Adventures in AndreaLand

For this weeks lessons,

Last night I learned that if I stay a little too long at work chatting with a friendly coworker, I may just catch the most beautiful sunset where the dark purple hot pink sky swirls circles dances around a spot of light bright blue until it swallows it up like the night greedily consuming the day.

I also learned that such a sunset is all the sweeter when shared silently with an old Italian woman whom you know has seen more brilliant sunsets over Firenze than you should ever hope and whose dark eyes hold more secrets than you would ever care to know.

I learned that the random little street that I pass every day leads up to a quaint little park and the steps leading up to the top surrounded by tall pines with views overlooking all of Firenze are carved thru with an enormous mosaic landscape sculpture of a swirling dragon lizard creature with eyes of crushed blue aqua glass and tail which winds up the hillside and ends in a goldfish pond and open gaping mouth that competes to swallow up the sunset.

Italian pizza is by far the best tasting pizza one has ever tasted and to order it in a restaraunt and not at one of the ubiquitious cafes is the best way to experience one. It comes on nearly paper thin perfectly burnt crust and I would highly suggest tomato mozarella gorgonzola mushroom.

Ive learned that if anyone should have an inclination to send a care package, it might want to include:  Mamouns Falafal, a US weekly or People magazine (is it true that Brittney cant breast feed because of her fake boobs?), Blue 9 cheeseburger, season two dvd set of Deadwood, fabric softener, Cafe Habana corn, Mommies chicken and dumplings, charmin toilet paper, a methadone like substance to replace my soft cheese addiction, and an unlimited gift certificate for beautifully hand crafted Italian leather shoes which are an art form all to themselves.

Ive also learned that Italians go on strike for just about anything. Not that long ago, security workers at the Ufizzi stopped working because the exhaling of too many tourists started to bug them. So Ive decided that in light of this open strike atmosphere, andrealand is going to go on strike until more people start to send emails or create postings and let the author know how they are doing.

Cinqueterra is one of the most beautiful places to hike and I am off for there tomorrow morning.

Ok so I’ve become the typical jaded new yorker. After only a little more than two weeks, I needed to get out of this beautiful but tinyrenaissance town. A girl can only take so much sepia toned renaissance architecture, amazing churches and beautiful paintings of mary and the darling baby jesus. So I took everyone’s advice and headed on over to the beautiful Tuscan town of Siena, which should not be missed. Upon arrival, after a 90 min train ride of listening to three germans and their constant gutteral chattering and eating of ripe tuna fish sandos, and a confusing figure it out for yourself nyc style bus ride, I arrived in the quaint town of Siena.  A lovely town of sepia toned renaissance architecture, amazing churches and beautiful paintings of mary and the darling baby jesus.

I made my way to the famed Piazza del Campo, the large shell shaped piazza of pink brick and sat in the warm sun, taking it all in. I tried to sit quietly by myself and write in my journal, but after catching a (Im sure very nice) japanese girl videotaping me and then a creepy old man in red lederhosen snapping a photo of me, I decided to explore, knowing something in this town had to be more interesting than a girl sitting alone writing in her little black book. I made my way down to the main palazzo to discover that the belltower was actually open for exploration. So after waiting for nearly an hour in line (at which point it became battle of the wills between myself and my bladder), the verde line came on and it was time to ascend the 503 narrow stone stairs of the tower that had been built some time around 1344.

I am forever grateful for my stubborn nature, for it proved to be an amazing experience. Over 320 feet high, one is rewarded the steep and sometimes clausterphobic trip up with unbeleivable 360degree views of the carved Tuscan landscape that has inspired sensitive artists for as long as written history. In all directions, one can see the winding medievel streets carved thru the ancient walled city, green rolling hills and blue skies dappled with puffy white clouds. I took many pictures, as did the others, but it was interesting to note how very few actually stopped to take in the views with their own imaginations. Snap snap click away went the nikons and canons but seldom did they pause and breathe it all in to preserve for their own memory to come. I am wondering if when they pull it all up on their digital memory, will they be able to remember the smell of the ancient warm breeze or the sound of the drums in the piazza below and the taste of the air that has already circulated through the mouths of noblemen and commenwealth alike.

In addition to the spectacular views, I was most struck during the experience on my way down the steep steps trying to hold on by the way that after hundreds of years the human touch can wear down hard rough stone and make it smooth buttery soft rounded and ready for the next trusting hand to come and make its path their own.

I explored siena some more, ate some gelato, and made my way back to the train to travel back ‘home’ to Firenze in perfect timing to catch the sunset on the warm Tuscan landscape made famous in Bertoluccis cinematically stunning if not great Stealing Beauty. Today I was going to try to make it to Sunday mass, but fearful of spontaneous firey combustion in such a sacred place, I layed out in the sun and tried on sexy italian lingerie instead.

Is anyone tired of me saying Tuscan landscape yet??

Week two, more lessons learned…

No matter what, Italian women should never ever ever dye their dark hair blond (See Donatella Versace). Italian people in general look surprisingly cool with dreadlocks and have developed a very interesting neo-mohawk-mullet look.

I wont mention any names, but a particular British-American aristocrat who was raised in Florence happened to have a strong affinity for the soft skin of young chinese boys and the black sticky tar of opium.

Wild boars are so prolific in this region that in old Italian art they symbolize the sin of lust. They also show up on quite a few menus.

The most common solvent to clean old European paintings is spit.

One can easily consume inordinate amounts of dairy on a daily basis. This can come in the form of pasta sauce, smooth yogurt, cold gelato, and the creamiest of asiago cheese that in no way resembles the hard dry kind only available in the US. And none of these come in a low fat option.

I can easily pass as a Canadian. Or a Brit. But then one guy in France asked if I were Mexican so maybe I just have an ethnically ambiguous look.

Italians should never ever ever attempt to make Mexican food, especially enchiladas. They should leave that to expert chefs. Or Mexicans.

Our villa is way bigger and our garden is way better than Harvard’s.

Italian mosquitos love my blood much more than their American vampire cousins.

Freed from its preferred vices the mind is free to explore the places it needs to.

Time and space cannot separate thought and spirit.

Its ok to be vulnerable.

Today as I walked to the Villa in the crisp warm early morning air making my way on a dusty path across the sloping sixty acres that make up the estate through olive groves cypress trees and purple wildflowers while tiny lizards darted back into the long crunchy grass I stopped and picked a fig. A soft plump purple fig with tight skin that had grown ripe under the warm Tuscan sun on a tree with large dark green leaves that had probably stood for centuries. I was careful to twist the fruit just right to the left making sure none of the sticky white stem nectar glued me to it tearing it open to reveal the sweet white red flesh tiny crunchy black seeds that I readily devoured knowing it had been pleasuring palates for millennia.

In the afternoon I sat on a stone bench next to an ancient Roman fountain that undulated with goldfish frogs glistening against itself in the hot sun surrounded by red lillies and pink roses and carefully manicured hedges with views overlooking the rolling hills of Tuscany while I read the decades old love letters between two men whose love could never be brought to fruition. The slight breeze in the air was thick rich clean green and oh so sweet from the tiny white flowers of the towering trees that watch over the potted lemons oranges peaches. I discovered the hedges were made up of the leaves of dark crisp laurel crown of loyalty among the Romans and as bayleaves taste of sweetness in homemade soup.

Later I enjoyed the delightful combination of dry crunchy breadsticks dipped in creamy hazelnut chocolate Nutella…

And since this hot internet cafe is neither sweet nor juicy and whitney houston is starting to bug me,  I must go. Happy Birthday Seema.

So it has been brought to my attention that despite this blog and my superfluous use of adjectives, many of you dont really know what the hell Ive been up to. So here goes… last week was my first full week of interning at the villa, which is about a 25 min walk from my apt, mostly uphill, hopefully combating my affinity for cheese and wine. I spent the week familiarizing myself with the extensive collection, the interesting and sometimes scandalous history of the family who left it to NYU, and the complicated politics between NYU and the Italian govt, who control it as the collection is considered cultural property so therefore protected by the Italian State. I had a meeting with a woman who is organizing a conference here in a few months to discuss the different management styles of Italian and American museums and watched an enormous recently conserved fifteenth century tapestry be hung on the wall of the ballroom. This week I am continuing my research on loan policy, making a site visit to I Tatti, Harvards villa here in Florence, giving a tour to NYU students of the Villa and gardens, and perhaps assisting in the washing of another tapestry. So far the best part of working with such a small staff of six is being invited to be part of different projects. Ive learned that at the end of Oct students are allowed to sign up to help harvest the olives and get to keep a bottle of the oil theyve helped produce. I hope I am here long enough to help with that.

My social life hasnt been terribly exciting, Ive spent a lot of time reading (just picked up The Agony and the Esctasy, a novel-bio about Michaelangelo, who was born and raised in Florence) and writing in my journal and cooking for myself. Ive eaten at restaraunts a few times (although Im tiring of the oh poor lady eating alone look) and so far my best meal has been an appetizer of thinly sliced pears with chunks of soft cheese drizzled with honey and homemade ravioli stuffed with spinach and gorgonzola covered with a creamy sauce of walnuts and truffles. The Italians have perfected the art of making gelato, which seems to come from heaven. I prefer the creamy coconut and dark forest fruit combo.

Ive hung out with the neighbor kids a few times, who bbq on their big patio, they are nice and its quite amusing to spend time with 20 year olds. I think one of them may have even been putting the moves on me, who thinks my age is "hot". Im flattered but no grazie.

Im hoping to not become too jaded by being surrounded by Italian art every day and am making a conscious effort to visit the many museums that fill this small city. Yesterday was Palazzo Pitti, the Medicis summer villa, and will make it to the Ufizzi when the tourist crowds die down. Also there is an exhibition of machine models created from Leonardos sketches that I hope to see soon.

So there you have it folks, the everyday adventures in andrealand.

Ok so I admit it, its true. When I woke up this morning to church bells and loud opera (from where Im still not quite sure) the only thing on my mind was a certain Mc and it had nothing to do with a drunken Irishman. Despite the fact that it passes my mouth maybe once per year the only thing I could think about was a bacon, egg and cheese on a fluffy, greasy biscuit and one of those crispy potato pockets and perhaps a cup of coffee that was deeper than a half inch. So I made my way a few blocks down the street to the only McDonalds I knew of, only to find their breakfast menu consisted of a McPanna, which is the same damn sando of ham and cheese on flat bread that Ive seen in every storefront for the past nine days, and have eaten more than once. Alas, (and that word is for you JenLev), I went to my local grocer and bought proper breakfast ingredients. And as a result, made the best damn cup of perculated espresso in the whole world. I also learned its good to read packages carefully because my Kelloggs Cornflakes turned out to be chocolate flavored. McWhat?!?!

I then spent the next two hours doing laundry, which was quite necessary, but required the assistance of the housekeeper because no matter what, the vague pictorals made Ikea assembly instructions seem like copious manual. I thought the neighbor boys were exaggerating, but no, an extemely small load of laundry took over 2 hours and at times I believe it was boiled. And for whatever reason, Euros dont much believe in dryers. So all, including jeans and towels, is crispy and crunchy line-dried. Mommy knows how much I love that.

I apologize for the very uninteresting blog, but sometimes one just needs to be domestic and cant forever live in the glorious and glamorous life of the Renaissance. Although apparently she can still do laundry as if living as such.

After one week in Firenze, here are some things I have learned:

Italians really love their bicycles and vespas, even tiny children and very old ladies ride on the backs or fronts or wherever they can fit. This morning I saw an entire family perched on their tiny scooter.

They love these forms of transportation almost as much as they love their cell phones, tight jeans, fancy sunglasses, thick black eyeliner, cheesy American television, incredibly high heels on cobbled streets and ironic tshirts printed in english. But the tshirts are seldom ironic, mostly nonsensical, and often misspelled.

Geckos make great pest control in museums.

No matter how hard to try to speak the language, if you have blond hair and blue eyes Italians will speak to you in English.

If you don’t shave for a week, one can easily start to smell like an old Italian man.

Strangers playing Italian guitar on ponte vecchio while the sun sets its warmth over the Arno is one of the sweetest sounds.

The vocal intonations of American teenage girls is one of the most grating sounds.

Seventeenth century homoerotica is hot.

Target and Walmart epitomize what is wrong with America and I miss them both deeply.

When you are hungry and homesick its good to eat a big plate of scrambled eggs mixed with prosciutto and creamy asiago cheese.

I like poetry.

Wine can cost $4 a bottle and still be really good.

It is a precious luxury to have internet access at home.

I’m not as tough as I like to think I am.

Things rarely turn out like you expected.

So I’m no longer homeless. I’m managed to get myself a great big apt to myself which is part of a huge old Renaissance palazzo and it happens to be 5x my nyc studio. Every room has big windows that open up to a courtyard and rooftops and the building is filled with young noisy college kids that make it just a little less lonely. They’ve even invited me to go out with them, despite my elderly status… perhaps next time.

After getting settled in, I spent the past weekend exploring this unbelievable city that despite the noise of Vespas, american tourists and random love of neon, has managed to preserve the ambiance of its Renaissance past. If I put in my ipod (which I’ve only recently mustered the courage to use due to the aforementioned deadly vespas) and squint just right, walking down the very narrow and winding cobbled streets of terracotta walls, I can somewhat imagine that it hasn’t changed much in the past 500 years. Except also that I’m a female allowed to walk the streets unaccompanied by a chaperone with no laws forbidding it. 

I spent the entire weekend walking, exploring, thinking, trying to take it all in. I walked up to the Piazza Michaelangelo, (no whackers this time), with its stunning views overlooking the city and wrote some and tried to sketch it but there’s a reason I only study art and don’t try to create it myself… I visited the Boboli Gardens, acres and acres of lush trees and winding trails and hidden statues that have stood for centuries. Some areas were so quiet and isolated it felt like I was deep in a Renaissance forest all by myself, while other areas were exquisitly designed and beautifully manicured to perfection with ponds filled with goldfish and a promenade of cypress trees.

I started my work yesterday, mostly being toured around by the collections managers, through most of the 60 rooms, each one filled with paintings, sculptures and randomly assorted pieces from the medievil and renaissance periods, mixed together with pieces from the 19th cent pieces, sometimes in 18th cent frescoed rooms, along with birdcage ceiling fixtures, seashells and homemade decopage, in a stunning and overwhelming collection. I was given interesting facts about the former occupants and their personal history, but the villa itself seems to breathe the air of a former time and era when plays were put on in the lush green gardens and the statues were witness to the life of the priveliged. I was even allowed to sort thru a box of bric a brac with the archivist, finding Mr Actons old calling cards and reading glasses and vials of prescriptive juices.

But now I need to head on down the hill and find myself some pasta and good thick cheap wine.