around with me pretty much the whole time. I love him.
Wednesdays are my favorite. I start my day at 12 for Travel Writing. This class is already my favorite class. Travel writing is what I want to do, if you couldn't figure that out already by the blog and references to becoming a journalist. The professor is this cute little lady with an outstanding sense of humor and an extensive knowledge of the history of Florence and Italy. Her class is going to be the most fun, I can already tell. Her class requires curiosity and the amount I have is certainly enough to stack up. Our first assignment is to write about a phenomenon we've experienced since we've been in Florence. I'm definitely going to blog about the subject I choose after I had in my paper. After her class I ventured with a friend for some lunch and had a seriously refreshing meal. We went to a hole in the wall joint called The Oil Shoppe. They specialize in greasy, nasty, delicious sandwiches complimented by french fries. Praise the good Lord for a place whose menu includes french fries! I'm from New Jersey; grease is integral to my blood circulation and my stomach has a difficult time processing food that hasn't already been processed with chemical terribleness. Eating a sandwich from The Oil Shoppe gave me that gross feeling that lingers with you all night and into the next day and is a feeling you need to love when you live on the Jersey Shore. The best part is it's only 5 Euro for a sandwich and fries and includes a bottle of water. I'll be frequenting this place. When I got to my second class, Foundation Sculpture, at 3 p.m. I was feeling wonderfully foul. I sat down in the ceramic lab before the other students and who should walk in but my T.A.? Guess what? He's my professor for this class. God, I love him. We had an intro to the course and were given out intro exam, which was drawing objects from around the class to show all their dimensions. Mine was the best again, for sure. Even better, I think, than the drawings of some super-seasoned sculpture professionals. Their sculptures will beat mine any day, for sure, but my drawings were kind of sweet. I didn't go to Ti Amo during break because I was still so full from lunch but instead hung around with my future husband and finished up my drawings. I met my T.A., who turned out to be my Drawning professor, and got to go home early.
I had my second Italian session on Thursday at 12 which sucked exactly as much as on Tuesday but still managed to come at 1:30 feeling really great about this semester. Not only do I start classes at 12 every day, which theoretically means I could go out every single night in this place, but I met my soul mate, spent a solid 15 hours making and learning art, and am taking a class that will potentially help to skyrocket me into my future career. Yeah, it's safe to say this is going to be my best semester ever.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby
Monday, February 1, 2010
The Market
Seriously guys, the market is awesome. Everything the Italians do with their food is done right. I swear I don't know how I'm ever going to go home and eat food again; I can totally see myself having severe depression when I leave this food. Today I had my first experience in Italian mercato. I set my alarm on my phone (which is the most annoying alarm ever. "Its time to get up. The time is 9 a.m. Its time to get up.") and got up early to make sure I had time to get to the market and shop all morning. I'd been telling my roommates for days that I wanted to get to the mercato because the amount of eating out I'd been doing was getting a little bit excessive. I was more than happy that I got there.
The market is a total fiasco, but its a fiasco in a good way. You walk in and there are individual shops set up EVERYWHERE. It isn't like a mall where you walk into the stores individually, its more like there are places with different kinds of foods out all over the place. There is no order to it, either, which is fun. Instead of having all the cheese guys in one spot and the meat guys in another spot, its a free for all. Its cool because you can turn a corner and see a gigantic pig head and turn another and sample some fresh cheese. I had so much fun just walking around I forgot to buy things for the first half hour.
I guess I looked helpless because little Italian man came up to me and started to talk to me. He didn't understand a lick of English and I was grateful for this because he would tell me the names of things in Italian. Like sugar, which is zucchero in Italian. Here I am walking around with this cute little old guy thinking "This is marvelous!! I love this guy!" and he was probably helping me buy things from shop keepers who were his friends and were ripping me off. Oh well, I had fun with him anyway. He brought me first to place where I could buy pasta. I got a bunch and we moved on. Then we went and bought some rice. Its cool when you buy these things because they are all in big potato sacks and you can scoop them out and put them in bags yourself. My friend, whose name was Giacomo, helped me pick out the good ones. We went and bought some l'ananas (bananas), fragole (strawberries), tomatoes (pomodori), brocolli (brocolli), and onions (cipolle). He brought me to a place with oil and helped me pick some and then brought me to a sort of mini convenience store where I bought milk (latte), nutella, espresso, Loaker wafers (which are the most addicting things in the world), Ringos (also very addicting), and some Frosted Flakes. I was overjoyed when I saw that this little place had sliced bread and Giacomo and the shopkeeper laughed at me for being so excited. Giacomo brought me then to the bread place, baked on the spot, and got me some samples. "Mangiare questo!" he kept telling me, and said "Meglio!" over and over. Meglio means "better" in Italian; he kept trying to convince me these breads were all better than the sliced bread I had bought. Italians just don't understand sliced bread, I guess. After this we went to the place with the formaggio (cheese) where I was given about 35 different samples, all mostly parmesan. I got a huge hunk of it and some fresh mozzarella and moved on. We went to the wine shop next where I was able to finally find some salt and pepper. I asked Giacomo which limoncello to buy and wound up buying a very large bottle for very very cheap. He was extremely excited that I bought it and insisted that I was making a good decision.
Before I left Giacomo and I went and bought pastries at the little pastry shop near that exit and I discovered exactly how much I love nutella. This little thing was DRIPPING with it. It was warm and sugary and moist and gooey and delicious. By the time I made it back to my apartment, arms laden with buste (bags), I was stuffed. I realized I'd bought all this food and didn't even need to eat that day because I was so full. In summation, Italian mercati, as with all thins food-related in Italy, are fucking excellent.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby
The market is a total fiasco, but its a fiasco in a good way. You walk in and there are individual shops set up EVERYWHERE. It isn't like a mall where you walk into the stores individually, its more like there are places with different kinds of foods out all over the place. There is no order to it, either, which is fun. Instead of having all the cheese guys in one spot and the meat guys in another spot, its a free for all. Its cool because you can turn a corner and see a gigantic pig head and turn another and sample some fresh cheese. I had so much fun just walking around I forgot to buy things for the first half hour.
I guess I looked helpless because little Italian man came up to me and started to talk to me. He didn't understand a lick of English and I was grateful for this because he would tell me the names of things in Italian. Like sugar, which is zucchero in Italian. Here I am walking around with this cute little old guy thinking "This is marvelous!! I love this guy!" and he was probably helping me buy things from shop keepers who were his friends and were ripping me off. Oh well, I had fun with him anyway. He brought me first to place where I could buy pasta. I got a bunch and we moved on. Then we went and bought some rice. Its cool when you buy these things because they are all in big potato sacks and you can scoop them out and put them in bags yourself. My friend, whose name was Giacomo, helped me pick out the good ones. We went and bought some l'ananas (bananas), fragole (strawberries), tomatoes (pomodori), brocolli (brocolli), and onions (cipolle). He brought me to a place with oil and helped me pick some and then brought me to a sort of mini convenience store where I bought milk (latte), nutella, espresso, Loaker wafers (which are the most addicting things in the world), Ringos (also very addicting), and some Frosted Flakes. I was overjoyed when I saw that this little place had sliced bread and Giacomo and the shopkeeper laughed at me for being so excited. Giacomo brought me then to the bread place, baked on the spot, and got me some samples. "Mangiare questo!" he kept telling me, and said "Meglio!" over and over. Meglio means "better" in Italian; he kept trying to convince me these breads were all better than the sliced bread I had bought. Italians just don't understand sliced bread, I guess. After this we went to the place with the formaggio (cheese) where I was given about 35 different samples, all mostly parmesan. I got a huge hunk of it and some fresh mozzarella and moved on. We went to the wine shop next where I was able to finally find some salt and pepper. I asked Giacomo which limoncello to buy and wound up buying a very large bottle for very very cheap. He was extremely excited that I bought it and insisted that I was making a good decision.
Before I left Giacomo and I went and bought pastries at the little pastry shop near that exit and I discovered exactly how much I love nutella. This little thing was DRIPPING with it. It was warm and sugary and moist and gooey and delicious. By the time I made it back to my apartment, arms laden with buste (bags), I was stuffed. I realized I'd bought all this food and didn't even need to eat that day because I was so full. In summation, Italian mercati, as with all thins food-related in Italy, are fucking excellent.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby
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