i tear i miss you, but oh, the tiramisu'

Saturday, June 26^th, Piazza Barberini

Fourth day in Rome. I have to pee. I know to stride confidently into Pepy’s bar, the tourist trap proclaiming Pizza-Pasta-Food on the corner of Via Del Tritone e Via sistina, across the street from the 2000 year old fountain (see photo). “Ciao” I say as I walk out without buying anything, and a woman bumps into me on the street, “dai” she says pushing me on the back. Rome is a stuffed canoli of Ducatis, tour busses and business men, but she is the first person to actually touch me on the street. I brush it off like bird poop – perhaps annoying, but in Rome, good luck, a sign from the gods- and give directions to the Spanish steps, “gerade aus, gerade aus.” I love these little interactions on street corners, like the man who shared a laugh with me at the traffic before we stepped into the crosswalk, him saying, “what a fuck” and me responding “ma, che cazzo.”

Orvieto

At a small shop Rick Steves recommends called "The Mago di Oz." Betty boop abounds. (see photo).

The Mago di Oz wears blue courderoy pants, and suspenders over a yellow plaid shirt with more wrinkles than my crumbled map after four days in Rome. I can tell he is an Italian not so concerned with fashion.

He has given me a postcard and as I finish writing it a bunch of tourists wander into his Emerald City. I consider leaving without saying goodbye, but instead I wander inside and when I say arrivederle signore and he comes to shake my hand and kiss me his big stubbly soft cheeks press against mine like the old flannel sheets on my pillow at home. I earned this “ciao bella” with a “ciao, come sta?”, but even more valuable to me was the smile on the man’s face when he said he’d show me something special and opens a miniature doll house. The tiny windows have lace curtains and I can see the staples, so it dawns on me that almost everything here is “fatto a mano”.

Sunday, June 27th at the Villa

On my third summer abroad, I don't buy souvenirs. Do you need something from Italy or Paris? I would love to buy it for you. Otherwise, I'll mail you a postcard. I'm told you'll thank me for this when you move one day and have to fit your life into a U-haul truck.

Italy has been two scoops of a gelato in a one euro cone, wining and dining in my new Tuscan home, savoring bites of soft marscapone, to think that four days ago I felt at home as I wrote you roaming the streets of Rome, yes give me your address, I’ll send you a poem.

Tomato tomato tomato wild boar pinnochio sweet tuscan red wine tears ciao bruschetta bucine paparadelle piacere ciao castelnuovo berardegna ciao.

*I’m pretty sure marscapone does not rhyme with Rome when said with a proper Italian accent, but obviously I’m writing shitty rhyming poems and don’t give a damn about appearances

Monday, June 28^th, 2010 en route to Pisa

On first glance, the tower looks photoshopped. It is a pirouette cookie poking out of a glass of milk. It’s unbelievable. It’s so crooked! It is one of those things I could see everyday for about fourteen years without growing jaded, like the Space Needle or Mountain Rainer or the Eiffel tower at night. It sticks out of the ground like a meat thermometer on Thanksgiving, a symbol of national identity. Green grass lures tourists who mill about like a screen saver, pockets stuffed with green 100 Euros, they are green to bartering, and attract African immigrants who hawk D&G sunglasses. “Hello lady.”

I relax in the shade and contemplate the tower (it’s so crooked!!!) straining to hear German (War das toll?!) over the drone of the lawn mower and the at least nine people I count holding up the tower – “move your right hand up. No other right. A little higher. No not so high. Okay now make your palm flatter.” In the heat tempers flare “I’m sorry, I apologize,” says one. “Okay, good.” Is the response.

Tuesday, June 29th en route to Florence

11:00 am

My nose is a Roman fountain ever-flowing, is the city of Venice always flooding. My head is a wild boar in a roundabout just off the autostrada. I was almost home sick today, but decided to suck it up. You’re only in Italy once, (well okay twice now,) and plus, Rick says Florence has the best gelato. Maybe I'll nap in the cool calm of Santa Croce, where all of the dead are sleeping.

2:00 pm

Today I have wandered in a four block area of Florence for over an hour, bumping into people and looking at food. Now, for the first time in a week, I am alone, or as alone as you can be in Italy where there is always someone. Even if you've driven for three hours on roads that are curlier than Jack in the Box fries, you will still be following blue signs to tiny cities where the streets are so small they string volleyball nets between the buildings (see photo up top, sorry I'm too busy to edit) and have tournaments when everything closes on Sunday. If there is one thing I have learned in Italy, it is that although civilizations will rise and fall, civilization itself will never die. I love people, I love cities, I love watching busses and crossing cross walks and squeezing onto subways, but if there is one thing I've learned this year it's that moderation is necessary in absolutely everything. So now I find myself in the back room of a tiny bar that is famous for selling bagels (how exotic!), enjoying 'una poca de gracia' and thinking that 'sweet dreams are made of these, travel the world and the seven seas' as I savor one last salty bite of prosciutto. I picked the place because of the four Italians (identifiable by their brown hair, brown eyes, tan skin and sweet tongues) standing near the tiny door sipping coffee, and the proclamation "free seating inside". Someone just came to use the bathroom, and asked me in international sign language if there was anyone inside. I said "non c'e' niente". "There is nothing." My Italian's not so bad, but there are highs and lows. Anyhow, I'd better get on to writing my blog because we're meeting up at 4:00 to head home for left over wild boar.

Did I mention I have free internet here. WHAT.