Florence - Friday 5/21
Yikes, Ive written a whole bunch and have barely covered a few days. I keep posting so as not to lose it all through some freak crashing of windows or Internet Explorer. My laptop is frazzled and the smallest quirk from my loaned machine makes me nervous.
Friday is student orientation. We are bussed up to a restaurant in the village of Friesole, the location of a Etruscan fort long long ago. The orientation is at a restaurant closed for the day. The seats sport a breathtaking view of the city of Florence below. This view is right out of a move script. Sculpted hills backdrop the bustling city. Over it all sports the famous Duomo dome. A colleague and I pick out buildings from the skyline. The weather is warming up, the sun shining through the leaves of trees which grow through the eating area of this restaurant. I have no responsibilites. No obligations. This is what I came to Italy for. This is where I will take *you* if anyone reading this comes to Florence and I happen to be teaching here again.
The orientation is a series of speeches from study abroad administrators. They talk about housing, keys, expenses, classes, registration, and special events. Jet lag is back with a vengenace (with its newfound ally two hours of sleep) and I long to put my head down on the table and slumber in front of two hundred students.
The highlight of the orientation is a hour talk by a police inspector, who warns the students about the risks of going out and getting drunk late at night in Florence. This is no keystone cop, the officer in front of us is a muscular, broad shouldered, dark-haired with a hint of gray, square jawed Italian. One does not need to perfer the masculine gender to know this man is very good looking. The word is when he spoke last year, the co-ed's swooned. Now I see why.
His lecture, however, is all business. He speaks with much force and clarity about the risks of fooling around in Florence. Only five girls were raped last year in Florence, he tells us, as this is a safe city for its size. All five were drunk American students. He repeats this again, more slowly and with greater volume, for effect. No girls swoon now. This isn't a place to mess around. There are those that prey on American college students for a living. There are those that target American girls. He says this. He knows his business. We believe every word. His mantra, repeated over and over again, is "they will recognize you, but you won't be able to recognize them." One hour later we are forewarned of the risks and forearmed with measures to stay safe. Thinking too much makes me want to not leave my apartment for the next six weeks.
Lunch arrives, which in true huskyprof form immediately distracts me from any thoughts of street crime, or anything else for that matter. Lunch is delightful. The restaurant did not bring out the cheap stuff for this group. No doubt the study abroad people are well connected in Italian society and expect the best service. The pasta is cooked al dente with a hint, just a hint, of a rich sauce. Vegetables and side dishes are similarly delectable. The flavor of the food is amplified and robust. This is real food. It has not been on a truck for three thousand miles or freeze dried for two days. The lunch is fresh and good just like mama proverbially made.
The highlight, predictably for me, is the pizza. All it has is bread, a little bit of cheese, and a small covering of sauce. It looks like that crappy institutional pizza that dorms will serve to late night students or you find at the low end of the frozen food aisle. It tastes like culinary heaven. The sauce is brimming with tomato taste. The cheese is a separate rich flavor all its own. And the bread, the bread!, is doughy and fresh. When was the last time you ever went gaga over a pizza crust? No, I can't remember either, but this crust was a meal in itself. Predictably I eat too much, and sit back on my chair plump and satisfied.
Too fast, the orientation meal ends and the bus takes us home. On the way there and back, I befriend a fellow instructor. His topic is watercolor. Hearing about a topic so completely different from my own is interesting, hearing about where he is taking the students is divine. Apparently the students will be traveling throughout Italy to paint. Want to paint in Rome? He'll be there. Want to paint in the Vatican's private gardens? Oh yeah, you are painting there too. Venice? Yup, we'll visit there and watercolor the heck out of it. Want to visit Bramasole, the house featured in Under the Tuscan Sun? He knowns the author, and oh yeah, you'll be going there too. Sitting on the friggin' grounds painting the friggin' Under the Tuscan Sun house. By now my mind is just racing with excitment and I blurt out that I wanna come too. I'll pay, I'll sweep the bus, I'll do anything, gaah! Taaake me!
Phew. Well, I had the presence of mind enough to be more subtle than that. His response, however, was what my little voice told me he'd say (I should listen more to that voice). His response was if you want to buy the paints and materials than watercolor for hours at a time than anyone is welcome. He also mentions a colleague at his home university who begged to join him and how he mentioned these same rules. We are not tourists, he says, and I told this person this is a serious course. He's right, and he just said 'no' in the most diplomatic way possible. Yeah, yeah, I wanna go. Maybe next time.
The bus returns and I head home for the early end of the day. Hand plunged in my pocket, firmly grabbing my wallet, I walk the cobble stone streets and watch the fading sun reflect off centuries-old walls and shuttered windows that have greeted many thousands of sunsets before today. I reach my apartment, eat, wax poetic for that pizza, and fall asleep in my cold and vacant bedroom with no trouble whatsoever.
Friday is student orientation. We are bussed up to a restaurant in the village of Friesole, the location of a Etruscan fort long long ago. The orientation is at a restaurant closed for the day. The seats sport a breathtaking view of the city of Florence below. This view is right out of a move script. Sculpted hills backdrop the bustling city. Over it all sports the famous Duomo dome. A colleague and I pick out buildings from the skyline. The weather is warming up, the sun shining through the leaves of trees which grow through the eating area of this restaurant. I have no responsibilites. No obligations. This is what I came to Italy for. This is where I will take *you* if anyone reading this comes to Florence and I happen to be teaching here again.
The orientation is a series of speeches from study abroad administrators. They talk about housing, keys, expenses, classes, registration, and special events. Jet lag is back with a vengenace (with its newfound ally two hours of sleep) and I long to put my head down on the table and slumber in front of two hundred students.
The highlight of the orientation is a hour talk by a police inspector, who warns the students about the risks of going out and getting drunk late at night in Florence. This is no keystone cop, the officer in front of us is a muscular, broad shouldered, dark-haired with a hint of gray, square jawed Italian. One does not need to perfer the masculine gender to know this man is very good looking. The word is when he spoke last year, the co-ed's swooned. Now I see why.
His lecture, however, is all business. He speaks with much force and clarity about the risks of fooling around in Florence. Only five girls were raped last year in Florence, he tells us, as this is a safe city for its size. All five were drunk American students. He repeats this again, more slowly and with greater volume, for effect. No girls swoon now. This isn't a place to mess around. There are those that prey on American college students for a living. There are those that target American girls. He says this. He knows his business. We believe every word. His mantra, repeated over and over again, is "they will recognize you, but you won't be able to recognize them." One hour later we are forewarned of the risks and forearmed with measures to stay safe. Thinking too much makes me want to not leave my apartment for the next six weeks.
Lunch arrives, which in true huskyprof form immediately distracts me from any thoughts of street crime, or anything else for that matter. Lunch is delightful. The restaurant did not bring out the cheap stuff for this group. No doubt the study abroad people are well connected in Italian society and expect the best service. The pasta is cooked al dente with a hint, just a hint, of a rich sauce. Vegetables and side dishes are similarly delectable. The flavor of the food is amplified and robust. This is real food. It has not been on a truck for three thousand miles or freeze dried for two days. The lunch is fresh and good just like mama proverbially made.
The highlight, predictably for me, is the pizza. All it has is bread, a little bit of cheese, and a small covering of sauce. It looks like that crappy institutional pizza that dorms will serve to late night students or you find at the low end of the frozen food aisle. It tastes like culinary heaven. The sauce is brimming with tomato taste. The cheese is a separate rich flavor all its own. And the bread, the bread!, is doughy and fresh. When was the last time you ever went gaga over a pizza crust? No, I can't remember either, but this crust was a meal in itself. Predictably I eat too much, and sit back on my chair plump and satisfied.
Too fast, the orientation meal ends and the bus takes us home. On the way there and back, I befriend a fellow instructor. His topic is watercolor. Hearing about a topic so completely different from my own is interesting, hearing about where he is taking the students is divine. Apparently the students will be traveling throughout Italy to paint. Want to paint in Rome? He'll be there. Want to paint in the Vatican's private gardens? Oh yeah, you are painting there too. Venice? Yup, we'll visit there and watercolor the heck out of it. Want to visit Bramasole, the house featured in Under the Tuscan Sun? He knowns the author, and oh yeah, you'll be going there too. Sitting on the friggin' grounds painting the friggin' Under the Tuscan Sun house. By now my mind is just racing with excitment and I blurt out that I wanna come too. I'll pay, I'll sweep the bus, I'll do anything, gaah! Taaake me!
Phew. Well, I had the presence of mind enough to be more subtle than that. His response, however, was what my little voice told me he'd say (I should listen more to that voice). His response was if you want to buy the paints and materials than watercolor for hours at a time than anyone is welcome. He also mentions a colleague at his home university who begged to join him and how he mentioned these same rules. We are not tourists, he says, and I told this person this is a serious course. He's right, and he just said 'no' in the most diplomatic way possible. Yeah, yeah, I wanna go. Maybe next time.
The bus returns and I head home for the early end of the day. Hand plunged in my pocket, firmly grabbing my wallet, I walk the cobble stone streets and watch the fading sun reflect off centuries-old walls and shuttered windows that have greeted many thousands of sunsets before today. I reach my apartment, eat, wax poetic for that pizza, and fall asleep in my cold and vacant bedroom with no trouble whatsoever.