La Dolce Vita: Florence

Andddd I’m back! This weekend, I had a glorious lazy Saturday at home by myself after noon, so I could do what I do best, which is read, watch tv, and sleep myself into a glorious stupor.  This gave me plenty of energy to strike out on my own, and go visit beautiful Firenze.  I took my notebook with me, so I could jot down my thoughts during the day.  This method has pros and cons- much more detail, but then you have to sit through my ramblings as inspiration strikes me, and I fancy myself a journalist or young travel writer, exploring alone with just an occasional glass of wine and these wits. 

Well, here I am again writing down my thoughts on a train in Europe.  Last time I did this, I was on the way back to Paris from Brugus, eager to be back home in the City of Lights after twenty days on the road for spring break just over a year ago.  My handwriting hasn’t gotten any better.  The last time I was on a train in Italy, it might’ve well been this very train since my family and I were coming back from Florence and Pisa to our ship.  Today, instead of heading home, I’m leaving Camaiore on this cloudy Sunday to venture into Florence.  I’m on my own today, and the sky hasn’t quite made up its mind on whether it’s going to pour down a deluge of epic proportions  or buck up and give me some sunshine, but I thought I’d take my chances.  Better to walk around Florence in the rain than potentially waste a beautiful day at home.  Also, I’ll feel better about sleeping away my other half days on the beach if I can do some productive exploring done. 

However, I’m not quite sure how this day will play out.  I’m not the best at preparation, and usually I have at least one other person to bounce ideas off of, but today it’s just me and my trusty guidebook, and my only limitations are money (perpetually), time (I hate waiting in lines), and how far my feet will carry me.  I’m kind of expecting to develop a sixth sense between here and Florence that will magically lead me where I want to go without actually knowing it, but alas, that hasn’t really worked out for me in the past (example: the time I got on a plane and then realized that I had no idea where I was going once I stepped off said plane).  So I’m probably going to have to crack this guide book open at some point during the ride.  I’ve seen the famous David statue, and have vague memories of frescos and marble fountains, but I guess I should attempt some of the museums again, now that I’m older, wiser, and theoretically more appreciative of art.  Mostly, though, I envision walking around the city, gelato in hand, and just relishing the city of Florence.

               And then ironically, horrifyingly, hilariously, I discover I’m on the wrong train.  That’s just the most terrifying minute and a half of panic, frozen in my seat, before I can form a battle plan.  I’ve gone an hour in the wrong direction, and according to the one other man on my part of the train, I have to go another half hour before I can turn around.  When I do get off, at the end of the line and what seems like the end of the world, I walk through a deserted station.  Three other people get off with me, and they quickly disappear into taxis and waiting cars.  There’s no one one working at this station- the ticket window is closed, there’s a fine layer of dust over the snack bar and even the bathroom is locked.  The timetable behind a dirty glass case says a train headed straight to Florence will come through in half an hour, but since I triple-checked the information in Viareggio and still got on the wrong train, I don’t trust it that much.  Also, do I buy a new ticket?  The way it works here is that you buy a ticket, and then when you want to use it you validate it by punching like a time card in a machine on the platform.  That way, you can buy a ticket and use it whenever you want- I had bought my return ticket that morning.  Occasionally, guards will come through and check tickets, and the fine for not having one or even not validating yours is severe.  So do I risk it, and just get on another train, or buy a whole new ticket?

               Of course, I decide to risk it.  As other people board my train, I ask like three other people (like a caveman, pointing and grunting- my Italian is not so good) if this is the train to Firenze, and when I get multiple replies in the affirmative I settle down for the 90 minute ride back to Viareggio, and then the nearly two hour ride to Florence.  Unsurprisingly to anyone who know me, I was well equipped with a freshly stocked Kindle, and I’ve met few people who can marathon read like me.  Good thing I like trains.  In a way, it was kind of perfect- I got to read uninterrupted for five hours, and then walk around a beautiful city.

               I would like to note, dear reader, that I was a bit tempted to skip over this little blunder entirely, but I’ve found that my travel mistakes occasionally make for good memories, and also to remind my future self not to worry so much when things inevitably go a little bit wrong.  Experienced travelers can relate, and if any of you haven’t traveled yet but want to, just remember that it’s really not worth it to stress about plans gone wrong.  You’ll enjoy yourself much more if you just take a chill pill and relax.  Anyway, I got lovely views of the Italian countryside and read a very nice book. 

               So, I did finally arrive in Florence.  Walking through the hustle and bustle of the train station and take pleasure in the fact that I am not at this moment a backpacker or loud American tour group, and instead look marginally more Italian toting just my purse.  Of course, leaving the station, I realize I don’t actually know where I’m going- somehow, my plans never seem to include such salient details as street names or directions. Did my train blunder teach me a lesson? Obviously not.  My guide book is written for poor college student backpackers, and therefore can be quiet sassy- under directions for the Duomo, it just says, “Can’t miss it.” Rather than stand around with my map, I resettled my sunglasses on my face and just followed the spiders.  I mean, tourists.

hard to miss

               And there it was.  You really can’t miss it.  Walking around the the circle of a piazza, there’s suddenly this huge building in front of you, just standing there casually among the tourists and artists and shops.  The sheer size of the thing is breathtaking, and I started to do what I always do when presented with amazing sights- I started to giggle.  In my life, I have found myself standing in the middle of the most amazing places and situations, whether in a foreign city or on a hot summer night at home, and I catch myself questioning my incredible, incredible fortune.  And then I start to grin, and eventually just can’t stop the laughter.  I vividly remember jamming a pillow in my mouth late in the night after my first day in Paris to keep from waking my roommate- I just couldn’t believe it was real. Standing in front of the Duomo, it hit home- I’m in Florence.  In Italy! Living here for two months!  I don’t know guys.  I don’t know how these things keep happening to me. 

  Privileged reflections aside, my stomach reminded me that I just spent five hours on a train, and it was high time I got something to eat.  I found a restaurant in the shade of the Duomo, and ordered the prix fixe menu that I learned to appreciate in Paris- ten euros for a starter, main entrée, and glass of wine.  Usually I’m wary of restaurants in the touristy parts of any city, knowing that the better deals are away from the crowds, but sometimes the location is worth it.  I felt very much like Intrepid Young Explorer sitting there, writing in my notebook sipping on my glass of wine, and I amused myself by imagining different scenarios for the passersby, where are they from? Etc, and wondered what they thought about me.  Do I look unusually American? Could they think I’m a travel writer (like, really, how do I get that job? You wouldn’t even have to pay me, just a roof over my head and a crust of bread, that’s all I ask, PLEASE)? I could be!  Anyway, people watching can be an all day event, but I decided to walk around and enjoy the beautiful weather, which had turned cool and clear.   I could always save the museums for a hotter day.  After all, I had gelato to find.

just how I like my lunch- with wine

view from my table

One of the benefits of traveling alone is the ability to live in your own head for a day, and make up whatever fantasy you want.  On one street, I’m a Florence native, winding my way through the tiresome American tourists (really, I hear more English than Italian in Florence), on the next, I’m a spy, looking for my contact among the crowds.  (That’s a good game too, by the way, if not particularly productive- guess the spy.  There’s always one in every room.)  

Making my way south, I followed the cobblestone streets from the Duomo down towards Pont Vecchio, eschewing a map in order to take whatever narrow alley I felt like, finding gelato on the way.  People just walk everywhere, with the exasperated taxi drivers honking ambling pedestrians out of the way.  I’ve begun to develop an Italian frame of mind when it comes to traffic- I just assume they see me, and walk where I want.  Are you getting a hint of my travel philosophy? Basically, it’s the close-my-eyes-and-hope method. 

my quest to eat gelato in every city continues

Approaching Pont Vecchio- I know I’ve been here before, but the vivid memories didn’t hit until I reached the “Old Bridge”.  There’s maybe nothing picturesque than the views from this bridge, unless it’s the views of the bridge.  It’s lined with expensive jewelry shops and street vendors selling toys and art.  I easily found the gelato shop and the restaurant that my family stopped in, and those memories came roaring back the further I went.  Funny how memory isn’t always about what you saw, but rather the way you felt. 

Pont Vecchio

Unassuming gelato shop of Lambs gone by

Pont Vecchio view to the left...

hai

....and the view to the right

the shops on the bridge

Anyway, once I crossed the bridge, I was at a bit of a loss.  What to do? It’s not like I didn’t have a book full of places to go and things to see, or that I didn’t enjoy walking around, but it doesn’t feel very productive to come home with, “and then I walked around.”  It’s even less productive to play the “whadda you wanna do? I dunno, whadda you wanna do?” with yourself.  Since I was already on the south side of the river, I decided to take advantage of the clear view and get a panoramic view of the city, so I walked east along the Arno to Piazalle Michelangelo.  Strolling along, I followed the helpful signs away from the river and into a series of narrow, steep streets, getting further away from the hordes of tourists.  Here, it was easier to imagine that I might belong here.

helpful signs leading the way

Cities, man.  Next time I talk about like, nature, or getting away from it all, or going to live as a hermit in the woods, just whisper in my ear, “Cities, Becca.” I love them.  I like the hustle and bustle, the crowds, the shops and stores and a million gazillion other things.  Every city that I’ve been in has its own particular texture, its own shape and smell.  (Insert the Oliver and Company song here) My host parents love their little town, it’s quiet and cool, and they talk about the crowds in the cities and the oppressive heat.  I like the crowds.  I like hearing many different languages, but I also like that most people speak enough English to get by.  I like the twisting turns of alleyways and the hidden hole-in-the-wall bars.  Apart from the ease of transportation, readily available entertainment, and endless supply of gelato, cities make me feel like adventure is always around the corner- there’s always something new to explore, no matter how long you’ve been there, and its right at your fingertips.  My travels have been marked by amazing cities, and Top 5 to See is constantly updating (London, Lisbon, Istanbul, Budapest, Edinburgh- I took off Harare, Johannesburg and Cape Town because those plans are already in the works).  Florence in particular is amazing because it feels old, like really old, and there are all of these churches and statues and art which grace a city that housed some of history’s most influential people- Leonardo Da Vinci and Dante were both born here.  The stores and tour groups don’t subtract anything from its fairytale quality. 

Anyway, back to the day.  Walking up the many, many steps to Piazalle Michelangelo was a much more trying feat than the steps in Pisa’s Leaning Tower, especially in the heat of the day.  When I finally did reach the top, at first I was like, dude, nice parking lot, but why…?  Then of course, I turned around, and lost my breath all over again after recovering from the stairs.  Florence was laid out in front of me, like a perfect postcard, and I could barely stop staring long enough to take pictures.  And then, I took a lot of pictures, but cameras can never capture the detail that the eye can. When the hour turned, a melody of bells spread across the city. It was absolutely perfect. 

up up up up

the most beautiful

I didn’t want to leave, but I was losing the daylight and had miles to go before I slept.  Walking back down, I spotted a small door cut into a wall, leading to a secret rose garden.  Well, I don’t know how secret it was, but it felt like I’d stumbled onto a treasure- with a view of the city, couples and friends were lying in the shade of the many rose bushes, drinking or reading or sleeping. 

door to the secret garden

I made my way back through the city, window shopping and walking past churches in the middle of service, and past a temporary stadium set up in Piazza Saint Croce where Calcio Storico will be played in the dirt-covered square in front of the church tomorrow in celebration of Florence's patron saint, St. John the Baptist. (The game is a combination of soccer, rugby, and big time wrestling, all played while wearing 16^th century costumes. The four teams represent the four traditional neighborhoods of the city: Santa Croce, Santo Spirito, Santa Maria Novella, and San Giovanni.)  I traced the river back to the Uffizi- not open any longer, but still filled with vendors and street performers. Next to the Uffizi is the Piazza della Signora, which is as full of art as any museum, and definitely fulfilled my daily quota of art appreciation. There was the fake David- the real one being across the city- and a marble fountain that Michelangelo found so offensive he called it, "a good waste of marble", and the Florentines named it, "The White Giant". Tired and happy, I bought a bottle of beer (cheap and cold, which were my two highest priorities at the time) and walked back to the Duomo and settled myself on the steps to sip my drink, write in my notebook and people watch before walking back to the station to catch my train home.

gravity, dude, it's insane

casual street statues and randos

offending marble fountain

the view from my perch on the steps of the Duomo

I love Florence- it was my favorite Italian city when I stopped here for a day with my family, and it’s reaffirmed its place in my heart.  I’m just glad I’ll have the opportunity to return, and soon- I saw many more places I wanted to visit.  It would be easy to return here every Sunday, but I am going to try and branch out.  Florence will be waiting.  And then maybe next time I’ll actually step inside a museum!

Ciao!  Talk to you soon!
Love, Becca

Pisa Illuminated

Hello All!  

Sorry for the little break there- my Internet continues to be sketchy at best, and I've encountered further distractions.  I've rediscovered the joy of my Kindle, and, much like high school, nothing gets done when there's a book to read.  (If you've read anything fantastic lately, be sure to send the title my way.)  My days here have a lazy predictability to them.  The kids and I spend most of the morning at the beach, eat lunch and then get picked up by a parent in the afternoon.  Operation Italian Glow is coming along nicely as I perfect the art of laying on a beach and keeping an eye on my charges, though the affect may be heightened by the fine layer of sand that never seems to completely wash off.  I feel very exfoliated.  

A worldwide tradition- let me bury my sibling in the sand

just a casual walk down the beach

Btw, casually had an earthquake this morning.  It only lasted about ten seconds, and wasn't strong enough to do any kind of damage, but still.  Maybe Californians get used to the entire word rumbling beneath their feet, but having just come through the second quake in my whole life, it's very disconcerting.  Nothing like a brush with a natural disaster to reset your priorities, so, gelato in hand (priority #1: eat dessert first) I'm back at the computer, ready to update the world about my quiet adventures.  

nutella and crema, don't mind if I do

So! This past weekend, the adventuring/travelling portion of this whole Italy business began.  Saturday night, I finally got to meet up with some of the other au pairs in the area.  The three I met were Maggie, freshly graduated out of UNC who arrived a week or so before I did, English Melissa, who just came back from a year in New Zealand and has been in Camaiore for three months already, and Carlotta, who just finished her first year of university in Spain.  We met Saturday night at Rossano’s, a bar downtown that serves an apertivo for five euros, which basically means tapas type foods laid out to go with your drink.  After making a dinner out of little sandwiches, the four of us walked up through Camaiore to the city center, which is along a pedestrian street to help celebrate the beer festival the town hosted this weekend.  Tents of artisan breweries lined the public square, selling small tastes of their drafts to the crowd as they were entertained by bands and fire dancers.  We were among the only ones who could sing along to the Beatles’ covers, but I’m not sure how appreciative our neighbors were. 

mine was the orange one with melon and the little leaf thing

I just wanted all the fruit

crowded streets of Camaiore when there's beer to be had

let's dance with fire, that's a good idea

The next day, after discovering we all had Sunday off, we made plans to go explore nearby Pisa. We got a ride down to the Viareggio train station, bought our ticket, and then wandered around to find an excellent Japanese restaurant while we waited for the train to arrive.  Melissa “call me Mels" gave me a small tour as we walked, pointing out the bus station and the good shopping in Viareggio, which is quite close to the family beach in Lido.  After eating, we rode the fifteen minute train into Pisa for about three euros, and walked through the city to get to the famous tower.

               (If you ever get to Pisa, and can remember back to this blog, when you take the train into Pisa, don’t get off at Pisa Centrale-San Rossore is a much closer stop)

               As we neared the tower, the crowd thickened, and suddenly things started to look familiar as the memories came rushing back from my 17 year old self, in Pisa with my family.  We had stopped in Pisa on the way back from a day walking around Florence, and as I remember, we missed our train back to our cruise ship and had to get a taxi to take us.  This weekend, we had the whole day at our disposal, and we wound through the tourists holding up their hands to ‘catch’ the tower  to get to Mels’ host father’s gelato shop, directly across from the tower.  He welcomed us, served us ice cream, and then pulled out his phone.  Within a few minutes of finishing our cones, a security guard came to the shop and ushered us past the waiting lines into the Leaning Tower of Pisa, so that we could begin the climb upwards. 

peeking out

something, cathedral, tower.
I'm a bad tourist.

WELL HELLO BEAUTIFUL

view from the gelato shop

more ice cream please and thank you

               Now, I don’t know what your experience with stairs is, but mine is pretty vast- Paris was chock full of stairs, and I climbed the Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower, and Notre Dame like a native (aka, slowly, but with a casual air that says, ‘these stairs are nothing to me- in fact, I’m bored by them,’ as the French are prone to do.) The climb to the top of Pisa’s famous tower wasn’t difficult, but the slight, cough, lean will have you hugging the wall on your way up and bracing yourself on the way down.  It was more than a little strange to catch a glimpse out of one of the narrow windows to see the world tilted just a tad, but we made it to the top without much difficulty.  About four fifths of the way up, you leave the interior of the tower to walk around the outside to a second set of stairs, and I shuddered to think of the generations of monks who made the daily climb to ring the bells without the security of the metal gates (FYI, it was built as a bell tower, to bring the people to church.  Now you know.)  The path between the wall of the tower and the pillars on the outside couldn’t have been more than four feet across, and with the subtle slope, I had visions of the careless sliding right off.

up up up

At the top, there’s a small little, um, courtyard? in the center of the seven bells, with a hole in the top going all the way to the ground.  (Again, what kind of engineering job was this? Was no one concerned with basic safety?!? (Haha, oh Becca. Obviously it wasn’t a very good one, re: the lean.))   

A little about the famous tower- it took over 300 years to build! The lean was apparent by the time they got to the second floor, so they stopped for awhile, along with the fact that back in the day, Pisa was constantly at war with the other towns, so construction was halted a lot. This turned out to be a good thing, because it gave time for the ground to settle underneath the foundation- otherwise, it would've fallen over a long time ago.  The lean used to be a lot worse, but about 20 years ago they started to restructure a bit to keep it up.  It used to get a little worse each year, but apparently in 2008 it was proclaimed stable enough not move any more, and should last for the next 200 years.  We'll see about that, I guess.  Let's hope there's no more earthquakes.  

Anyway, we walked around, snapping pictures until the guards alerted us that our time was up.  The walk down was way more treacherous than the way up as the marble steps were worn and slippery from decades of use.   We went back to the gelato shopping, and barely made it through the door before we were ushered out again, this time towards the cathedral next to the tower.  We were greeted by a security guard who took us through the back door so we could walk through the beautiful big church. 

Afterwards, we wandered through the streets of Pisa, stepping into shops when we felt like it to browse escape the heat for a few minutes.  We killed time until the sun began to set, and the town started to prepare for one of its biggest celebrations of the year.  June 16^th is the Luminara of San Ranieri.  Saint Rainerius is the patron saint of Pisa, and on the night before his feast day, all the houses and buildings along the Arno River are covered in hundreds of candles. Of course, this is all after my camera dies it's untimely death, so here are some stock pictures so you can get an idea until I go steal some pics from the other girls :)

“The tradition of lighting the city with candles dates back to 1688. In that year, the urn containing the remains of Saint Ranieri was placed in the Cappella dell'Incoronata in the cathedral, which is now dedicated to him. Cosimo III of the Medici wanted the antique urn that contained the saint's remains to be substituted with a more sumptuous and modern urn. The change was occassion for a memorable city feast and according to tradition, the Luminara, or "illumination" as it was called back then, was born.

setting up for the evening celebration

glow baby glow

Today the celebration has taken a specific form: the architectural details of the palaces, churches, towers and bridges along the Arno (windows, cornices, balconies) are recreated with white wooden frames. These frames are fitted onto the buildings and on these frames candles are attached and lit after sunset. Over 70,000 "lumini" (how candles are called in Italian when they are inside a container, glass in this case) burn and reflect on the river. Some candles are also floated on the waters of the Arno. The city along the lungarno simply glows.” x

We were warned to get a good seat early, so as the sun made it’s so descent we found a restaurant selling cheap wine and sangria and perched ourselves on the wall lining the river to wait for dark.  As it got later, we were joined by what seemed like the entire population of Pisa- trailers selling candy, drinks, and toys lined the roads and vendors walked between the gathering crowds selling balloons and glow in the dark toys.  We were joined on the wall by the hundreds, until every available space was occupied, and still more people filled the streets behind us.  We chatted and drank, oohing and awing as the city started to glow under the lights of the thousands of candles.  Unfortunately, we had to catch the last train back to Viareggio, so we pushed our way through the crowd before the fireworks started, reluctant to leave but not wanting to miss our last ride home.  We stopped off long enough so Maggie could be some old fashioned candy and Carlotta and I could get Nutella crepes, which I ate pretty much as messily as possible on our walk back to the train station.  Our compartment looked just like I imagined Harry Potter’s did on the Hogwarts Express, so with that thought and the Nutella induced food coma, obviously I couldn’t have been much happier. 

hanging out on the wall

This next weekend is quickly approaching, and I’m eager to continue my exploration of Tuscany.  Where to next? If the weather stays beautiful, I may just get myself down to the train station and see what’s available. Any suggestions? I always want to hear from you guys- comment here or on Facebook and I’ll be sure to see it.  Hope the sun is shining where you are!  Talk to you soon J  

P.S.  I did laundry for the first time this weekend.  there's absolutely no reason why you need to know that- it's just always been a marker for me as I travel.  My clothes now smell like Italy, and the few (many) lingering cat hairs are being replaced by dog ones.  It makes me feel more settled.  Is that strange? I don't know.  I just know that whenever I go somewhere new, I don't feel quite in place until I've done a couple loads.  It's not like I've got a great affection for doing laundry at home anyway, but what can you do. The mind is weird like that.  

Parlese Inglese?

Seems like my hours off relaxing in the sun or playing on the computer are over- usually, I have the kids from 9-1, and then I have a break for three hours where I catch up on internet things or sleep on the beach.  However, yesterday Lucia walked past me bumming on Facebook and asked what I was doing.  (Honestly, no matter what I’m doing, whenever an adult asks me that I just go “uhhhhh….”) Then she asked me what Italian I learned yesterday.  She asks me that almost every day, and for the first four days or so I could readily answer with whatever I had picked up from the kids, but lately I’ve been faltering a bit.  So when she asked yesterday and my answer was less than impressive, she disappeared for a moment and came back with a notebook and a pen.  She said, “Here, so you can study.  Time to learn Italian!” and then took me around the club, giving me the Italian names for things.  Now, as soon as I post this, I’ll crack open the notebook again and get to work.  She’s right of course- good intentions are nice and all, but if I’m going to take advantage of this experience then I need to start helping myself. 

So, before I woke up one morning and was like, “hey, I think I’ll go to Italy this summer”, my Italian skills were zero.  Like, ‘ciao’, ‘spaghetti’, ‘arrivederci’, and that’s it.  Before I left for France, I had 5+ years of French classes under my belt, plus extensive research on the culture and Paris itself.  Here, I don’t  know anything; I have no background knowledge.  I downloaded like 6 different language apps for my phone and annoyed the heck out of my family practicing, but predictably not a lot stuck.  They say that the best way to learn any language is through immersion, and that’s exactly what I have here.  All Italian, all the time. 

Stephen speaks pretty good English, and enjoys speaking it, so he can usually figure out whatever I’m trying to say if we get stuck.  Francesca speaks good basic English and can understand if I speak slowly enough, but there’s a lot of vocab we have to teach each other.  They’ve asked me to correct them, but I really like hearing them speak English in an Italian pattern, if that makes any sense.  Their word choice is usually accurate, but strange and therefore very fun to listen to.  The favorite verb here is ‘to organize’- organize yourself to get ready to leave, organize a meeting, organize lunch.   If you know anything about the sentence structure in Romantic languages, then you know that the direct translation into English sounds quite formal- instead of going to my mother’s house, I go to the house of my mother.  Words like speak, talk, and said are used interchangeably, so sometimes the combination strikes me as slightly odd, but not enough to correct.  The biggest things I speak up on are prepositions (you don’t get on the car, you get in the car) and speaking in the past.  Italian is a phonetic language, so they pronounce every word.  It makes words like cooked and passed come out cook-ed (rhymes with crooked) and pass-ed.  They don’t hear the difference between ‘pass’ and passed’ very well, which makes me realize how small of a difference it is, but one that I can pick out easily.

Anyway, I find all this language stuff very interesting- one of my favorite things about learning French was discovering or noticing all the weird rules about English.  I was trying to explain the difference between ‘show’ and ‘shoo’ the other day, and just cracked up at the look on Stephen’s face.  Whatever, they can’t complain, when all their words just stick random z’s and e’s in the middle of words. 

On my end, Vittoria is my best teacher, miming out what she wants to say and making me repeat words like tree, bird, beach, dog, cat, and different body parts.  I’m a visual learner, so it’s hard to memorize words without seeing them written down.  We spend a lot of time together while Leo is at school, so we’ve developed a pretty good rhythm together.  I’ve also reached waaay back into my repertoire of kid games I can use.  Vittoria recently learned Concentration (64, no repeats or hesitations) and we play in English, so slowly but surely she’s mastering animals, colors, etc.  If anyone remembers any two person hand games or rhymes, I would love to hear them! 

Leonardo and I are totally lost- we just high five a lot.  Leo takes more effort.  The other day, we had a ping pong ball and paddle that he was hitting all around, so every time it came near me I grabbed it and said “Inglese!” He would pout for a second, and sigh dramatically, but eventually we worked up to “Ball, please, Rebecca.”  Sometimes he chatters at me and expects answers, so after a while I remind him I don’t understand Italian. He just looks at me dubiously, and then says basically the equivalent of, “Well, I don’t like English, so you better learn.” It always makes the parents laugh.  I haven’t spent that much time with Leo yet, but I’m so impressed with how quickly Vittoria is learning.  Her comprehension has improved so much from day one, it’s really incredible and I’m quite jealous.  She’s already parroting back the short English phrases I, like “Come on!” and “good morning”.  She has English lessons at school, but it’s just one hour a week, and apparently the teacher not only is Italian so English is her second language, but she also has a lisp.  The first part of my Italian curriculum will be the words I use most often that she doesn’t understand and that are hard for me to explain, like here, there, go, come, stay, leave, etc. 

          I’m going to have to be my own teacher and really work at the grammar so that I can start speaking sentences instead of just parroting back words that I quickly forget.  I default to French a lot, which doesn’t actually work, but I can’t help it.  I try and fit French articles around Italian words, which means that no one understands me at all, but knowing French grammar helps me guess at the Italian.  There are many people here who want to practice their English on me, so eventually I can use them to practice Italian.  If anyone has any tricks for learning languages, please pass them on!

               Hope you’re all having lovely summers!  Talk to you soon!

Becca

  

Italian fun fact: cat, in Italian, is gatto. Dog is cane, and fish is pesce. Understandably, the word for catfish is pescegatto.  Do you know what a pescecane is? I’ll give you a hint.  It’s a shark! Apparently, it’s the uncommon translation but I don’t care.  Isn’t that the most fantastic thing you’ve ever heard?

Moby Dick

During the first week while the children were at school, I spent most of my time at Francesca’s mother Lucia’s beach club.  The beaches in Camaiore are all privately owned, so tourists and residents alike have to rent an umbrella and a chair at a club.  Francesca’s father owns his father’s business where he and Francesca sell dental supplies or something.  It’s an old company, and doing very well.  So well in fact, that Francesca’s father bought the club for Lucia to have as her special project.  There’s a definite all-in-the-family vibe around here; Francesca works for her father, and Stephen works with his mother in his sports shop. 

Spiaggia Moby Dick

Anyway, I’ve been doing some hardcore chilling there the past few days and we’re going to be spending most of the summer there, so I thought I should talk about it a little.  The idea of private beaches that aren’t attached to hotels is foreign to me (haha get it? Foreign? Get itttt????).  There’s a small courtyard area by the entrance surrounded by dressing rooms, and then a small restaurant/bar, and then four rows of orange Moby Dick chairs stretching down to the sea, lost in a field of different colored chairs from the multiple clubs.  It seems like a pretty easy operation- as far as I can tell, there’s Lucia, two bartenders/waiters, a cook, and a lifeguard.  When we arrive in the morning around nine, the beach is just waking up- floors are swept and the lifeguards lay out all of the chairs and umbrellas in the proper order.  We drink cappuccino as the day slowing moves on and guests start to make their way down to their chairs.  You get all types here- families with their little kids running around in speedos (both genders), older couples who are so tan their skin looks like leather, and tourists speaking all kinds of different language.  Lucia, who every time she passes pats my hand or smooths my hair, ushers all Americans to me, so I’m left doing the “Hi, how are you? Where are you from? That’s nice….” Dance with strangers while she beams at us.  Around one, people start to fill up the restaurant for lunch or stroll up the promenade to find some gelato.  As the afternoon, the sun gets hotter, people start to swim, but it’s still pretty cold.  Also, the use of bathing suits is more of a suggestion; I’ve seen enough unfortunate speedos to last a life time, and while it’s not a topless beach per se, certainly no one will stop you if you choose to forgo tan lines. 

               Lucia flits around like a butterfly, greeting everyone who comes through like an old friend- they might even be, I don’t know.  She kisses children and talks like an eighties beauty queen, but when she answers the phone it’s a serene Si? Or a clipped Pronto? depending, I imagine, on whether it’s business or pleasure.  In the evenings, she sits on the terrace of the bar with her glass of prosecco and a few fast talking Italian mothers and grandmothers.   As the restaurant closes up, the lifeguards (there’s one on every beach- they sit down by the water on their benches and yell back and forth to each other all day long) pull all the chairs up and then begin to rake the sand, collecting all the wrappers and cigarettes and making it look like no one ever walked anywhere, so in the morning guests come to a pristine beach. 

casually drinking prosecco on the beach

               I’ve biked up and down the promenade in front of the beaches, going down to the little inlet with a drawbridge that lets the sailboats docked inland out into the ocean.  Restaurants and shop fit between the hotels, some of which have awesome old architecture, and some of which have been there since the 40’s, so they’re just old instead of antique.  The town is very old- Francesca told me that the Camaiore means “soldier’s camp” and it was used as a fort for the army patrols from Rome.  In those days, everything was built out of wood, but a huge fire decimated everything, so all the oldest buildings were reconstructed in the same style.  Now, the town of Camaiore is the hub of several smaller villages that dot the mountains.  From my window, I can see a church on the top of a mountain, and the bell rings every day at noon. It’s not a bustling city like Paris, but I think that this is a much more unique slice of culture- I’m not just another face in a crowd of tourists.  I wish I spoke better Italian, but that will come with time. Meanwhile, I need to brush up on some necessary phrases.  Apparently there’s a bike path off the busy road down to the town from our house so I’ll be able to go on my own and meet what will hopefully be lots of new friends there.

gotta keep up with Vittoria

My first weekend in Camaiore passed nicely.   Saturday, Francesca took me and the kids up to Nocci, a few miles up the mountain our house is on.  Nocci looks like the ideal Tuscany village, and off the road there’s a spring with water fresh from the stream that runs through the tower.  We filled up near a dozen bottles to use for the week, and then walked around the houses.  I just constantly look like such a dweeb snapping pics with my iPhone all the time, but I can’t help it. 

Nocci

               It’s so beautiful here, but in a quiet way- I turn a corner, and there’s a new view of the mountain.  The downtown area of Camaiore is pedestrian only, and very walkable, and I just wanted to laugh out loud about how idyllic it all is.  At  11am, old men were sitting outside bars and restaurants smoking cigars and drinking, chatting to each other or just watching street.  Dogs and children roam free, and as I walked around a little market began setting up shop. 

               On Sunday, we woke up to the first cloudy skies I’ve seen yet- before I came, there had been three weeks of constant rain, and multiple people thanked me for bringing the good weather with me.  Vittoria, Francesca and I took Suzy (the dog) out to a trail nearby the house before the rain started.  We hiked up the little path, while Suzy bounded around us, crossing creeks and picking up pinecones and ferns.  There are so many different kinds of trees here, which may sound like a stupid thing to say (“There’s different trees here too, duh”) ok, Chief Botanist, but think back to your local forest.  Yeah, maybe on closer inspection there are differences, but I’m talking about the weirdest shaped trees ever just all chilling together all over the place.  There are pine trees that look like tall green polls where the needles are growing up, short squat fern things, and leafy trees that have no branches til the very top.  Plus, there are rogue olive trees all over the place.  It made the trail look like something out of Jurassic Park. 

               The trail looped over the top of the mountain (yes, the top- there are literally a gazillion little mountains just popping out everywhere) and at the high point there was a little church, all locked up surrounded by olive, cherry, and fig trees.  Many of my previous travel companions have given me an intrinsic appreciation of old churches, which were never high on my list of priorities for sightseeing.  But there’s something romantic about walking around this little building, overgrown with wildflowers and moss.  The high windows were stained glass and a bell was visible in the tower (steeple? Idk.)  Someone had wound grape vines through the little gate, so baby grapes were beginning to grow.  All the fruit was young, but Francesca thought that the cherries might be ready in another week or two.  The view from the top was spectacular, as I’ve come to expect from Camaiore, and we were up there right around 11, so one by one, all the churches that dotted the surrounding mountains began to ring their bells.

the baby olives will be ready in September

It was a magical moment, and one of the times that I wish I wasn’t traveling alone.  I’m quite comfortable with being by myself- I don’t get homesick easily- and I’m beginning to meet more people, but when I see something either jaw dropping or achingly sweet I wish I had someone from home with me so that someone else was as awed at the beauty here as I am.  When I walk around old churches or through a meadow full of butterflies, I miss specific people fiercely.  But, you know, c’est la vie, and it’s a small price to pay to be here. 

Anyway, enough introspection.  It’s one of the consequences of being alone in your head.  We left the church and walked down through the houses that were tucked into the mountainside.  There were some impressive gardens, filled with roses and chickens and even a majestic looking pen for a solitary white goose.  There’s a definite rustic feel to some of these places- I kid you not, one barn had an old man dressed totally in denim sitting on the stoop outside, rolling his own cigarettes as three or four kittens played at his feet.  I wanted to die from the cuteness; occasionally, I spaz out about something that makes Francesca look at me like I’m not quite all there.  The path ended back near the house, and we got inside just before the rain started.  We’re all tucked inside right now, but I can hear the beginning of lunch being started in the kitchen, so I’m gonna finish this up and go help. 

               On an administrative note, the Internet connection or lack thereof continues to be the bane of my existence and the only downside so far.  Right now, it’s raining, the kids are watching cartoons peacefully in the corner, and there’s no internet, so I’m writing down a lot in advance and I’ll post it when I can.  I’m going to try and post at least twice a week, more if I can or if I have something particular to share.  So just be aware, when I write ‘today’ and it seems to span over six days... it probably is.

P.S. Also, in case any of you were doubting my ability to get by alone in a foreign country, I’ll have you know that on my first walk around I found the bakery, two wine stores,  a cheese store, and about four different places for gelato.  Don’t tell me I don’t have survival skills. :)