Faking Fabulous

It’s Not You, It’s Me

2012-01-14T16:12:00.003-05:00

After my last post, my cousin emailed to ask me how one politely blows someone off. It was a great question and one I think a lot of us wrestle with in the online dating world.

The reality is that most people don't take the time to write a note to tell you they are not interested. It’s not such a horrible thing if you’ve never met the person, they email you out of the blue, and they clearly have not read your profile because if they had, they’d know they didn’t fit what you’re looking for. But for those with whom you’ve met and spent some time with (even just a quick first date) I think it’s important to provide some closure. After all, no one likes to be left hanging.

So back to my cousin’s original question about how I tell someone thanks, but no thanks. Well, generally if it is someone who has taken the time to write me (although we’ve never met) I will send something back that says a variation of this:

1. “Thanks for your email. I actually just met someone with whom I’m interested in getting serious, so I’m not meeting any new people right now. Best of luck in your search. I’m sure you’ll find someone soon.”

I send the above response even if there is NO ONE I am interested in dating. I have always felt it’s a nice way to say no thanks, but lately lots of guys have been noticing that I am still active on my profile and are asking me if I’ve changed my mind and if I’m actively dating again. That presents a bit of a challenge so I’ve been reverting to my old way of saying I’m not interested which is honest, but not as nice.

2. “Thanks for your email. I know how hard it is to put yourself out there to a complete stranger. I’m not sure why, but I’m just not feeling that you and I would be a good match. I wish you the best of luck in your search.”

No matter which response I use, I sign the email with my middle name. That way if they ever email me back and refer to me as Anne I know they were rejected by me in the past. That little trick has been a time saver for sure!

The other day I was SUPER proud of myself because I actually mustered up the strength to tell someone the truth to their face at the end of the date. Usually I just say, “Yeah, this was fun.” And then send an email the next day with some over thought or made up reason that I don't want to see them again. But this guy was cute. He had a good job. He seemed nice enough. Yadda, yadda, yadda - He was BORING, BORING, BORING! And I was NOT up for the charade at the end of the night. So when he told me he had a nice time and asked if I wanted to go out again, I said, “Umm yeah, no I really don't think so.”

He was confused as hell and looked as if he didn’t know what to say. I filled in the silence, “There’s nothing wrong with you. I’m just not feeling the connection that I want to feel with someone.” This could have been a very awkward situation because we were splitting the check and the bar tender was not picking up our check to close it out, so I had no idea how much longer we would have to sit there and wait to get our credit cards back. But I was resolute. I just kept a smile on my face and made small talk. He asked me again if I was sure that I didn’t want to at least try a second date. I said, “No. Thanks. I’m sure.”

When our cards FINALLY came back we walked to the corner, said nice meeting you, and went our separate ways. I was so proud of myself I almost skipped to my car but thought that might be a tad bit insensitive if he looked back and saw me so I didn’t do it.

Of course I’ve also been the recipient of the, “it’s not you, it’s me” blow off. I can’t complain though. It is a nice way to end things, but the reality is that the person who says it would rather be without you than with you. That reality is easy to brush off when you’ve only met the person once or twice, but it cuts a little deeper when it comes after you’ve gotten to know someone. Oh well, onward and upward right?

My next experiment in Internet dating will be to see if I can muster the strength to politely excuse myself right away, or very soon into the date if there is no connection or if the person has misrepresented themselves in their profile. Like the one time I met someone who strongly resembled Gargamel from the Smurfs. I desperately wanted to leave before even saying hello to him, but instead I got stuck spending 2 hours with an unattractive AND arrogant man who kept licking his lips while looking me up and down, and then tried to stick me with the check by asking for the bill and immediately leaving for the bathroom. YUCK!

So that’s how I let people know I’m not interested. In the end I think it comes down to the golden rule: Treat people the way you would want to be treated.

Bad Dating Karma

2012-01-02T10:55:00.003-05:00

Let’s face it; it’s easy to blow people off and to be blown off when you’re dating online. The medium itself provides an easy venue to treat someone as if they are disposable. Don't think a guy is cute in his profile picture? Just don't reply to the introductory email he sent you. Meet for the first date, have a good time, but know he’s not Mr. Right? Don't respond to the text he sent saying he’d like to see you again. Does the guy eat his peas in the most annoying way possible? Don't sweat it, there are 10 new guys waiting in the online queue.

Here's one example of what I mean. A little while back I met a guy for lunch on a Thursday. I thought he was cute and interesting. He thought I was cute and interesting. We met for dinner the following Monday. Dinner was great. He walked me home. We made out like the plane was going down. At his suggestion, we made plans for the following Monday. He left a message for me over the weekend. I returned the message but didn't actually talk to him. I texted him on Monday morning confirming the date for that night. He texted me back at 5 PM. Here's how the text coversation went:

Me: "Good morning. Just confirming for tonight. Looking forward to it."
Him (8 hours later): "Didn't hear from you so I made other plans."
Me: "Huh? I returned your message on Saturday."
Him: "I didn't get it. Frownie face." (He actually spelled out frownie face)
Me: "I'm bummed. I was looking forward to seeing you."
Him: "Yeah, me too"
Me: "Okay, well just let me know if you want to get together again."
Him: ...

By the way, dot, dot, dot means I never heard from him again. Umm, okay. I guess he didn't think I was so cute or interesting!

Have we become so jaded that we’ve completely forgotten our manners? Have we’ve forgotten there’s a person on the other end of that (insert mobile communication device here). My friend Sherrie calls this “bad dating karma” and is convinced it comes back ten-fold when you treat someone poorly.

Over the years I’ve been both the victimizer and the victim of bad online dating manners, but this time I’ve been diligent about remembering there’s a human on the other side of the equation so hopefully I'm building up some good karma for the future!

Statistics and Internet Dating: It's All In The Numbers!

2011-12-26T11:55:00.009-05:00

This is my third attempt at dating on the Internet. I’ve come so far over the years that I’m not even embarrassed to admit it’s my third time. Okay, I’m slightly embarrassed but only because I can still hear the words said to me by well intentioned albeit misguided people, “... Only losers date online!” Ouch! But I digress.

In 2005, when friends first suggested the idea of Internet dating I was a little reluctant. NOT IN A MILLION YEARS might have been my first reaction, but that's so long ago now, who can really remember!

I had not been single for 15 years, and much had changed in the dating world. Plus I had never really "dated" before. I was a serial monogamist who went from high school boyfriend, to college boyfriend, to husband with very little dating in between.

It took me about 3 months to warm up to the idea. And that was only after a friend pointed out that the Internet might be my best option since I worked two time-consuming jobs, never had time to go out, and when I did go out I only went with my guy friends. (Apparently guys will never approach you at a bar if you're already surrounded by guys. Go figure!) And, after my divorce, I had a list longer than my arm of prerequisites for what this next guy must have if I was to date him. Yeah, Match.com's sort capability alone sold the idea for me!

I started by logging on to do some data gathering and analysis. I first looked at my competition, the women who were my age, to see what types of pictures they posted and what types of profiles they wrote. And what I found was a sea of similarity. Apparently all of the women in the Greater Washington, DC Metropolitan Area feel as comfortable in a pair of jeans as they do a black cocktail dress. They all have cats- some with the personality of dogs- and they all LOVE to laugh. I’m sorry but have you ever met anyone who actually HATED to laugh?

Despite a witty profile and some decent profile pictures, I was a nervous nellie when first hitting the send button to pay and activate my account. Would anyone write me? I had visions of opening my profile to see an urgent blinking message, “You have no messages… AND YOU NEVER WILL! AND YOU NEVER WILL! AND YOU NEVER WILL!”

Ahh, looking back now, I was such a neophyte. I wrote back to everyone who wrote me. It didn’t matter if he was short or tall; skinny or fat; too old, or too young. If a guy put himself out there and contacted me, he got an email response back. At first I was appreciative that people even wrote! But after a while, when it seemed that only really old, really fat, or really well… ugly men were reaching out, I started to wonder, “Am I so hideous that this guy really thinks he has a shot with me?”

A friend of mine (I’ll call her Trisha even though that's not her real name) who was well versed in Internet dating explained that it wasn’t that I was hideous, it was all about the numbers. The more women these men wrote to, the more chance they had at getting a response. It's basic sales training really. The more numbers you cold call, the more times you get hung up on, the closer you are to the one person who will say, “Yes, I WOULD like to buy that timeshare in Boca Raton!”

This time, on my third attempt at Internet dating, I was prepared. I had the rules down and I was armed with a healthy dose of self confidence and statistical understanding; It’s all about the numbers! This time I knew not to take things personally. I signed up for a longer membership than before understanding that it could take longer than a month or two to find a guy with whom I really click. I've kept an optimistic and open mind. I’ve dated a wider variety of men than I ever did before (all within what I want in a partner – just more variety in the types of men). And this time I am enjoying every minute of this experience (well, almost every minute).

Throughout all my attempts at Internet dating I have met some really great guys who have helped teach me a little something about myself. One man broke my heart, but showed me how capable I was of truly loving another. One man helped me define the balance of characteristics I want in a guy. And this time… well, who knows what I will learn, but I am not afraid to find out!

Internet Dating: A Guy's Perspective

2011-12-23T07:54:00.001-05:00

An introduction: Today's guest blogger is Dave. I went to high school with Dave and even though we were friends, I had a HUGE crush on him pretty much throughout high school. Dave was smart and an athlete. He had curley black hair with a quarter size patch of grey hair on the back of his head. I used to sit behind him in French class and focus on him rather than my French lesson. We had a chance to reconnect during the preparation for our 20 year high school reunion and we've been keeping in touch ever since. He is still very goodlooking by the way!

I was VERY surprised at some of the things he wrote. His comment about not including pictures of where you've traveled because guys think you are high maintenance was an eye opener!

I also felt pangs of, "OH NO! Do guys really think this way?" when I was reading what he wrote. I sometimes dread how shallow men can be, but then I think about my horror stories of online dating and I become more sympathetic. There is nothing like getting super excited for a date only to find the guy had posted pictures from 10 years ago, put on 20 lbs and is now challenged in the hair department.

In the end, most of Dave's sentiment is the same as mine. Know who you are and what you really want. Be honest. Show who you really are. Believe in yourself as you really are and you will find someone who likes you for you. So without further ado... HERE'S DAVE!

__________________________________

Okay, let’s be completely honest, size, ummm…I mean looks matter! We all need to feel attracted to our partners and for most of us that begins with appearance, or in the case of online dating the dreaded profile pictures. This week let’s talk about these pictures in terms of what not to do and what a guy (that’s me, Dave) REALLY sees in pictures.

To begin, if you don’t have at least one profile picture, don’t expect much activity. Oh, I’m sure you are a wonderful person and have much to offer, but if I can’t see you, you won’t hear from me. Call me superficial, but I’m not alone on this. If I’m going to put myself out there for the entire world to see, so can you. I will always seek the profiles with photos.

Alright, you are willing to post photos with your profile. I commend you on the excellent choice. Now you are faced with the next task, deciding not only which photos to post, but also which one will be your main profile pic; the one that will entice a guy like me to read on or look deeper into profile. First you must truly decide if you have a recent enough picture with which to represent yourself. I know retro is in, and while posting your high school cheerleading or catholic school uniform-wearing picture will certainly bring many responses, with the exception of a certain mid-western girl that had hers shortened and Velcro put in to make for easier access, most of you don’t still have those outfits. But I digress…and she deserves a whole, spectacular chapter all to herself…oh, yes she does.

If you can’t find a decent and recent pic, don’t just throw one up there. Find a friend and have them take a few for you. If you are willing to post and few and want the greatest amount of good connections, be honest with us (guys) and yourself and post at least two pictures. One should clearly show you face and the other should show your entire figure. Better to have a guy that is looking for an extremely thin gal pass you over than be disappointed or surprised when the two of you meet. If you don’t buy into this logic, that is fine and you probably haven’t read my thoughts on “Body Types” yet. Oh and also, you’d be wrong.

So, take a couple pictures with simple backgrounds and/or at places that are nice but not too extravagant. It may seem like a great idea to post a bunch of pictures of you in exotic locations but this can have quite the opposite affect. You see, we are men! We view things differently from our pragmatic, problem-solving, not just wanting to listen, Martian viewpoint. So while you think you look amazing atop the Eiffel Tower, swooshing the slopes of the Swiss Alps, dinning al fresco in Rome or lounging on some Carribean beach (side note: bikini pictures should only be posted by those that can really pull that look off, or are willing to accept the consequences), we see nothing but the bills for those expensive trips. We imagine you will expect us to take you around the world on our dime just to have any chance to possibly make or keep you happy. Unless you can afford to do these things on your own, and please figure out a way to slide that into your profile, leave those pictures out for now. Remember, it can be a lot of fun to have a handful of such pictures available to send when you start to communicate as opposed to having had “played all your cards” already.

Next let’s look at who is in these pictures with you. First, I recommend that you use pictures that only have you in them and I do this for several reasons. Remember, we are interested in seeing you not others. But, if you do choose to include others in your pictures, think about what you are doing and mind the following.

The obvious faux paus is to include the ex-anything (boyfriend or husband) in a picture. Also the photo-shopped or crudely cut out/smeared out face should be avoided. Come on girls! You have to have another picture you can use…it can’t be that good that you must use it. On this line, if you have a guy friend or relative in a picture you are using, make sure you can put a caption on the photo that explains that the dude is you brother, gay friend or co-worker. And don’t lie about it, if a real relationship develops and then you have to go back and explain that the dude in the Speedo with you in Jamaica was your ex-boyfriend we will only be left wondering about what else you might have fibbed. Hmmm…maybe they’re not real and spectacular???

This may seem hard to fathom but I promise it’s true. I’ve actually looked through profiles of ladies with a half-dozen or more pictures and not known which woman’s profile it was. Don’t make me have to load up all your pictures in an effort to find who is the common denominator in all of them, thus determining whose profile I am viewing. This also ties back into using recent pictures. I’ve had ones labeled (second from left) where I would never have been able to determine it was you! In a ten picture profile, I’ve seen four hair styles, two different lengths and three hair colors! If I wouldn’t be able to pick you out of a police line-up, I’m most likely not going to want to meet you in person.

Fine, you have disregarded my advice on posing solo in your pics and have included others in your profile photos. Luckily you have heard my other pleas and you have not included any exes and you have clearly labeled who is who in each and every picture. I know who you are in each picture and I’d ID you in a hot second in any line-up presented. Think you are all set? Not quite yet my dear. If I want to sell you something, I wouldn’t display it next to better items that I’m not trying to sell. In that vein, quite simply, be the hottest one in your pictures. My biggest laugh came from a makeup artist that posed with the runway models with whom she works…true story! We can be pigs and you don’t want us looking at your profile trying to figure out if there’s an appropriate way to message you and ask: “Hey, is the girl on your left your second picture available, the one in the black dress?

Lastly let’s talk for a moment about animals, your pet or pets. Sure, post a picture walking your dog or holding your cat. Great. List pets in your profile if you’re able as well so those poor folks with allergic reactions to our four-legged friends can be warned off or take their meds before arriving at your doorstep. But beyond that, let it go! Viewing a profile where 9 of 10 pictures show only your pet is a big turnoff. I love fluffy as much as the next guy, but I am there to look at you not them.

Well I hope that gives you a little insight into your profile pictures and how us guys view them. As always every scenario mentioned here is based on an actual interaction I’ve personally had while online dating. I never mean nor intend any hurtful feelings or ill will towards the women that were involved or women in general. I love women…and just want us to better understand one another and perhaps, just maybe, a few more of us will find our other halfs. Best wishes finding yours…he/she is out there.

Anniversaries

2011-12-15T14:51:00.008-05:00

Anniversaries are a time when we are reminded to reflect – A time to look back and see what has happened, where we have been, and where we are now.

Today is the 3rd anniversary of my former husband's death. I miss him. I miss not being able to call him and share a memory, or tell him a story that only he and I would understand. But this anniversary I am not overwhelmed with sadness about his death. Instead I know I am closer to making my peace with it.

As I was reminded today by a remarkable friend, Steve's time here helped shape me into the person I have become. Without him I would not be as strong, I would not be as centered, and I would not have grown as much as I have over the last six and a half years.

That is what I hold on to now – the incredible lesson he taught me. As hard as it was to learn, it was exactly what I needed and is what keeps me moving forward in life. Thank you Stevie. My heart is always with you.

A Picture Says 1000 Words

2011-12-11T13:58:00.009-05:00

Today’s Internet dating topic is the essential profile picture. For those of you not in the know, the profile picture is the number one thing that'll get you noticed online. Shallow as it sounds a picture really can speak a thousand words... words like, "Don't do it, you'll never get those 2 hours back." Or "Ya know what, I'm secretly gay so don't get too excited!"

Together with your profile headline, your profile picture can make quite an impression. In this installment of my Internet dating bliss, I’d like to share some of the profile pictures that have left the greatest “impression” on me.

The people at Match give some tips on how to make good use of photos. Their suggestions are below.

MATCH PHOTO TIPS:

1) Use photos that feature you.

2) Show your best smile.

3) Verify photos are in focus.

4) Use recent photos.

Allow me to add a few more in the interest of helping…

VAL'S PHOTO TIPS:

1) How about you don't wear sunglasses and a hat in every picture. I'd like to see your googly eyes and beautiful bald head before we meet!

2) Include a body shot (and may I be as bold as to request a recent body shot). You may have a cute face but I'd like to see if you are either:

A) a midget

B) a fatty.

No body shot = you’ve got something to hide.

3) For the love of Pete, don't post a picture of yourself shirtless (or in your underwear) that you've taken by pointing your camera phone at yourself! How about we save some things for later! I'm sorry, but pictures like this give me a serious case of the heebie jeebies.

4) Don't lie about your age. My favorites are the people who lie by 10+ years. For instance this man says he’s 29. Okay maybe he didn’t say 29 but he was definitely off by a couple of years.

So that's it really; just a few tips to help the guys out there meet the woman of their dreams. Good luck guys. Hope this helps.

Tune in some time this week to catch my friend Dave's guest blog where he shares his insights on the same topic from a guys perspective.

What's in a Name?

2011-11-06T20:02:00.004-05:00

Because I’ve been feeling so happy and normal again I’ve decided to jump back in to the wonderful world of dating. So where does a busy woman who has practically no more single friends find men these days? Trolling the bars on her own, you ask? No silly, hopefully I have at least 10 more years before that seems like a viable option! Why, it’s in the not-at-all-humiliating world of online dating, of course! And in true Val fashion it seems fitting that my next series of blogs will focus on my thoughts, critiques, and experiences while Internet dating.

Let me start this series with a discussion on screen names. It’s important to note that the site I’m on makes members select a screen name that is unique so that no two names can be exactly alike and they encourage members not to use any part of their real name. This leaves members in a real quandary as to what name to select. I mean, the screen name and the ever-so-critical profile picture is what can differentiate you from the droves of other people on the site vying for attention. For me, this name can truly make the difference as to whether I will even bother to open a profile or not. Listed below are a few of my favorites.

• Creamypassion - This one made me throw up in my mouth a little.

• SpiceeItalian4U – Nope, noooooooo, no, no, no!

• Wanttoclimbitall – Ummm, I sure hope you’re into rock climbing because otherwise I wouldn’t touch you with a 10 foot condom!

• godsgreatgift- Dude you have seriously just set yourself up for failure.

• Dred2date – Actually I give him kudos on his creativity on this one because he had a some BIG dreadlocks on his profile picture.

• Mrs73 – I’m sorry, why are you - a GUY - calling yourself “Mrs" anything???

• Butterflymagic – Really... really...

• Lil_tiger – I’m not sure which one I like more – Butterflymagic or lil_tiger?

And your favorite is?

Espirate (Exhale)

2011-08-08T06:39:00.003-04:00

That’s how I feel, like I just let out a long, cleansing, hard-earned exhale! Quite simply, I FEEL GOOD! The kinda good you feel down to your core. I feel like me again, but better; more grounded, more secure, more balanced. Best of all it feels true. And I am filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for this feeling; that I am in this place in my life.

One of my biggest fears after my divorce and subsequent breakups with love interests and friends was that I would come away from it a lesser person; that I would be filled with bitterness and resentment, so jaded that I would be unable to see anyone for who they really were. And although I have undeniably had these moments in recent years, that is not me. It is not who I have become.

The truth is I am still able to connect with people on a deeply personal level. I am thrilled to know that not only can I put down the invisible wall that keeps people out so they don't hurt me; I am learning the appropriate times to put that wall up.

I’ve been working hard these days on acceptance and forgiveness. These are traditionally tough things for me. My personal practice in acceptance has been focused on seeing people for who they really are without the filter I usually place on them, and then accepting who that person really is. Acceptance doesn’t mean I let everyone in my inner circle of trusted friends. It simply means I stop filling in the blanks for people. I let them be who they are and in doing so, I let me be me.

Doing this has helped me reduce my resistance to some friendships and raise my barriers to others. And although this practice does not come without growing pains, it has been an exceptionally good thing for me to do, as it has helped me understand and accept the imperfection of others and myself. It also has helped me accept that my feelings are legitimate no matter what anyone else thinks.

I accept with less judgement that I have many different types of people in my life; those who might seriously consider giving up their lives for mine; those who are fun to hang out with every now and again; and those who I can talk to every five years and it’s like we saw each other yesterday.

I am truly grateful for all the lessons I’ve been given over these last few years because they are helping me grow in ways I never imagined. There is so much good in this world and I have so much good in my life that I am truly grateful for. And I am happy, right here -- right now, living in this imperfect moment.

Conversations with my Dead Ex-Husband

2011-08-07T21:05:00.006-04:00

It was August 2010. I had been back in the United States for two weeks and was moving into my darling condo which I had rented out for the past year while living abroad. Other than some furniture, wall art, and odds and ends that were sentimental to me I kept almost nothing from my life before Italy. I didn’t mind parting with these things. After all, they were just things and it felt liberating to purge!

I knowingly planned a month-long reentry in the U.S. so I could adjust before starting in my new position at my old firm. I had a lot to do to get my place ready to move back in. First I had to clean, and then fresh paint had to be applied, and then the movers had to bring my boxes, and then I had to unpack said boxes, and then I had to organize the unpacked said boxes, and then I had to buy new stuff to replace the stuff I didn’t have any more. Oh yes! There was a lot to be done.

I was in the middle of unpacking boxes, with my trusty iPod shuffling songs in the background, when the pangs of hunger hit me and I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. I went to the refrigerator and pulled out some food I had brought with me that morning. When I placed the food on the counter and moved toward the silverware drawer, it hit me. I had no eating utensils! I gave them all away the year before. I quickly remembered, however, unpacking my silver cabinet, a beautiful 9 inch by 15 inch cherry stained box that housed my fancy wedding silver and protected it from the tarnishing affects of the air. I hadn’t used my silver in years. Actually the last person to use it was my former husband who borrowed it over the Thanksgiving Holiday of 2008.

I retrieved the cabinet from the storage closet where I had moved it earlier that day; placed it on the kitchen counter; and lifted the top of the box. I was surprised to find a folded piece of notebook paper placed on top of the silver forks. I lifted it from where it was placed and unfolded it. It was something penned in the hand of Steve, my former husband. My body started to shake. What was this? Had I seen this before? Did Steve put this here? As I started to read the note, I realized it was a poem and my breath quickened.

“To Val,

You took me in
At a time I needed someone to take me in
You rescued me
From a life of inevitable lies and sin.

You made me laugh
At a time when I needed the most to laugh.

You made me smile
An expression I hadn’t seen for a while.

Thank you for saving me
You turned the tides.”

When I finished reading, tears poured from my eyes and my body shook uncontrollably. My mind was racing trying to figure out what had just happened. Had I put this note in the silver cabinet before I moved? Why would I do that? Why would I torture myself like that? Had I seen this poem before? Steve had written me a few poems or songs when we were together, but this one I could not recall. Did I block it out? Was I not ready to hear this message until now? Is it possible that Steve placed this note in the silver cabinet three weeks before he died? Does stuff like that ever REALLY happen? I simply could not make sense of it.

After calming myself down I went back into the kitchen to try to figure out what to do next. Eating didn’t seem much of a priority any more so I went back to unpacking boxes when the REM song, Night Swimming started to play. REM was Steve and my favorite band. Night Swimming is one of my favorite of their songs. I used it on the DVD I made to commemorate Steve’s life for his memorial service. To hear REM play on my iPod while on shuffle was rare. It never seemed to play songs I had imported from my disks, it always seemed to favor the songs purchased from the iTunes store. Then, “randomly” another REM song immediately followed. THEN Steve’s absolute favorite singer, Bruce Springsteen came on and I felt a chill down my neck. I had the overwhelming sense that Steve was there - with me - in my kitchen! Knowing that no one else was there and understanding that I am fundamentally not “normal” anyway, I cocked my head to the side, looked up to the ceiling and said out loud, “Are you here?”

Although I did not hear a voice –aloud or in my head– I felt that he was there. Actually, I should say, I knew that he was there. I was not afraid or freaked out. I felt completely safe, but I didn’t know what to do. I mean, I never had a dead guy visit me before, so I just did my thing; unpacking boxes, washing sheets, and organizing my house. I felt like he was following me around the house, which is funny because that’s what he had a tendency to do when we were first married.

Eventually I started asking him questions.

“Are you okay? Are you happier now?” The feeling I got back from him was yes, he was happy.

“Are you in… heaven?” It sounded weird saying it. The response I felt was “Kind of.” Of course I had no idea what that meant and was not about to pursue it.

“Why did you do it Steve? Why did you do this? Did you know you were going to die?” He told me (without saying a word) he was tired. He didn’t realize how much his death would affect everyone.

After the third day of feeling like he was following me around my house I asked him playfully why he was still here. I told him I was okay and after that I no longer felt his presence.

I chuckled at the irony of what was happening. I mean, I was having a conversation with the spirit of the person who would be the LEAST likely to believe that a conversation like this was possible. The man himself would have called me a nutcase!

Since then I‘ve felt Steve’s presence a couple of times over the last year; most recently when I met up with some very good friends of ours that we met before we were married. Again the awareness of his presence was triggered by a song; this time Rosalita by Bruce Springsteen. This was one of Steve’s favorite songs and it was the song we walked into our wedding reception to. I felt him in the restaurant when I got up to walk to the restroom and I just had to smile because I knew why he was there.

Obviously, I’ve heard a ton of Bruce Springsteen (or other sentimental songs) over the years since Steve’s death. These songs occasionally inspire a memory of him, but feeling his presence is very different from a memory.

I know how this all sounds. I am sure that most people would explain this away as something that was manufactured in my mind so that the unfinished business between he and I could be resolved. I understand fully this could be the case; that I so desperately wanted closure with him that my mind played tricks on me. But the thing is I don't care! I don't care if it was real or manufactured in my mind, because it did give me peace.

I don't harbor feelings of resentment against him for dying before we could be friends again. I’m not mad at him for drinking his life away. I don't beat myself up anymore because I didn’t do enough to help him. After all, he wrote me this amazing letter letting me know that was not the case.

I can now remember the best of Steve, not the worst. So to me, it doesn’t matter whether I put that letter in the silver cabinet and have absolutely no memory of doing so, or whether he placed it there three weeks before he died. What matters to me is the peace that I received. Without a doubt I know that Steve forgives me, and I forgive him. But most importantly, I forgive myself.

So, you can call me crazy for having conversations with my dead ex-husband but I will call me fortunate for being in a place in my life where I can accept this gift.

Three Books That Have Changed My Life

2011-06-05T16:25:00.059-04:00

Recently, I read a book that changed my life. I can say that now about three books; The Four Hour Work Week; Eat, Pray, Love; and Many Lives, Many Masters. Each one, without a doubt, and for very different reasons has affected the course of my life.

I am usually skeptical when a person tells me that a book has changed their life. I find myself asking that person how the book has changed their life. I do this because I have found there are people out there who just hear that expression and repeat it without:

A.) Having read the book, or

B.) Really being able to articulate how they feel about the book so they just use another person’s words (i.e., “It changed my life”).

Either way, I have limited free time, so if I’m going to read a book I like to determine whether it’s really worth my time and money. So to back up my claims, let me explain the reasons I say each one of these books has changed my life.

I read The Four Hour Work Week in late spring of 2008. I was in what I thought was a strong relationship for the last 16 months, but I was feeling unfulfilled in my work life and craving change. I was reluctant however to give up the salary I was earning while working for a prominent consulting company in Washington, D.C.

Although the title can be somewhat misleading (it’s not focused on working 4 hours a week), the book discusses several concepts including work life balance, how to make a living doing what you love, how to better manage your time, and how to have the most interesting life possible.

The author gives excellent tips, tools, and real world examples of how to determine what you really like to do and create a viable living that is in line with your “likes”, how to change careers, and how to work remotely from anywhere in the world while still making your current salary. He also answers any excuses you may come up with on why his techniques won’t work for you. I loved that part. His philosophy - No excuses! Anyone can do it, you just have to want it.

The book gave me an understanding that I wasn’t alone in feeling unfulfilled in my life even though I had a good job and a satisfying relationship. It provided inspiration for me to change my worklife, and gave me the tools I needed to move my life from work-work-work to experience-experience-experience. Immediately after reading it, I started thinking how I could travel/live in Europe for longer than 2 weeks at a time. Three months after finishing the book I decided to move to Europe. This book gave me the inspiration AND the tools to do it.

I read Eat, Pray, Love in July of 2008. Although I had been in what I thought was a fantastic relationship with a British man since January of 2007, I had been going through the process of a divorce from my husband of 6 years since May of 2005 and things were tough for me emotionally. Actually, ironically, the day I read the last page of this book was the last time I ever spoke with the British Bloke.

Eat, Pray, Love discussed the agony the author went through after leaving her husband and deciding to take a year off to write about spending four months in Italy, four months in India, and four months in Bali.

Besides being able to fully relate to the pain of divorce and the need for something more in life, I was intrigued when reading about the author’s travels (especially Italy because I had always wanted to visit). More so, this book changed my life because it royally pissed me off! I was completely green with envy when reading it because it was the book I wanted to write three years earlier when my former husband and I separated.

Eat, Pray, Love was the first book I read about divorce that in the most real way possible talked about the raw emotion involved when your marriage ends, the indescribable emptiness you feel, the deep sense of failure and embarrassment you experience, and the debilitating struggle you go through afterword to redefine yourself.

I simply could not put the book down. It resonated with me more than anything I had ever read. And after reading it, I wanted my own year to recover. I wanted my own year to travel. I wanted my own perfect ending. And goddamnit if she could do it so could I!

In August of 2008 after my recent break up with the British idiot - which meant a second cancelled trip to Italy; the first trip scheduled for my five year wedding anniversary was cancelled because my former husband changed his mind about wanting to leave the country - I made the completely "irrational" decision to sell my stuff, save every dime I earned, give up my career, and move to Italy. A little over a year later, I did it.

My 10 month Italian adventure would have never happened without the tools and inspiration offered by the authors of the books mentioned above.

I recently finished Many Lives, Many Masters (spring of 2011). I believe the greatest impact this book will have is yet to come, but I can say without equivocation it has changed my life already in many positive ways. I am eternally grateful to the author for having the courage to write it.

I also have admit it’s hard for me to discuss this book and its impact in a completely open forum such as a blog because I know that it opens me up to ridicule, controversy, anger, and condescension. But to not do so would be a disservice to the message of the book and would leave an unexplainable gap in how I got from the place I was before (read blog entries Growing Pains from Feb. 2010 and Growing Pains - Part Due from March 2011) to where I am now in the late spring of 2011.

Okay, so let me get this out of the way... the book is about reincarnation. Are you still with me? If so, hold on because, in reality, it’s about much more than that. And you certainly don't need to believe in multiple lives to take wonderful things away from this book. Hopefully I can explain its message and impact without sounding like a complete lunatic.

Many Lives, Many Masters was written in the early 1980s by Dr. Brian Weiss, a prominent doctor in the field of Psychiatry. Dr. Weiss went to Columbia University for his undergraduate degree and graduated from Yale Medical School. He did not believe in reincarnation or anything that could not be scientifically proven for most of his life. That is until he took on a patient he calls Catherine who changed his life forever.

Catherine was suffering from a number of phobias and anxieties that were deeply troubling her and affecting her work. She was desperate and badly in need of assistance. Dr. Weiss treated her with the best scientific treatment he knew how to provide for nearly 18 months to no avail, as Catherine’s health and life was not improving.

Desperate to help his patient, he researched alternative methods of care (remember this is the early 80s) and asked Catherine if she would be open to hypnotism and regression therapy. He explained that, when done properly, a person can be regressed to their childhood to determine the root causes to anxieties or problems that are taking place in the person’s present life. And by realizing those events, the patient can understand the source of the pain/issue, confront the pain, and ideally find resolution through acceptance, forgiveness, and healthful coping mechanisms. Through his research Dr. Weiss found that patients often found relief from anxieties immediately upon the realization of the source of the issue.

Despite remembering in her first session that she was molested by her father, and pushed off a diving board into deep water when she could not swim, Catherine’s anxieties/fears did not abate. Dr. Weiss was confused and asked if she would be open to trying hypnosis again. Luckily she said yes. This time, after she had been hypnotized, he started the session by saying something like, “Okay let’s go back to the source of this phobia”.

It was then that Catherine started talking about her life during the time of the Great Pyramids in Egypt! She described her clothing and the things from that life in great detail. Dr. Weiss was confused and in disbelief, but he continued the session to see where it would go. Catherine was able to recall the time of her death when she was a slave who was being buried alive in the tomb of her master to accompany him into his “next life”. She described her passing as being pulled toward a brilliant white light, and then feeling absolute and total peace. I'm sure by now, we've all heard similar descriptions from stories of near death experiences.

When Dr. Weiss brought Catherine out of hypnosis, she was able to describe everything she saw with complete detail as to what she said before. Dr. Weiss was blown away, but not convinced the experience was real.

After several sessions where Catherine described former past lives, Dr. Weiss admitted that although he could not prove these experiences were real, he could also not turn his back on what was happening. The fact was, Catherine’s health and life were improving significantly after each session, and he could not find a legitimate reason to stop the regression therapy.

The lives that Catherine described were wildly fascinating and I think completely worth the read even if you don't believe a word of it. However, I want to focus more on the overall message of this book and the impact it’s had me.

After several sessions where Catherine was able to regress to a former life and conquer a fear or phobia in her present life, she started speaking in a voice that was much deeper (both orally and intellectually). Dr. Weiss was confused and through a series of questions was able to gather that Catherine was channeling this deeper voice; that it was a presence that was not of Catherine now, nor had it ever been. The voice described itself as a “Master” or a soul that has reached a high level of spirituality.

Catherine never remembered any of the conversations that Dr. Weiss had with a Master or any other soul that was not her own. Additionally, she did not like to hear the audio tape Dr. Weiss made of the sessions because they freaked her out.

After a series of fascinating encounters with the Masters that Dr. Weiss describes in the book and subsequent books (even if you don't believe them) he is able to paint a picture of an afterlife (which I won’t describe because I don't want the good I took from the book to get lost in an argument of religious dogma) and provided an overview of the core lessons we must learn in order to advance our spirituality. The core lessons that each soul needs to master are summarized below:

• Love - The book describes love as the purest and most important thing to master. It’s described not as an abstract concept but an actual energy or spectrum of energies.

• Patience

• Non-Judgment

• Faith

• Compassion - sympathy for the suffering of others

• Empathy - the ability to identify with and understand somebody else's feelings or difficulties

Other Messages (Some of these should sound VERY familiar if you are presently or were raised in a Christian-based faith):

• It is wrong to kill for any reason.

• Our soul and spirit last forever, they are immortal. Only the human form is temporary.

• Every human being is divine. Every human being has worth.

• Souls are reunited with one another in the spiritual plane. (It’s much deeper than this, but again, if you are curious you should read the books).

• Everything must be balanced. Co-existence and harmony have been mastered by nature but not by humans.

• We are on the earth to learn. We never stop learning or growing in this life or in the spiritual plane.

I know many Christians could think this message is blasphemy or evil because it does not come with all of the dogma of most major world religions, but if you listen to the messages of the book (or series of books) with a truly dispassionate heart and mind, it is the same pure message that is taught in most organized religions of the world. However, this message is without all the hypocrisy that comes with organized religions that, in so many ways, have distorted the pure message over time for whatever (moral or unmoral) reason.

Quite simply, this book has restored my faith in something bigger (which was no small accomplishment). Ridicule me, roll your eyes, or smile over the lessons. Either way, I feel whole again and I’m thankful that I have opened myself up to concepts that may be a bit unconventional or opportunities that may not be the norm. But then again, if you know me at all, I believe you would not be surprised by my openness to these concepts, as I am a bit unconventional and quite honestly not all that normal.

Despite me feeling a little weird admitting this to anyone and everyone who may read this blog, Many Lives, Many Masters has reminded me about what is important in my life, about what I want to focus my energy on, and about how I want to keep growing as a person. Because of this book I feel empowered to move on to the next phase of my life as a stronger, more balanced, more inspired person.

It never ceases to amaze me how a book - the simple thoughts or experiences of another human put into written word - can make such an impact on the lives of others. So here’s my rhetorical question to you, what book(s) have you read that have changed your life? AND HOW HAVE THEY CHANGED IT?

Growing Pains - Part Due

2011-03-19T16:59:00.004-04:00

It hurts when people don’t like you. Whether it’s a guy that breaks up with you, or a friendship that ends, or a family member who just doesn’t get you; it hurts. Over the years I have been faced more and more with people who don’t like me. I believe this is partially because I’m more jaded than I used to be. I’m less agreeable and I speak up more when I am not happy or feel slighted. I’m not exactly sure when this started happening. Maybe it’s just a result of getting older. You know, like how senior citizens seem to say whatever they want without thinking twice about it because they feel like they’ve earned the right to do so after all they’ve been through.

I think I’ve just changed a lot due to the events that have shaped my life over the last six years and I’m still working out the kinks of all this “growth.” Well, my friend Maggie calls this era of my life growth, I call it insanity... I hope she’s right.

Over the last several months I’ve been feeling a lot of anxiety about losing close connections with my friends in DC. What really hurts is feeling so insignificant in their lives. I’ve never felt this way before. But when I came back from Italy it felt different; like I didn’t matter, like everyone had their set lives, and I didn’t fit in anywhere. This caused a lot of unhappiness in my life. I was - and still am - struggling with the culture shock of being back. And much to my chagrin, I’m learning it can take years to feel comfortable in your own skin again after a move like mine.

Lately I’ve been reaching out to some of my old friends to reconnect. Most have been receptive but some, you can tell, are meeting up only because they don't want to be rude. This stings more than a little. Sometimes it’s very hard for me to not beat myself up and worry that I am not a good person, or that I’ve done something wrong to make them not want to hang out with me.

But then I think about the people in my life that I don't want to hang out with on a regular basis, and I am reminded it doesn’t mean they are bad people or even that they have done anything wrong. It just means for one reason or another they are not who I want to surround myself with all the time. I try to remember this when I get paranoid about feeling so disconnected to people here. People have their own lives. They are living them. No biggie.

I still look at some people in my life and wish I could be more like them; nicer, sweeter, more accepting. I’m driving myself crazy with this struggle to be less who I am, and more like others. The reality is, yes, I can be sarcastic, and jaded, and self-centered, but I am equally funny, and honest, and supportive. And I don’t ask for more from my friends than I give - ever.

Although I get frustrated that I still struggle with this, I’m accepting myself more and more for who I am. And, yeah, even though it hurts to know people don’t like me ultimately it’s okay, because I like me.

Mio Amore

2011-02-02T07:18:00.000-05:00

I don't know your name
Or what you look like
Or when we will meet
But I believe in you
I know that you exist
And when we do meet
I will love you all the days of my life.

The Valetta Stone

2011-01-20T21:51:00.006-05:00

Color me bitter! Label me jaded! I do not care! Lately I’ve found myself in several situations where I cannot be completely honest with men about what I’m truly thinking. Of course there are many reasons for this, but the most compelling is I would come off as a royal bitch and feel guilty about it for days afterward. Given this, I do what any smart, self-preserving woman would do when speaking with mal-informed or blissfully unaware men; I smile sweetly, speak in a slightly softened voice, and say the complete OPPOSITE of what I am really thinking.

Lately, however, this practice has left me feeling on edge and unfulfilled. So, in true passive aggressive fashion, I've created a little cipher to help the men in my life better understand what I’m really thinking. Think of this as my own version of Rosetta Stone, but instead I’ll call it “The Val-etta Stone.”

You are too much = You are a COMPLETE wanker!

No silly = Hey Dumbass, you’re totally missing the point!

You are too funny = You’re an IDIOT and I cannot believe I have to tolerate your lame ass!

I’m not mad at all = I’m MAD AS HELL, but I’ll never give you the satisfaction of knowing that.

I’m frustrated by your comment = Are you really that fucking clueless?

I don't know what to say = You just don't fucking get it, and I am tired of repeating myself.

I'm sorry if I confused you = I'll take the blame so your HUGE ego does not get bruised.

No worries if you can’t do it = I don’t expect you to get off your lazy ass to help me anyway, so don't feel guilty. I'll just work it out myself as per usual!

I’m expecting The Valetta-Stone to hit the market sometime in early June!

A Year In Review 2010

2011-01-02T09:47:00.002-05:00

Wow! What a year. When I think back upon it, I get a little overwhelmed. I’ve already been back for five months. FIVE MONTHS! It seems like the time has passed in the blink of an eye. I had forgotten how fast your life passes you by when at least eight hours of your day is automatically committed to a regular activity.

It’s also interesting to see how much I have aged since my return to the States. My deep forehead wrinkles and dark under-eye circles are back; the unfortunate by-product of a face squinted at a computer screen all day. I found the fountain of youth in Italy y’all. It’s 10 hours of sleep a night, fresh food that is not poisoned with chemicals, great friends, and making love to a gorgeous Italian man on a regular basis. Yep, that’ll take 10 years off your face pretty quickly.

I’ve been hearing a lot of “year-end reviews” over the last few weeks. I missed these summaries at the end of 2009 as I didn’t have a radio or TV and never thought to look it up on CNN.com. I forgot how interesting I found these summaries.

You’ll all be interested to know that there was a major shift in the music industry from 2009 to 2010; with Lady Gaga closing out this year with the second most popular song and Ke$ha coming in first with Tik Toc. Apparently last year Lady Gaga’s “Poker face” was in the coveted top spot, and Ke$ha was in second! Tough break Lady G… tough break!

I also discovered during this year-end summary that the charming young woman who spells her name with a dollar sign does not pronounce her name “Key-sha” as I had originally thought, but Kesh-ah, like the Kesh in Marrakesh. Ahhhh, kids these days! Just wondering, does anyone name their kids Kim, or Amy, or Lisa anymore?

Apparently the end of 2009/beginning of 2010 saw the end of Jake Gyllenhaall and Reece Witherspoon as a couple. I just found this out by the way. I had no idea! And now apparently he is stalking Taylor Swift? Isn’t she like 18 years old or something? Hey, wait! Isn’t he 30 years old? Does that make him a LION? All this celebrity stuff is just too much to keep up with, so let me just focus on me from this point on forward.

I learned a lot about myself this past year, surprising myself in many ways; some good, some bad.

This was the first year I felt the emotion of jealousy. Yeah, that emotion sucks! I also discovered I am moody. I’m not sure if I just realized that I was moody, or if I picked up the emotion over the last year. Either way, that was not the most pleasant realization for me as I had always prided myself on being a happy and upbeat person most of the time.

This year I also released myself from that burden of being positive and upbeat all of the time. That was a great thing to let go of, and OH MY GOD what a wonderful feeling to discover my real friends actually like me even when I’m moody, or complaining, or not being the life of the party all the time! Yes! Yes! Yes! My Italian friends were one of the very good things for sure!

I returned to my home country with a renewed gratitude for the everyday “luxuries” I have here; affordable heat; a clothes dryer; long HOT showers with a shower curtain or door; people speaking English. After being back in the U.S. for about 2 months I realized how much personal value I derived from working each day and feeling as though I’m good at my job. I actually love what I do for a living, and enjoy going to work. That was a pretty great realization. I mean, who gets to move to Italy and realize they like their real life better than their dream?

Although I feel my home is in the United States, I feel fortunate to have experienced the lifestyle of Italians. I miss so many things from my life there. I miss the absolute beauty in almost everything that surrounds you- from the architecture to the food displayed at the corner market. I love the passion in the way the Italians talk, in the way they touch, in the way they eat. Italians know beauty, they know food, they know wine, and they truly know how to live. One of my goals for 2011 is to maintain this passion for life as I redefine my life here.

The best thing I learned about myself this year is that I really like the woman I have become. I am so much more comfortable in my own skin now. Maybe this is a result of the last five and a half years, maybe it’s my year abroad, maybe it’s the result of turning 40, or maybe it's all these things. Either way, I make no apologies for who I am. Yes, I can be intense. I can be a total pain in the ass. I expect a lot from people. Love me anyway! And if I’m not your cup of tea, that’s okay too. You’ve gotta do what’s right for you.

Happy New Year everyone, I wish you a year full of friendship, gratitude, and fulfilled dreams!

I am not a COUGAR!

2010-10-27T20:07:00.005-04:00

I don’t know why this label bothers me so much. Perhaps it's the range of not so complementary definitions that disturb me so greatly. You know, definitions such as:

Cougar - The term is commonly applied to women who are thirty or older and pursue younger men. - Wikipedia

Cougar - An older woman who is primarily attracted to and has sex with significantly younger men - About.com

Cougar - An older woman who frequents clubs in order to score with a much younger man. The cougar can be anyone from an overly surgically altered wind tunnel victim, to an absolute sad and bloated old horn-meister, to a real hottie or MILF. Cougars are gaining in popularity -- particularly the true hotties -- as young men find not only a sexual high, but many times a chick with her shit together. - Urban Dictionary

The Urban Dictionary definition I find particularly lovely. “MILF,” “sad and bloated old horn-meister,” “chick with her shit together!” ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

But, hey, maybe I shouldn't feel offended, I mean, according to the Urban Dictionary cougars are gaining in popularity with "young men". WOW, lucky me! Now, on top of all the normal insecurities that come with aging, I can worry about being the prize winning goal of some misguided frat night out! Yay for me!

I have so many problems with the cougar label I barely know where to begin. First, 30 years does NOT constitute an "older woman!" Notice the age range of the guy isn't specifically mentioned in any of these definitions? That’s SOOO unfair!

My second issue is with the presumption that we women over 30 who have dated significantly younger men actually “pursue” them. When I became single again at the age of 35 most men my age were married. The only available men were “significantly” younger or “significantly” older than I was. I guess that means I could have been an adulterer, a cougar, or a gold digger.

Remind me again what men are called when they date significantly younger women? Oh yeah, they're called MEN!

That doesn’t seem quite fair, now does it? I think we need a catchy little nickname for men. Hmmm… maybe I should go out and find myself a LION? Sure a LION; a Lying, Immature, Obnoxious, Neanderthal.

Oh no, does that seem bitter or unfair? HA! Eat your heart out boys (or should I say Lions!). How do you like it?

50 Days in America

2010-09-19T20:29:00.009-04:00

I’ve been home for exactly 50 days. After listening to all of the stories of those who had returned to the U.S. after long stays abroad, I was prepared for full-on culture shock as soon as I walked off the plane. I wondered if the eight lanes of traffic on the beltway would overwhelm me. Would the SUVs that dominate the roads here make me cringe? Would I be overwhelmed while shopping in my favorite mass merchandiser? Would the sound of “loud Americans” make me want to run back to Italy? I wasn’t sure, but I was prepared for the worst.

As it turned out, none of the things I was told may freak me out made much of an impact on me. I loved understanding what everyone around me was saying. I didn’t mind the jam packed beltway (except for the fact that they seemingly cut down every tree that lined the roads in the Tyson’s Corner area to make way for the above ground metro system.). And it seemed that a lot of SUVs had been replaced by Mini Coopers and hybrid cars.

The first time I walked into my favorite mass merchandiser, I found myself greeting the store with a warm smile, “Hello Target, my old friend. Let’s get reacquainted shall we.” And get reacquainted we did, as I spent nearly two hours in the store that day roaming up and down the aisles looking at the wonder of all this affordable stuff. My god we have a so many products to choose from in this Country, and at such reasonable prices!

My initial impressions coming back were these. Americans are polite and friendly. When a woman in the Target store almost bumped into me with her cart she apologized profusely. If an Italian took out my eye with the spike of their umbrella I would not even get as much as a glance back to see if I was okay. But here was a woman who ALMOST hit my cart and provided a sincere apology. Ahhh, God bless America!

Americans smile at you, especially if you smile at them. This was so refreshing to me. No one looked back at me like, who the hell are you and why are you smiling at me? I felt a kinship with these smiling people, like we had an understanding without saying a word.

And then I remembered we DID have an understanding. It’s called culture and it’s what defines how we act and who we are whether we realize it or not. And man, as much as I ended up loving Italy, I am happy to be surrounded by my American culture.

We have freedoms and luxuries in this country that most of us take for granted. Long hot showers (in an ACTUAL shower and not a bath tub with a long handled spigot), air conditioning, and clothing driers were the things I missed the most when I moved away. Now I find myself grumbling that Americans use too much air conditioning (And we do by the way. I am freezing most of the time I enter a building here. Is there any reason it has to be SOOOO cold? ), we waste water, and we over use our clothing driers.

I find that I still line dry pretty much everything. The only exception to this, the one luxury I allow myself is to use my clothes dryer to dry my bath towels and sheets. I know many people love the smell and feel of line dried sheets and towels, but I HATE the stiffness of them. To me there is nothing like rolling into bed with warm sheets straight from the dryer.

After 40 years of loving long hot, hot, hot showers I find myself sticking with the habit I had to develop during my first week of living in Italy, which is to turn off the water while you are washing your hair and your body and just turn it on to get wet and rinse off. How, HOW did this happen to me? I just can’t do it anymore; I can’t spend 15 minutes in the shower letting hot water run over me. It just feels like such a waste. Damn those environmentally conscience Europeans! Have they ruined me forever?

The biggest disappointment to me has been the food. After nearly a year of only Italian food I was CRAVING other foods. In the months before I returned home I had dreams about Pad Thai from my favorite Thai restaurant in the area. I longed for some authentic Indian food and couldn’t wait to eat anything other than Italian.

Unfortunately every meal I had been craving was a letdown. It was flavorless, or drenched in dressing that it didn’t need, or over salted, or over cooked. Even my favorite American gourmet chocolate seemed to have no flavor.

I was sick every morning for the first two weeks I was home. I’d expect this if it’s your first time eating BBQ in a year, but I was sick even after preparing meals for myself with ingredients I purchased at Whole Foods, “America’s healthy solution to regular grocery stores.” I’m sorry but this speaks volumes to me about the food in this country. I think we’re poisoning ourselves and we have no idea we’re even doing it.

After nearly a year of no radio or TV, the one thing I have found almost unbearable since I’ve been back is listening to radio commercials. The sound of them makes me cringe and I have to turn them off immediately. Luckily I don't have a car anymore so it’s not a big problem, but whenever I borrow one or use my local car share service I usually have to turn the radio off. This is a huge change from how I used to be when I could not stand the sound of silence.

I stopped watching TV a while ago, but used to turn it on for background noise. I don’t do that anymore and only turn it on to watch a movie or get caught up on the news. This is another big departure from my younger days when I used to be called a “walking TV guide!” However I am curious to find out what all the hub-bub is about over this show called, “GLEE!”

Everyone keeps asking me if I miss Italy, and the truth is I don't; at least not yet. What I do miss are the friends that I made while living in Italy. I don't know if I will ever be friends with more genuine, interesting, and supportive people; and I truly feel a void in my life because I cannot connect with them on a daily basis. This has been the hardest transition for me, but believing this small group of amazing women will be a part of my life for a very long time makes it a little easier for me to be here and not be there.

Okay this blog has run much longer than expected, so stay tuned for my next blog which will talk about my new job, living without a car, and what happened when I recently met up with the guy I was falling in love with when I left for Italy.

Ciao tutti!

My Last Day in Florence

2010-08-01T10:29:00.009-04:00

At 9:30 A.M. I was awakened by the ring of my Italian telefonino; “Da na na, da na na, da naa, naa naa!”

Without looking at the phone to identify the caller I manage a “Hello?” in a confused and groggy voice.

“Ciao Valeria. Did I wake you? It’s Nicco. We have your checkout scheduled today for 10:00 A.M., but I am close to you. Can I come earlier?” says the Manager of my apartment rental in a thick, but energetic Italian accent. God I love those accents!

I look over at Bartolomeo who is rubbing his eyes to remove the sleep from his unusually long eyelashes.

“Um, I think 10 o’clock would be better.” I say, knowing that even 10 will be hard for me to accommodate. After all, I’ve got a gorgeous naked Italian man lying next to me and it’s my last day in Florence. I’ve got to savor this moment as long as possible!

“Oh, okay, I’ll see you at 10 then. Ciao, ciao.” Nicco responds.

“Ciao, Nicco.”

“Shoot!” I think, “Only 30 minutes more with Barto,” but then I remember he offered to meet me at the train station later in the day after the end of his shift at the restaurant. I look over and inform Barto that Nicco will be arriving in 30 minutes. Barto shoots me an intense look and starts kissing the length of my neck.

Oh how I love his kisses; full-lipped, soft (but not too soft), wet (but not too wet). I know what’s coming next but I am pulled away from this bliss by the annoying ring of my mobile. This time I look before I pick up the phone. It is 9:45 A.M.

“Ciao Nicco. What’s up?” I say with urgency.

“Ciao Valeria. I am in the building now. Are you ready for me to come by now?”

I look up at Bartolomeo who has patiently paused his repertoire to indulge my telephone call.

“Umm. I’m in the middle of something right now Nicco.” I can’t help myself and I giggle a little after saying it. “Actually 10:15 would work much better for me.”

“AHHH, I understand!” Nicco responds. And by the change in his tone, I can tell he finally DOES understand. “No problem. I see you at 10!”

Ugh, my subtle plea for more time was not picked up on. Oh well, this morning will have to be brief.

At 10 o’clock, after about 50 deliciously full-lipped-good-bye kisses, Barto is off to meet his friends to shop for a gift before work, and I move to the bedroom to finish packing. Nicco bounds in 10 minutes later with a smile on his face that more than hints he knows what just took place in my apartment. I smile a devilish smile, nudge his arm with my own, and tell him to “Just keep quite!”

Nicco and I discuss some details with the apartment, exchange some pleasantries and part our ways. Okay, then, my apartment is sorted.

After a shower I’m off to the center for two last minute gifts. I’m walking today as I’ve given my bike to a friend for safe keeping until my return (whenever that may be). And I’m taking the long way instead of cutting through every back road I can think to avoid the throngs of tourists that congest the Historical Center of Florence in July. Today I want to go at a leisurely pace. I want to look up at the buildings and maybe notice something I had overlooked before. I want to take it all in one final time.

I head first toward my favorite piazza; Piazza Della Signoria. This is the one that took me almost nine months to pronounce correctly. Don't ask me why. It’s not hard to pronounce. I just kept adding an extra “n” in the word right before the final “a.” (Stupid Spanish getting in the way of my Italian!) It’s the one with the fake David statue. It’s the one with the original Rape of the Sabine Woman sculpture. It - is - AMAZING!

This is MY piazza. This is where I rode my bike so many times before in the wee hours of the morning with my friend Christine; she on her bike and me on mine, following each other in single file, making large infinity sign designs with our bicycle tires and yelling, to no one in particular, “Weeeeee liiivvvveee heeerrreee!” This is the piazza I go to when I am sad because it just makes me happy to be there.

I walk into this square with a bit of arrogance. “Ugh, all these tourists!” I think to myself. Cameras are out in full force and I wonder whether these people actually stop to enjoy the surroundings, or whether it’s just about getting the photo. I keep my leisurely pace and knowingly walk through an area where a couple is getting their picture taken near the Fountain. Although I know this is a shitty thing to do, I smile a bit after doing it. After all, it is MY piazza.

I say my goodbyes to Neptune's Fountain (that's what I call it. I have no idea what the real name is), and to the fake David. I take one last spin through the Logge to admire the statues and then I head down the street toward Piazza Della Republica.

Unlike Piazza Della Signoria, this piazza is void of great pieces of art. Despite its lack of artwork it's my second favorite piazza in Florence, although I’m not quite sure why. It’s anchored by higher-end shops (think Hugo Boss) and by restaurants that massively overcharge for the simplest of things (think $7 Euros for a small pot of tea).

On the opposite end of the shops is a lovely arch that serves as entrance into the “Rodeo Drive” section of Florence (think Fendi and Ferragamo). Tucked into a corner of the piazza is a colorful carousel. This is the one I forced my friends to ride with me for my birthday (just so that I could say I rode it). The other side of the piazza plays host to one of my favorite guilty pleasures, enjoying a drink on the patio of the Savoy Hotel.

I desperately want to plop myself down now for an overpriced Spritz (not a Wine Spritzer mind you, but a SPRITZ, which is a perfect blend of Aperol Orange Liqueur and Prosecco with a slice of orange thrown in for good measure) but it is getting late and I still have places to visit.

I move on to the Ferrari store just through the archway. This is my first time in this store, but my brother sarcastically said my nephew wanted a Ferrari as his gift from Italy (but not a red one because all of his friends have red ones) so I needed to oblige as best I could. I wonder if the Ferrari mug I bought him will suffice?

I’m hungry now as it’s after 1 PM and I’ve not eaten yet. I know exactly where I want to eat, Focaccine Bondi which is hidden behind the open air market of San Lorenzo. I am determined to order in Italian with such precision that the grouchy man behind the counter has no cause to pretend like he doesn’t understand me.

It’s the perfect location for me, as I want to say my goodbyes to the Duomo and take one more stroll through the San Lorenzo Market, which has been a source of shopping pleasure for me (and my visitors) so many times that a few vendors know me by name.

I walk back through the arch at the Piazza Della Republica, cross the piazza, make a left past the patio of the Savoy, and head up toward the massive jumble of activity swirling around the Duomo and its Baptistry. I get a kick out of all the people doing all of the same thing; crouching down to the ground as low as possible to include as much of the tall bell tower as possible; or crowding by the Golden Doors to snap a photo that no one may ever look at again. However, I am not annoyed by these tourists. Maybe it’s because this is not MY piazza.

I notice the line to enter the Duomo is the longest I have ever seen, and it occurs to me that in my 9 months in Florence I never did manage to enter the church or climb its famous dome. “Hmm, next time,” I think without any regret, as I am completely confident this is not my last time in Florence.

I walk through San Lorenzo Market with no real agenda. I just want to float around a bit before hitting Bondi for lunch. I stroll past the booths I’ve been past so many times before, listening to the merchants hock their wares, “I make you good price. Look at this nice bag. You speak English?”

I pass once more by the men selling knock-off watches or sunglasses by signs that warn, “BUYING COUNTERFEIT GOODS IS AGAINST THE LAW AND SUBJECT TO A FINE OF $50,000 EURO.” And although I have seen it dozens of times now, the irony of it still makes me giggle.

I enter Bondi with a solid determination to order and pay in Italian without question or criticism. Because it’s later in the afternoon, the place is blissfully free of the swarms of local Italians who eat there. I approach the counter and order the same panino I had the last time I was there (because it was super yummy); tomato, marinated eggplant, and mozzarella placed between heated focaccia bread. No snide comment came from the man behind the counter about my order. Fantastic, mission half accomplished, and the sandwich did not disappoint!

Time to pay; I walk to the counter, tell him my order, pay him and walk off without incident. Well then, mission fully accomplished! “AWESOME!” I say to myself and start to make my way home as it was nearing 3 P.M.

Barto met me at my apartment at 3:30 P.M. to help me with my luggage. I managed to keep it to 2 medium sized rolley-bags thanks to lots of friends taking lots of stuff home with them when they returned to the U.S. after a visit. Although I was emotional and a bit sad at the beginning of the week I am surprisingly upbeat now. I am curious though if I will get teary-eyed at the station while saying goodbye to Bartolomeo.

Barto, being the polite man he is, helped the taxi driver place my bags into the back of the taxi and announced our destination. He even insisted on paying for the cab.

We walked into the main vestibule of the station and looked up to locate my track on the departures board. Yeesssss, the track was not listed yet so we had time to chat and kiss some more. After a pause in the conversation, he looked at me with his deep brown eyes and with the most sincere look I might have ever seen on a man and said, “Valerie I will really miss you.”

Normally I would brush this comment aside and thought he was saying out of obligation, but again, his eyes were so sincere I did not dismiss his words.

After the track was announced, Barto walked me to the train and insisted on carrying my luggage up the deep steps to the designated baggage area (thank goodness he did because they were really heavy). He helped me find my seat and then we both hopped off the train to say our goodbyes.

“I will miss you too.” I share with him, “You are a wonderful man who has more manners, depth and passion than most men I have met in my entire life.” And I mean every word of it. He looks at me with a tiny bit of sadness in his eyes and searches mine for the same. But I am not sad. How could I be? I have just had the most wonderful experience of my life. I am filled with gratitude, pride, and true joy at this moment.

We exchange another round of yummy kisses and I can’t help but tell him yet again how much I love his kisses. He smiles at this (as he always does) proud of his “abilities” in this area.

The train conductor blows his last-call-to-get-on-the-train whistle and I am off. One more kiss, a wave goodbye at the stairs, and I’m headed for my seat.

I get situated. Place my bag in the bin above and settle in with my book. For some reason after a short period I look up from my book and notice Bartolomeo standing off in the distance waiting for the train to leave. We connect eyes and he waves one last wave to send me off. I am deeply touched by this. “What a great guy,” I think to myself and another wave of joy rushes through my body.

“Wow! What a fantastic experience.” I think. “I’m so glad I did this. All of the introspection, all of the sadness, all of the loneliness; and all of the struggle was worth the happiness.” And I decide right there I would not change a single moment of my experience in Italy (with the exception of that one embarrassing dancing experience I shared at Notte Bianco with my friend “Mags”).

I have no idea what the next chapter of my life will look like, but I am not afraid of it. I am excited to see how it unfolds.

Okay, what’s next? I’m ready.

I’m Not Special

2010-07-27T05:10:00.005-04:00

When I announced to my friends that I was moving to Italy they pretty much thought I was a rock star. For several months I received comments like, “That is so cool!” or “You’re my idol,” or “Oh my god, I would never have the guts to do that!”

Friends and acquaintances went out of their way to provide me with opportunities or advice to make my dream come true.

All of the excitement was a bit surprising at first, but I loved that people were interested, and I loved the positive attention. I started thinking, “Wow, maybe this is a big deal,” and I started to feel a little special, like perhaps I wasn’t like everyone else.

After a brief stint in Rome I moved to Florence in December of 2009. A week after moving to Florence my roommate took me to a holiday party hosted by a group called YAWN, short for Young Anglo Women’s Network. YAWN is made of up mostly native English speaking women living in Florence.

What was supposed to be a casual holiday party turned out to be a defining moment for me because I met several women at this party who changed the course of my time in Italy, and possibly, as time may reveal the course of my life.

These women had similar stories to mine. They too longed for something different. They too sold or gave away everything they owned to move here. They too left family and friends for something unknown. These women understood the benefits and sacrifices involved in living in a country that was not their own.

Being surrounded by women with similar experiences was such a comfort to me. I was relieved to meet new people and make new friends. But after hearing the same answer to the question, “So what’s your story? Why are you in Florence?” over and over again, I realized I was a dime a dozen here. Everyone had done what I had done. I was not special at all.

At first this realization took the wind out of my sails. But now, as I reflect on my 10 months here I realize, no, I’m not special, but “we” all are. We, the ex-patriot women living in Florence who left all that we knew to experience something different; we who believed in ourselves enough to take a leap into the unknown; we who made the most of our lives here no matter how short or how long a stay. “We” are special.

For some of us Italy was our destiny; for others a break from our lives; for others a chance for love; and for others still a launching ground for the next big adventure. Yes, we may have similar stories, but these similarities in no way diminish the challenges we have overcome. They in no way diminish our bravery, our tenacity, and our strength. We took action. We did it, and absolutely yes, we are all special.

Differences: Toilets & Sinks

2010-07-22T02:15:00.002-04:00

Toilets and sinks; sounds like a pretty basic concept, right? I mean, this seems easy enough… you go, you flush, you wash your hands, you leave. Alas, this basic function is one of the myriad things different from how things are done in the U.S.

The first time I went into a public toilet in Italy and turned to flush I had the following inner-monologue, “Okay, where is the little handle on the tank of the toilet? Actually, where IS the tank of the toilet?” Oh, I see, the flusher is on the wall; simple enough. Ummm, okay, what’s the difference between little button and the big button?”

A little later I finally decided not worry about looking stupid and asked my roommate what the difference in the button size was. She simply explained, “The big button is for a big flush. The small button is for a small flush.” Yeah, I felt stupid.

One of my favorite humiliating moments when I first got here was standing in front of a water faucet in a public washroom trying to figure out how to turn on the water to wash my hands. Because there were no handles to turn, I started waving my hands in front of anything I could think of to trigger any plausible infrared signal. So there I was in the middle of my “jazz hands” sequence when someone came out of a stall, walked to the sink, and stepped on a button on the floor to trigger the water. “Oooohhhhh!” I thought to myself while imitating the movement, “BRILLIANT IDEA! Why don't we do this in the U.S.?”

Another “fun” cultural difference to adjust to was the concept of a unisex bathroom. This is where men and women enter the same undesignated bathroom door into an area that provides a common sink to wash your hands and a common mirror to check yourself out. Although, generally, there are designated toilet stalls inside the room for men and women, there is nothing as startling as the first time you walk out of a stall and see a cute guy staring at you while you’re adjusting your outfit and picking the toilet paper off of your shoe.

Ahhhh, unisex bathrooms… just one more thing I will miss when I leave Italy. Hmmmm, maybe not.

Differences: The Breakfast of Champions

2010-07-11T10:17:00.003-04:00

Before I come home and forget all this stuff I wanted to write about a few more difference between living in Italy and living in the United States. So, let’s talk about the cereal aisle in supermarkets.

Now, in the U.S. the cereal aisle is exactly that. A full aisle loaded on both sides with a veritable cornucopia of every kind of cereal that could be invented by man. You’ve got your Cornflakes; Bran Flakes; Rice Checks, Raisin Bran; and Life. You’ve got your Count Chocula; Sugar Smacks; Franken Berry; Captain Crunch; and your Lucky Charms. You’ve got your Kashi Go Lean; your Kashi Good Friends, your Fruit and Fiber; and your various brands of Granola. And let’s not forget about the instant oatmeal in individual packets; rolled oats in the silo shaped cardboard box; Farina Wheat; powdered breakfast drinks; breakfast bars; granola bars; and last but not least… Pop Tarts.

In my first two trips to the grocery store in Rome I could not even find the “cereal aisle.” The reason being they didn’t have one. What they had was a small area of cereal (and I mean small) located near the tea and coffee section that provided four options; one granola based cereal that offered a choice of granola with chocolate chunks, or dried fruit. And the other which offered the choice between plain corn flakes, or corn flakes with chocolate chunks. I’m not kidding, four choices; two with chocolate chunks. In the U.S., with the exception of maybe Cookie Crunch cereal which seemingly makes no apologies for blatantly adding chocolate into a child’s first meal of the day, you don't generally find chocolate chunks offered in a cereal.

Of course, since my first foray into an Italian supermarket in October of 2009, I have found more of a selection in the cereal aisle, but nothing like it is in the States.

A large part of why the cereal aisle is so sparse is because the staple “breakfast of champions” for Italians is a tiny cup of scalding hot espresso and maybe, just maybe, a pastry. Cereal is just not consumed here like it is in the U.S.

In fact, when I was offered a bowl of cereal after spending the night at my boyfriend’s home, I asked in surprise, “You have cereal?” He promptly explained that the cereal in his house was only consumed by his nieces and nephew, all under the age of 10. “Oh.” I said with pursed lips and a prolonged “o” sound. then I unashamedly added, “Yeah, I’ll have some cereal.”

Color me childish, but I’m not embarrassed to admit I need a little more than 3 sips of super strong coffee to get me through the morning. After all breakfast IS the most important meal of the day!

Un Tavolo Per Due (A Table for Two)

2010-07-03T09:03:00.007-04:00

“I would like to accompany you to my home and show you where I live,” announced Bartolomeo, my dreamy Italian boyfriend.

I know this invitation is no small thing, as I’ve been told many times, by many different people that Florentines don't open their homes to just anyone.

Because homes are so expensive in Italy, they are usually passed down from generation to generation. This is why so many Italians live with their parents throughout their adult years. Homes then become part of the history of the family; not just a place to live. Many homes in Italy are older than America itself. Italians appreciate what they have and they take care of it the best way they can. The home, no matter how grand or how humble is a source of pride.

After an almost 20 minute car ride into the hills of Tuscany, Bartolomeo opened the iron gates to his family home, and pulled his car under a flower encrusted gazebo. Typical terracotta pots of varying sizes full of colorful flowers were scattered about the front patio. After opening the front door, (wrought Iron and glass of course) a gauzy orange-colored curtain greeted us. The curtain, no doubt, was used to keep the hungry bugs out and let the cool air in.

The inside of his home was in the typical Tuscan Farmhouse style. A large stone staircase with wrought iron handrails on either side greeted us. To the left was the door to the kitchen. The kitchen was quite big with wood-beamed ceilings; a marble-topped farmhouse table; and a wood-burning oven that is still used for cooking in the winter. The floors throughout the house were lined with terracotta tiles and antique pieces of furniture flanked many of the room’s walls.

At the completion of my tour Bartolomeo brought me back to the kitchen and started boiling some water. By this time it was late, after 9:30 at night and I was not expecting dinner. I sat at the farmhouse table in the center of the room while he weighed some pasta in an antique scale, and salted the water. We made small talk, he with his broken English and me with my non-existent Italian, while the water came to a boil.

When the pasta was completed Bartolomeo motioned for me to follow him into a room I had not seen earlier. After walking into the seemingly dim-lit room a dining room table, dressed with perfect simplicity, was revealed. The table, lined with a classic white linen table cloth that had delicate blue-thread detailing, displayed a bottle of red wine; two wine glasses; two small water glasses; two forks; and at least 20 glowing tea light candles. A larger vanilla scented votive candle anchored the center of the table.

“Wow,” I thought to myself, “I wasn’t expecting this.” I turned to Bartolomeo with a somewhat confused look. His face showed a small but proud smile.

He opened and poured the wine, first for me and then for him, and then left the room only for a second to bring in a carafe of water and the bowls of pasta. He grated parmesan cheese on both bowls and sat down to toast the meal.

“Oh, I forgot something!” He said, as he popped out of his chair and squatted down at the TV cabinet that sat in the corner of the room. A few seconds later he pulled out a record, placed the needle on the vinyl and sat back down.

“Do you know Louis Armstrong?” he asked.

“Louie Armstrong? Umm yes, of course I know Louie Armstrong. How do YOU know Louie Armstrong?” I say in response.

“C’mon” he replies with his beautiful deep voice and Italian accent. “My father and I listen to these all the time.” He points up to reveal hundreds of records sitting on a shelf that lines the top of the dining room wall.

“Oh my god,” I think to myself, “How does a man with so few years have this much depth? How did I get so lucky?”

I can’t help it. A huge smile spreads across my face; my head tilts a little to the left; and my eyes move to a dream-filled gaze… you know the gaze little girls get when they imagine the man of their dreams. As I sat there starry-eyed thinking what a wonderful night this turned out to be Bartolomeo cupped the side of my face with his hand and pulled me to meet his perfectly full lips.

We made a toast, and started to eat. The pasta was simple, shaped like spaghetti but with a hole in the middle of the tube. It was served plain, with just a little salt and parmesan cheese. Dinner was good, but it was late and I could barely finish what he served me, so I offered him what I had left. He ate it while we talked for a few more minutes and then he announced he had to get the secondi.

“There’s a second course?” I ask in surprise.

“Of course” he replies.

Bartolomeo arrived back to the dining room with a full plate of cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto. I didn’t even have to ask. I knew he prepared it himself. It was delicious and the combination of salty ham and perfectly chilled melon was a refreshing relief from the sticky night air.

When he left the table a final time I was not surprised when he returned with 2 small glass bowls of Tiramisu which he prepared himself that day. He used the same recipe he uses at the restaurant in which he works (a personal favorite of mine) with the exception, he admitted, of using different ladyfingers because he didn’t have the ones they used in the restaurant. Different ladyfingers or not, the dessert was amazing. Again a huge smile came to my face and true joy filled my heart.

“Thank you for this evening,” I say to him.

“Prego” he replies to accept my appreciation, but I know he does not really understand the full extent of it.

How could he? How could he know that a simple dinner together in his home or that any of the little things he’s done for me over these last 4 months have not only provided me with fantastic memories, but have helped me open myself up again, to trust again, and in some ways has restored my faith in men?

He couldn’t know of course, but I’m sure the smile I have on my face every time we are together provides some insight to him that I am happy and he is a part of that happiness.

Differences: The Naked Truth

2010-06-12T18:34:00.026-04:00

This blog is the first in a series I will be doing regarding the differences between the American and Italian cultures.

Italy, like many European countries, is much less uptight about showing the human body in advertisements or storefronts than in the United States. It is quite common here to see bare bottoms, bare breasts, and, if it’s artistic enough, full frontal nudity in advertisements.

The ads here would never fly in the U.S.! We're way too uptight for this much skin! This cracks me up because in America many people have no problem with violent movies or video games where one person blows the head off of another without shedding a tear, but show an ad with some nipplage and you'll hear about it on the evening news!

Note, the ad below is for coffee. The people have been painted on arms and hands, two of which are holding a coffee mug. I don't know what this naked jumble has to do with selling coffee, but it's quite artistic, no?

In fact, I’ve become so accustom to seeing nude women in ads or seeing nearly naked mannequins in storefronts that when I came upon a large tour group huddled outside of an underwear store pointing and giggling like 12 year old girls, I could not figure out what they were fussing about. That is until I heard one of the women say while pointing to a mannequin displaying a pair of thong undies, “Oh my gosh, why would they show that? That’s so weird!”

“Oh that’s right!” I explain to my Italian friend who was equally as confused as I. “We don't really have shops like this in the United States that display their, ahem, “stuff” like this.”

He was surprised by this because in Italy they have at least four national retail chains that sell only underwear, socks, and pantyhose. Because America has superstores that sell everything from pancake batter to guns, I don't think these little (non-high end) stores would survive. Sure we’ve got the Victoria’s Secret at the mall, but it's different from these stores and we certainly don't have four national chains thriving on selling only underwear and socks!

I think it's great that people here find beauty in the human (and naked) form. I find it refreshing, and I will miss the freedom of it when I return to the United States. We could probably do better worrying less about nudity and worrying more about things that really matter.

No Pride in Prejudice

2010-05-29T17:09:00.003-04:00

Prejudice:

1. An adverse judgment or opinion formed beforehand or without knowledge or examination of the facts.
2. A preconceived preference or idea.
3. The act or state of holding unreasonable preconceived judgments or convictions.

I’m lucky. My parents did not raise me with prejudice. I have long felt that not carrying these preconceived notions about people has allowed me to expand my horizons beyond those who are limited by pre-judging those they have not met. Prejudice and racism are things I have had exceptionally little tolerance for throughout my life. As Austin Power’s dad said in Goldmember, “There are only two things I can’t stand in this world; intolerance for other people’s culture… and the Dutch!”

Italians are prejudice against African men. Notice I didn’t write African American men. I wrote African men. I say this because many, if not most, of the black men working in Italy are from Africa. Unfortunately, a very large number of these men make their living by selling tourists counterfeit goods on the street.

Without obtaining the necessary permits, these men display their illegal wears on large white bed linens so they can scoop up the ends in a Santa Claus-esque sack and make a mad dash from the Italian police whenever the police decide to enforce the anti-counterfeit laws.

While traveling around Italy and Europe I noticed this trend in many tourist destinations; black men with white bed linens on the ground displaying designer purses, wallets, and sunglasses. It’s impossible to miss. They approach you on the street and can be quite assertive in their sales pitch depending on how direct you are about saying no.

This selling of illegal designer goods has not done much to encourage the Italians to open their arms to those from Africa. Quite the contrary; it has caused resentment, distrust, and in some cases flat out hatred. But unlike the U.S. where we have a large and diverse population, Italians do not. It’s hard to convince someone they cannot judge an entire country based on a few, when their only experience with this culture has been witnessing the African male selling illegal goods on the street, while diligently avoiding the police.

As much as I hate to admit this, for the first time in my life I understand how people could form these opinions. Before, I would just write people off as closed minded, or afraid of anything unknown or different, but now it’s not that "black and white" to me.

To understand this prejudice you have to understand certain aspects of Italian culture. For one, Italians are a bit of a closed society. They have a deserved and understandable, albeit extreme, pride in their own history, in their own traditions, and in their own products.

With obvious exceptions, Italians don't mix up the nationalities as much as other countries do when it comes to marriage and making babies (Maybe this is why so many Italians are vertically challenged. Perhaps if we cross-bred the Italians with the Dutch we could stop this shortness epidemic!).

To over simplify, Italians like Italians.

Additionally, Italian design is a source of extreme pride throughout the country. Ferragamo, Gucci, Fendi, Prada, Dolce and Gabbana… so many of the world’s most elite designers are Italian. Unlike other parts of the world where everything is manufactured in China; a large quantity of apparel and leather goods are still made in Italy, by Italians. Selling fakes on the street that were made in another country weakens the brand, takes jobs away from Italians, takes money away from the shop keepers who are selling the legitimate pieces, and reduces the amount of sales tax collected by the government which reduces the amount of money available for public services.

To many Italians this practice not only shows disrespect for something they take great pride in, it threatens their way of life. This explanation is not to say that I condone this view. I’m only stating I understand where it stems from and I can see how it would be hard for an Italian to not think that way.

Living in a foreign country has also opened my eyes to my own capability for prejudice that I had no idea I had. I have come to the realization that I have formed my own prejudice against… Italians.

I know how this must sound. I live in Italy. I’m dating an Italian man. I have a few Italian friends. Still, I have formed opinions of Italians based on my interactions with them and I find myself assuming things about them that I have very little basis for.

For instance, I really do believe a large number of Italian men cheat. I really do think it’s a larger percentage than in the United States, and I really do believe that I could never marry an Italian man because of it. I have NO statistical proof of any of this mind you. I just believe it based on what I have heard and my limited experience here. On a less negative note, but just as unfounded, I also believe that most Italian men are wildly romantic and fantastic lovers. Again, I have no idea if that is true, but it is my belief.

I’m also not that fond of Italian women. I’m not sure why. The few Italian women I have actually met have been kind enough. My roommate in Rome (an Italian woman originally from Naples) is one of the most lovely people I have ever met, Italian or otherwise. The few women who have spoken to me at the gym seem fine, and the girlfriend of my boyfriend’s best friend was friendly, charming, and welcoming.

However, I find myself thinking that most Italian women are stuck up, have no sense of humor, and are only concerned with their appearance. Again, I have almost no basis for this feeling. I shouldn’t judge all Italian women by those who have felt it necessary to tell me off because I was riding my bike on a perfectly large sidewalk that gave each one of us ample room to pass, or for placing my umbrella too heavily on the ground when entering a building, or for coming into a yoga class without introducing myself first, or for constantly asking me to walk more softly in my own apartment which happens to be above hers.

I know I’m being ridiculous. However, if you make me join a queue in Italy, I’m gonna automatically have my arms on my hips, elbows back with my right leg extended a bit behind me to block the inevitable Italian woman who I just KNOW is going try to cut in front of me in line and not think twice about it.

I’m not proud of this realization about myself, but to deny it would be a lie. And to not address it would be a dishonor to all that my parents taught me and to all of the great people I could befriend. I’m hoping this realization keeps me in check. I hope it keeps me looking at things from a position of empathy and keeps me questioning why I think the way I think, and why I feel the way I feel.

I’m not perfect. I have many flaws that I want to learn to accept, but intolerance is not one of them.

Tick-Tock, Tick-Tock

2010-05-25T03:54:00.017-04:00

On August 7th I will turn 40. Although I find I talk about age quite a bit, I have never worried about it. I have never been one of those people who panic about becoming the big “four-oh”. In fact, two years ago I started telling people, “I’m almost 40.” As I recall, my entire adult life I have volunteered my age.

Surprisingly to me this admission has subjected me to several lectures from various girlfriends over the years (including those younger than I am) about how I shouldn’t discuss my age. I didn’t understand what the issue was. I was proud of my age. I didn’t feel like I acted or looked my age. Why not talk about it? It’s just a number. But as that significant “number” draws nearer to being MY number, I find myself with more dread than happiness or anticipation. And for the first time in my life, I am seriously contemplating shaving off five years after the big day.

Maybe I’m feeling this way because everywhere I turn I see an article, or have a discussion, or get an email about how much the body starts to degenerate with age; how it’s significantly harder to lose weight; how all of the hair on your body starts thinning; how you stop producing collagen and elastin; how it’s harder to heal from an injury; how your ability to reproduce slows down; how your sexual drive slows down; etc., etc.

OH MY GOD! Too much information! I don't want to know this stuff!

For the last few months I have been dating someone who, let’s just say is significantly younger than I am. Significantly to the point that I won’t even tell you how much younger. One might think this is a good thing; a testament to my young spirit and looks. But dating someone a lot younger isn’t all “Demi and Ashton” glamourous.

Don't get me wrong, in some ways I feel like a total rock star that I can hold the attention of a gorgeous younger man. But, lately, it’s also making me feel more self conscience and aware of my age than even before. I’m noticing every wrinkle on my face that is not yet on his; every extra pound that is harder to shed; every sag here and every bump there. These are my own insecurities. I know every person has them. But knowing that every person has them is not lessening my own burden of having them.

Maybe it’s not so much that I am worried about becoming 40 as the dread I feel about time zipping past me without any way to slow it down. I can’t believe that I have been in Italy for nearly 8 months now. I can’t believe that I only have 2 months left. The first 20 years of my life seemed to take forever, and the last 20 have careened past me like a high speed train running late for its on-time arrival.

Remember when, as a child, a day seemed to last an eternity? And if you were looking forward to something two weeks away it felt like you had to wait an entire year? I’d like that feeling back please. Could someone please figure out a way to slow down time?

Turn and Burn Baby!

2010-05-03T01:10:00.003-04:00

When one thinks of dining in Italy one may conjure up romantic notions of 2-hour long dinners spent with great friends out on the piazza enjoying mouth watering courses of Italian food and wine served with precision and care. Well, after living here for 7 months, I now know “one” should think again!

The reality is most Italian restaurants have no idea what customer service really means. I find this strange because Italians are so concerned with quality and customer service when it comes to other industries, like apparel, where it’s considered rude if I select my own shoe box from the stack of boxes on the floor because it’s the job of the staff to pull that box for you and place that shoe on your foot… daahhh!

Let me warn you now, if you come to Italy expecting the kind of restaurant service you get even at a Denny’s in America, you might as well just ask the pilot to turn the plane around right now, because you’re not gonna get that kind of service in Italy my friend!

Most of the time Italian waiters have severe tunnel vision. There is no such thing as working a section of tables rather than one at a time. In Italy waiters get to you when they get to you; can only manage to take a drink order during their first visit to the table (mostly because ordering your meal at that same time doesn’t make sense to them. You order your meal when they come back with your drinks… about 15 minutes after you ordered them); and disappear for what seems like an eternity after the meal has been served.

You know how it gets really annoying at some American restaurants when the waiter or the manager continually comes over to see if everything’s okay at the table? Yeah, well you don't have to worry about that here because NO ONE would bother to ask you how your meal is because they’re not going do anything about it anyway! For reasons that are still unknown to me, the wait staff will pass by your table of empty dishes for 20 minutes without clearing any plates.

But here’s the absolute kicker for me; on 3 separate occasions my friend Christine or I have been asked to leave a restaurant. Yep, someone on the wait staff actually came over and said, “I need you to go soon.” One time Christine was asked to leave after only being at the restaurant for 30 minutes. She was still nibbling on her dinner plate when the waitress said she needed the table!

I’m sorry, you can talk to me about cultural differences all you want, but there is nothing as off-putting as being asked to leave a restaurant while in mid-sip of a freshly poured cup of tea! Especially when you’re not being loud, you have not stayed there without ordering an appropriate amount of food, and there is no wait at the door!

Oh Italian restaurants, if you could just adopt this one little habit from the United States, just this one little concept called restaurant service, I’d be the happiest gal on the planet!

For Stephen

2010-05-01T18:01:00.004-04:00

If you were still here I could share with you all the insignificant things that only you and I would understand and appreciate.

If you were still here I could tell you how sorry I was for being so judgmental when we were married.

If you were still here I could wish you happy birthday, on this day, which would have been your 40th.

But you are not still here.

You left this life 1 year, 5 months, and 18 days ago.

You left this life before I could forgive you.

You left this life before we could be true friends again.

Today, I say to you what I said to you on our six year wedding anniversary when we did not know if we would stay married.

Today, I say to you what I whispered in your ear when you were dying.

Today, I say to you what I think to myself every time I become overwhelmed by your death.

Stephen, my heart is always with you.

But today I also add, I forgive you and thank you for all you have taught me.

Letting Go

2010-04-22T11:03:00.005-04:00

If you know me or if you’ve read my blog profile you understand that I’ve had quite a lot going on over the last 5 years. Some things fun, many things not so fun.

I have often wondered why these things happened to me. What did I do, or who did I piss off to make this bad karma come my way? After a while, difficult events became so commonplace in my life that bad news didn’t upset me anymore. So in January of 2009 when I was called back into my doctor’s office (10 days after we buried my former husband) and was told I had a suspicious lump in my breast that needed to be investigated more thoroughly, I actually laughed out loud. I remember thinking to myself, “Are you kidding me? What else could possibly be thrown my way?”

Eventually, I noticed I found an unexplainable satisfaction in telling my friends yet another story about something crazy that happened to me. I had this weird need to talk about my sad story even with people I didn't know very well. I think most people would keep these things to themselves. After all, some of my stories are kinda humiliating. Why would anyone want to tell anyone, especially relative strangers about it?

I recognize of course that part of why I talk so much about things others would not is because this is how I process things. Others in my family are more cerebral. They think their way through things and don’t take action or even talk about it before their thought process is complete. I’ve tried to be more like this; to think more and talk less, but I can’t do it. It’s just not the way I’m made. I’ve got to talk things out or I literally feel like I’ll explode!

I’m also positive a large part of me needed validation from those around me. I needed to hear that I did not deserve these bad times; that I was a good person, that I deserved better.

The talking helped. The validation helped. But what also happened was I became defined by these bad events. I wrapped them around me like a security blanket and I found a strange kind of comfort in the, "Don't you feel sorry for me?" role.

The problem is when you hold on to pain, or resentment, or self pity it’s hard for the events that caused these emotions to become part of your past. It's hard to move forward.

But taking this time for myself; to think, to write, and to just “be” me has brought me to a place where I am ready to move on. I am truly ready to forgive. I am ready to throw away the security blanket and let go of my precious pain.

Yeah, some tough stuff has happened to me over the last few years, but that is not who I am. That is not how I want to be defined. I want to be defined by the woman I have blossomed into; confident, happy, goofy, and content.

The Sounds of Italy

2010-04-09T06:20:00.004-04:00

I am sitting by my open window sending emails to friends and absorbing the sounds floating into my new home. The sun is shining. A church bell is chiming in the background. The smell of fresh flowers and an occasional cigarette from my neighbor's window is filling my nose. Italian is being spoken by the construction workers in the courtyard below.

When I can simply listen to Italian, without the pressure of having to understand what is being said, I am reminded of the absolute beauty of this language. I hear the music of its cadence, and I get lost in its rhythm.

Of all the major Romance languages, Italian retains the closest resemblance to Latin, which was spoken by the Romans and forced upon Italians during Rome’s reign of power. Until the 19th century Italy had no national language, but was filled with local dialects. It was common that Italians from the North could not communicate with Italians from the South (or any other region) because the languages were completely different.

Italy’s unification in 1861 produced profound transformations including mandatory schooling which caused an increase in literacy and resulted in the adoption of the national language, based on Tuscany’s dialect, with less native dialects. As a result, the modern and beautiful language of Italian was born.

Okay, the construction workers have started to speak again. The echo of their words are rising up through the courtyard of my building. The church bells are once again chiming; time for me to get lost in the sounds of Italy.

Embracing Home

2010-04-03T17:28:00.004-04:00

For months I felt off kilter here; definitely not like myself. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t happier. This was my reward for my last 4.5 years of hell. I was supposed to be living my dream, but there was an underlying uneasiness; an underlying sadness that I could not shake. Insecurities I had hoped were gone forever came back to me. I felt ugly. I felt out of place. And maybe hardest of all for me was I felt invisible. “Ugh,” I thought to myself more times than I'd like to admit, “After all I did to get here, I made the wrong decision! I gave up too much, and the “prize” wasn’t worth it.”

I arrived in Rome on October 11th. By December 5th I wanted to come home. I almost did come home for good, but my friend Nat convinced me not too. She didn’t say, “Don't come home,” she just asked a lot of good questions about motivations, frustrations, and personal goals. Nat understood where I was coming from because she moved from her home country to live and work a foreign country and had to essentially start her life from scratch. She understood where I was in my head. Truly, if it were not for her, I don't know where I would be living at this moment.

By early-March I was still not feeling like me, and then my friend Sherrie came to visit. She was just what I needed; a slice of home, a kick in the ass, and a reminder of whom I really was. The day she left something inside me switched back on, and I felt empowered. I realized that my destiny was not to live in Italy. I stopped fighting the desire to go back home and set a date to return in August of 2010. I felt back on solid ground again. I felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders AND my heart.

This decision allowed me to relax and enjoy the ride much more than I had been. I’m smiling more. I’m laughing more. I’m flirting more. I’m dating more. I’m speaking more Italian, and I’m forgiving myself more for not being better at speaking Italian. Life is good, but it’s funny where life takes you. The day I decided to move back home is the day I felt the most comfortable in Italy. I’ll tell you what though, learning that your real life is better than your dream is a fantastic lesson to learn and a lesson that, I believe, was worth moving to Italy for!

Reflections Upon My Time in the Women’s Locker Room: The Differences Between Italian and American Women

2010-03-25T22:43:00.005-04:00

One of the biggest cultural differences of note since I arrived in Italy is… well… hmmm, how do I say this? Okay, let’s just say the personal grooming habits of American women versus Italian women; which is to say that American women actually have personal grooming habits, and Italian women seem to be a bit more “tribal” when it comes to this particular area.

Actually I find this very interesting because Italian women are exceptionally concerned with their appearance. In fact, plastic surgery is quite common among Italian women. Apparently, however, no plastic surgeon has ever consulted with them on the wonders of a Brazilian Bikini Wax or laser hair removal, ‘cuz honey if you walk into any women’s locker room in Italy you’ll think you just entered the African jungle with women who have never seen a razor or a pair of scissors in their entire life!

I know this because Italian women walk around naked as a jay bird in the women’s locker room. This naked locker room stuff may sound normal to American men, but here’s a news flash; American women don’t like to do this. In fact, we hate it! We know that every woman in that locker room is checking us out when we’re not looking (because we do it too) so we’ll do everything we can to make it look like we’re okay with changing in front of women, but to avoid it at all costs.

Not Italian women; no sir! Italian women will chat away with their friends while standing buck naked in the middle of the locker room. Of course it’s almost impossible not to steal a look at them, which is how I know they don't shave or have any cellulite. Seriously! Even the few and far between big girls don't have cellulite. They are just thick. I really don’t understand how this is possible with the massive amount of pasta consumed in this country!

I don't think I’ve seen a pair of full coverage cotton undies since I’ve been here. These ladies love their g-strings; and since even the grandmas here don't have cellulite, I guess they have no need for “granny panties!”

Oh, and try to walk out of that locker room without taking a shower after class and you’ll get looks like you just said the Pope wasn’t Catholic.

The last observation that makes me want to fall to my knees, hold my head in my hands, and scream out, “IT’S JUST NOT FAIR” is that Italian women don't sweat. I’m not joking about this. They just don't. Keep in mind I work out 5 to 6 times a week, often 1 to 2 hours every session. My point is, I am a reasonably fit woman; but I’ll walk out of a fitness class drenched in sweat, while the Italian women (who seemed to have worked just as hard as I) have only a light glimmer of dew upon their brow. This baffles me so much I’ve asked the other sweaty American women who go to my gym if they’ve noticed the same thing. They all concur; Italian women don't sweat! Seriously, it’s bizarre and soooo unfair!

Putting Yourself First

2010-03-17T07:06:00.002-04:00

Before I left for Italy my sister told me that she did not want to be my friend anymore. She explained that although she loved me very much, she needed to change our relationship due to many deep and personal reasons having to do with her childhood. My sister and I had always been very, very close. We supported each other through the roughest of times (and believe me there were some very rough times growing up in my family) and the happiest times of our lives.

Hearing my sister say she did not want to be my friend anymore was crushing. Truly it was like someone sucked all of the air out of the room and my lungs were struggling to function. Anytime I thought about what she said I would cry.

Why didn’t she like me anymore? Was I so terrible of a person or a friend? What had I done? How could I change to make her like me again? All of these questions cycled through my head as I tried to figure out why she felt the way she did. I cried for weeks and weeks until I could get my head around what she said and why she said it.

The fact is her decision had little to do with me. It was a decision my sister made to ensure that she followed the path she needed to follow so that she could live the life she wanted to live. Justified or not, I reminded her of her painful childhood and nothing I could do or change about myself would make her feel any differently. She needed to separate me from her life so that she could move away from her past and continue to mold herself into the person she wanted to be, not the person her family had determined she was when she was growing up. Again, it took me a few months to look at this with some perspective as I was hurt, angry, and confused.

Now I understand how much strength it took for my sister to do this; to look out for her well being above another’s well being. To ensure she was making the right decisions for her even if these decisions caused pain for someone else. This is not such an easy thing to do. As women, I believe we have a natural tendency toward nurturing and putting other’s needs before our own. In the religion in which we were raised we were taught to do for others before doing for ourselves. Of course one cannot be so self-centered as to be oblivious to others and their feelings, but she was not doing that. She was taking care of her own needs so that she could be a happy and complete person which would allow her to be giving and kind to others in a more balanced way.

Recently I needed to make some decisions that were not as serious but in the same vein; best for me but most likely would hurt or confuse others. This was not easy to do. I struggled with putting my needs first and then being honest and upfront rather than making excuses or telling little white lies. In the end I hope these people also realize my decision to put myself first had very little to do with them and almost everything to do with me. I hope they can forgive my selfishness. I hope they understand that a large part of this trip has been about finding balance, understanding and loving who I am, and making the most of the time I have on this planet.

Italian Men Do Not Like My Blog!

2010-03-02T00:50:00.003-05:00

I find this pretty interesting for a number of reasons. First of all, how do they even know about this blog? No, no, I know who you are and I know how you know about my blog.

Actually, I have only met two Italian men who speak English and seem to understand American culture well enough to really understand what I am saying in my blogs. That does not mean all Italians can’t speak English well or don't understand my American sense of humor. I just haven’t met too many of them yet.

Of course Italian men don't like my blog! Putting the language and cultural barrier aside, look at the stories I have written: The Thing about Italian Men; Italians Have no Awareness of Spacial Relationships; Welcome to 1950; The Phenomenon of Blonde Women in Italy; 95% of Italian Men Cheat. And now add to the list a little ditty named, “Italian Men Do Not Like My Blog!” and I am sure I’m not scoring any additional points with the fine Italian Uomo (men) in this country!

The fact is the blogs I write about Italian culture are full of overgeneralizations and clichés. They are written tongue in cheek on purpose (that means not seriously for any Italian man who may be reading this blog and not understand the term). They are written from my point of view only which is unapologetically sarcastic. They are written with the intended purpose of seeing things from different or non-glamorized point of view.

Of course I have no idea if 95% of Italian Men Cheat! Of course not all Italian men gawk at Blonde women. Of course not all Italian men dislike my blog… well, that may actually be true. But the point is these blogs aren’t written to please the audience. They are written as therapy for me, and used as my creative outlet.

I write when I am feeling lonely or intimidated, when I feel inspired, or when I find humor or irony in a situation. I don't write much about how much I love living in Italy, or how I love Italian food, or how I love the passion Italians have for life because I don't seem to have anything interesting to say when it comes to these topics.

The fact is if I did not like being here, or if I disliked Italians I would leave. Yes, sometimes it is hard for me to be away from home, but Florence is a special place. In most ways it is still unspoiled by American culture (there is not a Starbucks in sight!); it is still very old world. I absolutely love most parts of living here; but still, you won’t find me writing too much about that. This general state of happiness doesn’t inspire me to write, it inspires me to go out and experience more happiness. And that’s what I think I will do right now.

Desire

2010-02-21T18:13:00.003-05:00

I try to stay away because too much of you is dangerous. But sometimes I can’t control myself and my body actually longs for you; to take you in my mouth; to feel you on my tongue.

Sometimes my mind drifts back to the first time I had you. I think about how surprised I was at how different you were from what I had imagined. I remember how you made me feel; how in my entire life I had never experienced anything like you. Even now, your taste lingers in my mouth.

And, as the spring draws near, my resolve is weakening. I’m finding it harder to maintain my will power and stay away. But how can I be expected to stay away? How can I continue with this self-inflicted abstinence? I don't think I can hold out much longer... Oh gelato you are my vice and my muse!

The Little Things

2010-02-19T16:04:00.004-05:00

When I first moved to Rome in October of 2009 I was scared to death to get on the bus. But in Rome you NEED the bus to navigate the city. It’s too far to walk everywhere; taking a taxi is way too expensive; and the metro doesn’t get you to enough places. But I didn’t understand how the bus system worked and I was intimidated to even buy a ticket even though I had memorized how to ask for one in Italian. There were just a lot of unknowns in this area, so the whole bus thing was very intimidating to me.

I remember the first time I got on the bus on the correct side of the street and exited the bus at the proper stop. I was filled with self satisfaction. “Yeah, that’s right,” I thought to myself, “I just took the bus by myself… in Rome… without any help!”

When I managed the Roman subway system, AND a bus transfer, AND a walk to the Ikea located in the suburbs of Rome, I really thought I had accomplished something noteworthy. And on the rare occasion when I actually manage to put together a sentence in Italian without any help, I feel like a complete rock star! “I just used the past tense of “to have” in a sentence in Italian! Who wants to touch me?!”

Yes, these are quite the accomplishments for a woman of 39 years! I mean, could you imagine the reaction of your friends in your home country if you announced at a dinner party that you were proud of yourself because that day you rode a bus to the supermarket and you managed, all by yourself, to buy some cheese and vegetables! I dunno, I think my friends in Washington, DC would look at me like I was on crack!

But not here; not when you’re a foreigner living in Italy. Here your fellow ex-pats understand these small victories. They know firsthand the challenges of finding your way in a foreign country. They understand that these little things matter. This, I have to say, is one of the things I absolutely love about my friends here in Florence. There is nothing like having a table full of people shout, “BRAVA, BRAVA” while giving you a round of applause because you’ve managed to piece together the most basic of Italian sentences.

And so, this has been a large part of my life here over the last 5 months; managing the things that seemed so small when I lived in a world I knew; riding a bus, buying a pineapple, learning a new language, making new friends. But these things, these little things are in no way small. They have taught me immeasurable lessons in humility, in survival, in patience, and in appreciation. And these lessons, no matter how hard to take sometimes are a large part of why I came here in the first place.

95% of All Italian Men Cheat!

2010-02-11T14:13:00.005-05:00

Yep, 95%! At least that’s what I’ve been told REPEATEDLY by Italian men. The first time I heard it, I blew it off with my usual, “yeah, right” response. By the fifth time I heard it I was mumbling, “What, what, wha…” in high-pitched confusion, like my Aunt J from Bean Town.

How could this possibly be true? NINTY-FIVE PERCENT of the Italian male population cheats? I was astounded. The Italian guys sharing this statistic were also astounded… astounded that I actually thought the rate was not that high in the U.S. “No, it’s the same everywhere,” they would say, “You just don't know about it.”

A quiet and defeated “ugh,” came from the back of my throat. Could this possibly be true?

“It’s a good thing,” these Italian men try to convince me. “How? How could a 95% cheating rate possibly be a good thing?” I ask, almost begging for enlightenment.

The compilation of answers is actually interesting. But before I get to sharing them with you, there are some things you need to understand about Italian men first.

In many ways, Italian men are in NO WAYS like men from the U.S. For instance, even with a casual hook up Italian men will treat the women like they are seriously dating. They will “make love” to them on the first night, spouting lines and making moves that rival the best movie scenes ever filmed. They will ask them to sleep over, to snuggle all night, to walk the dog with them in the morning, and they’ll spend the entire next day with them. When you hair is ragged and your makeup is a memory of what it was the night before an Italian man will make you feel like you are the most beautiful woman in the world. But what you have to remember is they will do the exact same thing with the next random girl they hook up with the very next night. Italian men believe in “taking care” of their women; even the hookups or the ones on the side.

Okay so back to the noted reasons why; I don't know how else to share these with you other than in a bulleted list, so I have ranked them in order of my favorites, the first one being my absolute favorite reason.

• It’s just what we do. It’s expected of Italian men.

• It keeps us interested in sex with our own partners.

• It keeps things fresh because you’re not having the same old sex all the time. (Same as before just said a little differently)

• As long as we are treating our wives and families properly (and they dont know about it) where’s the harm?

• If we had kids I would stop cheating for a while until they grew up.

• My wife and I are only staying together for the children. Don’t I deserve to have some happiness in my life?

The thing is I believe these guys actually believe this stuff. And maybe it’s because of the different culture here, but these reasons are starting to make sense to me too. Oh my god! I’m going to have to turn in my girl card soon! I mean, I still don't wish it upon anyone, but it was becoming more and more difficult for me to have an intellectual argument against this, you know, other than blurting out, “it’s just WRONG!”

That is, until I started assuming the same rules applied to women. I mean, it’s that whole goose and gander thing, right? As a woman shouldn’t I be able to keep things “fresh” in the bedroom too? Don't I “deserve” happiness as well?

And that’s when I think every Italian man in the country stopped what they were doing, raised a quick ear to the wind and let out their own quiet huff of disgust in response to my clearly American supposition that women had these same cheating privileges. “What? Women don't need to cheat on Italian men,” I’m told in response, “And if they do it’s rare and not really acceptable.”

“Ahhhhh… of course not,” I say feeling like I’m back on solid ground again. And then I think, God bless America (and Canada too… love you N). Let the arguments begin!

The phenomenon of blonde women in Italy.

2010-02-07T10:17:00.008-05:00

Italian men are obsessed with blonde women! I had heard the stories over the years about Italian men approaching blonde women on the street, touching them as if they were some sort of freak of nature; calling them names or just circling around them like a pack of hyenas moving in for the kill. You’ve probably heard these stories too, but you think they’re clichés, so you don't pay much attention... right?

Personally, I’ve never been attracted to those with blonde hair. I like my boys tall, dark, and handsome (in a pinch, normal height, dark, and handsome will do. And, don't get me started on my fascination with red heads or salt and pepper colored hair!). Anyway, as a lifelong brunette I’ve never really understood the fascination with blonde hair. What’s the big deal?

But in Italy, OH MY GOD it is insane!

You can’t help but notice the difference in the way blonde women are treated here. Men of all socio-economic levels will literally stop what they’re doing and stare. But not just any stare. This is a long, deep, and dirty stare. The kind that sorta makes you feel uncomfortable after you’ve witnessed it! Italian men will run up to an unsuspecting blonde, flip her hair with their hands and keep running. They’ll yell out, “Hello Barbie” with those gorgeous Italian accents. They’ll slow down on their motorcycles and lick their lips while getting a better look. It’s truly unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

Italian woman HATE the blonde girls. ALL blonde girls: skinny, not skinny, tall, short, young or not young. It doesn’t matter. They’ll shoot them death stares for seemingly no reason; ignore them while working behind a counter; and make their boyfriends change seats with them at a restaurant so the boyfriend can’t make eyes at the pretty blonde across the room. All of these things I have witnessed firsthand. And I have to say, I still don't really get it… it’s just blonde hair!

You might think this is incentive enough to go a little darker on top. Ah, but let’s not forget the upside to this phenomenon. You’re smiled at by men all the time. You get into clubs for free. Men hold the door for you and grant you the right of way most of the time and you’re always the first to be approached while in a group of women. These are some nice perks eh?

Still, don't fret about me, we brunettes (who blend in nicely with the locals) get our share of attention too.

WOW!

2010-02-01T05:23:00.002-05:00

I've received quite a few emails and comments on my last posting, Growing Pains. It’s been both interesting and encouraging to hear people’s responses to that entry. Some people focused on the finding a guy part, some focused on the control freak part, some wanted to know why I thought I would be a failure if I came home, and some just didn’t want me to be sad. One friend (you know who you are!) asked if I was allowed to use profanity in a blog.

Let me start by stating that I am feeling better now. I’m not 100% of myself yet, but I’ll get there. I have a tendency to give myself deadlines for when I should feel better or be over things (whether I’m ready to be or not) and, along with growth in other areas I’m trying to break this habit. As much as I like to think I’m Superwoman the reality is I am not. And, although I am strong, and I do believe in myself, and I really do like who I am, I have insecurities. I have low points. And I do get scared. This time I’m letting myself feel this sadness and loneliness because it’s normal and I know it’s necessary.

As some of you know, I’d like to be an author. I love to write, but after college I stopped writing for pleasure. Several years ago I started keeping a journal to help me manage the myriad things going on in my head (it’s a scary place up there!). Writing is therapy for me. It gives me the opportunity to explore and admit how I am truly feeling.

I wrote in my blog that I want to stick it out and not come home yet for many reasons, but the primary reason is because I know if I come home now I will throw myself into work, give up on my dream of being a writer, and settle into a life that I don't want. That equals failure to me. If I try to write a book and I cannot find the words, or if I write a book and then cannot sell the idea to an agent or a publisher, I would consider myself successful. Not believing in me and not having the courage to at least try to make this happen is failure. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. It really only matters how I feel about this.

Writing in my blog has given me the chance to try out my writing style on a varied audience. It’s given me the opportunity to see how comfortable I am with putting my raw feelings out there. It’s given me a forum to understand how I handle both criticism and praise.

The feedback and comments I have received on my blog have given me the confidence to know I have a point of view people are interested in. I’m gaining more confidence in my writing style. I’m not letting my grammar mistakes get in the way of sharing my feelings or my point of view. Writing this blog has given me the confidence I need to start my own book. But, if I were not in Italy I would not be writing the blog. I would not have the time to write. If I were home I would work and maybe see my friends for dinner one night a week. That’s all I could ever manage to do in my life. Again, this is not a bad life at all. That life is not a failure; it’s just not the life I want right now.

Life is full of highs and lows. As is said, life is the ultimate journey. I just wanted to slow things down and actually experience this journey. That includes the messy stuff too. I certainly got what I wished for. Now I want to have the courage to be the real me, accept the real me, and move myself toward the life that I want. Being here is a big step toward that life. I know I can do it. I will stumble at times, but as a new friend says, “that which is for you, will not pass by you.”

Thank you for your interest and please keep the comments and the feedback coming (the good, the bad and the ugly). It's helping me get to the life I want.

Growing Pains

2010-01-28T02:38:00.001-05:00

I have been down for days. It started off with a general bad mood that moved into a terrible head ache and now deep sadness. Yesterday I cried harder than I think I have since my former husband died. And as I write now, I have tears in my eyes. I am embarrassed to admit this. I mean, I live in Italy. I only work part time. I am “living the dream!” What’s there to be sad about?

I keep telling myself that I am just homesick; that the “honeymoon” phase of being in Italy is over; that I am settling into my life here and this is to be expected. I know all of this is all true. I know this is normal. I know this feeling will go away. I know I am growing from this experience. I know all of this. But, the fact remains; I am filled with sadness right now. And, although I am surrounded by wonderful new friends again, I feel completely alone.

This is the first time in 19 years I have had time to slow everything down and think. When I think about that statement I have to admit it’s in no way an exaggeration. Since I left for college I have filled my life with activity that has left almost no time for real introspection. Yes, of course I have taken time off over the years and had those epiphany moments (that’s how I got here!). But I have been in Italy for nearly four months. Four months of introspection while navigating a new culture is quite different from a week at the nearest beach.

The truth is I am afraid. Like most people I hate the unknown. I hate not knowing what’s next for me. What will my life look like after Italy? Will there be an “after Italy?” Will I ever meet this person that everyone thinks I “deserve?” Will I ever stop caring about meeting that person? Will I ever truly be okay with “just me?”

All of my friends (old and new) have been great. The pressure of finding a man or meeting “the one” is off. Well, the pressure is off from everyone else. I have realized at this point, the only one trying to force the guy thing is me! It’s not like I talk about it or am actively pursuing it. But in the back of my mind I find my thoughts moving toward finding a man way more than I realized or than I want. At times this has weakened my resolve and I have almost gone down paths I am sure I would deeply regret.

This frustrates the hell out of me! Why do I care so much? Is it really so horrible to be alone? Of course not! I know this in my heart, but as a reforming control freak I’m finding it hard to stop engineering every part of my life.

Right now my unknowns are pulling me back to the life that I know; work, career, and professional fulfillment. These are all honorable things. There is absolutely nothing wrong with having a successful professional career. I could move back to Washington, DC tomorrow, resume my old life and make a legitimate point about why it was the right time to do so. I could do that and most likely no one would blame me or look at me like I failed. Well, that is, no one but me. The truth is I believe I am destined for a different path in life. The fact is I have no idea what that path is and it scares the hell out of me.

Don't worry. I’m staying here. I’m riding this out to the end. But my god this is fucking hard sometimes.

Welcome to 1950

2010-01-23T12:36:00.011-05:00

Living in Italy today is in many ways is like I what imagine it would have been like living in the 1950s. Most of the time the little idiosyncrasies are charming and there are many lifestyle choices that I want to bring home with me, but there are some things about 2010 that I miss a lot.

How is Italy like 1950 you ask? Well, I've taken the liberty to outline of few of my thoughts on this topic in the paragraphs below.

Everyone smokes... everyone.

Campari and Martini Rossi are very popular here. What, never heard of those mixers before? Yeah, that’s because they’re from 1950!

Everyone dresses in their Sunday best at all times. Fedora hats with wool scarves and overcoats, Italian leather dress shoes and gabardine slacks are the standard winter dress code for older men. Take away the Fedora hat and you’ve got the standard dress code for the rest of the men in Italy. Many Italian women continue to proudly wear fur coats because no animal rights organization is going to impose on their right to stay warm and be fashionable. Actually, the dress here is surprisingly conservative for men and women.

Walmart, Target, and Costo do not exist (although IKEA does. They pronounce it EE-KAY-AH). The concept of bulk buying does not exist. People shop daily and they buy in small quantities as there is no “extra” room to store that 20 roll pack of paper towels. Paper towels are seen as luxury and a waste. Dish towels are the norm. Just imagine the dish towels your grandma had in her house and you’ll understand what is used here.

Refrigerators are the size of "ice boxes" and eggs are not refrigerated. Microwaves are exceptionally rare. You’ll stick that last piece of pizza in the oven if you want to warm it up. And if you want to heat up some left over pasta or soup you’ll use the stove. There’s no instant gratification in 1950!

The weather still plays a major factor in how Italians live. Most Italians cannot afford clothes dryers. The machines themselves are expensive, but more so Italians cannot afford the electricity that is required to power a clothes dryer. Because they dry their clothes on an outdoor clothes line (even in the middle of winter if it’s not raining) or on an indoor fold away rack, drying time must be taken into consideration for what is washed and when it’s washed. For instance, the clothes you want to wear on Friday had better be washed on Wednesday to allow for the proper drying time.

Apparently the fear that one can catch their death of a cold is not just the stuff of Jane Austin novels. Italians (and many Europeans) still believe they can get sick from being out in the rain or out in the cold. They'll decide whether they'll leave the house based on the weather. Of course not having a car to get you from one point to another plays a major factor here, but still, Italians don't want to hear any scientific mumbo jumbo about how only viruses or germs can make you sick.

Many Italians cannot afford a car so they own a bicycle. People of all ages dressed in their Sunday best ride their bikes everywhere; to work, to the market, to restaurants, to bars, to school, to church… everywhere. But because it’s common for bikes to get stolen, no one invests in a new bike. That’s why so many “vintage” bikes are still in existence. These bikes have not changed much since the days of poodle skirts and saddle shoes. The bikes here still have chain guards so your dress pants don't get stuck in them, utilitarian baskets so you can carry your fresh bread and vegetables from the local market, and bells so that you can signal for the frustratingly unaware Italians to make room for you on the street.

Very few people, including students, walk with earphones to listen to music. It's a little strange to see because in Washington, DC and many other major metropolitan cities in 2010, earphones are an essential component of any wardrobe. It is still common and acceptable to be late for work because you ran into a friend on the street and were catching up. Italians believe wearing earing earphones isolates people from one another and that's not acceptable behavior for 1950.

Office dynamics sound quite Mad Men-esque. For instance, smoking in your office is allowed. Drinking at lunch is common place and sexual harassment is a relatively unknown and un-feared concept. Dating the boss is certainly not frowned upon. In fact, several of my girlfriends working for Italian companies have been told that women who “fuss” about suggestive comments at work probably just need to get laid.

Of course Italy is not COMPLETELY stuck in 1950. They have high speed Internet for goodness sake! Then again, you do have to sign a 2 year contract to get it. This forces many Italians (and visitors) to survive on an Internet key. An Internet key is the equivalent of an air card in the U.S., but it’s way more expensive and way less reliable. And then of course there’s the… the… umm… Okay, let me think… how else is Italy not like living in 1950? Hmmm (long uncomfortable pause)… Nope just that little wormhole called the Internet; that’s pretty much it!

Allora, welcome to 1950!

Just me

2010-01-08T18:17:00.006-05:00

I might be destined to be alone for the rest of my life. Sometimes I’m okay with this realization and sometimes it scares the hell out of me. Not that long ago the thought of being alone (as in without a long-term partner) never really bothered me. Then a few of my girlfriends who are in the 50+ age range kept telling me how much it sucks to be alone and it freaks me out. That’s when I usually jump on Match.com with a solid determination to find SOMEONE to share my life with. I’ve done that now on two different occasions and I have to say the search-through-pictures-and-read-a-bullshit-profile route doesn’t really work for me.

To be completely honest, in the back of my mind I think I will find lasting love, but it won’t be for years and years. I’m not sure why I think this, but I do.

I tend to put my own life on the back burner when I have a man in my life. I suspect many women do this. At least, I hope I’m not the only one! By putting my life on hold, I mean doing less of what I like to do. I work out less because I’d rather stay snuggled up in a warm bed with the boyfriend then drag my ass out of bed at 5:15 AM to prep for a 6:00 AM workout class. I read less. I write less. I explore less. I try less new things. I’m not sure why this is. Over the years I’ve tried to maintain more of “myself” when I have someone in my life. I’ve gotten better at doing so but, still, maintaining balance in this area is a challenge.

For me, Italy has never been about finding a man… never. As I have blogged about before, Italy was always about challenging myself. When I came here I was dating someone who I would have happily stayed faithful to. However, many of my friends old and new seem to have a different idea for what this trip should be about. Some friends thought I should have broken up with my boyfriend before I arrived so I could be totally open to new experiences here. Some friends think I should have a series of torrid affairs with foreign men, just to see what it would be like. And some want me to find the quintessential Italian man who will sweep me off my feet, recognize how “special” I am, and take care of me for the rest of my life.

By the way, I’m not quite sure I like the term “special” in this context. To me, “special” is sometimes code for: high maintenance, difficult, picky, and/or in no way normal like the rest of us!

So many people are interested in this aspect of my trip, I have found myself getting wrapped up again in the need to “find” someone. The number of inquires are serving as very subtle pressure to have a great “story” in this area. I understand completely that people are just curious and, in some ways, living vicariously through this experience, but I’m starting to get anxious about not having someone and I don't want to feel that way. I don’t want to fall into old patterns. I don't want to force this part of my life anymore.

I don't know if I’ll meet someone here. I don't know if I’ll be alone forever. What I do know is I don't want to worry about whether I'll find someone. I don't want this to become the focus of this trip. I just want to chill out and be me for a while.

My new philosophy at this moment is to be open to every new experience. I want to keep an open mind and re-adjust if I start going down the wrong path. For right now that’s the plan.

Oh, and if I do meet the gorgeous man with the amazing accent who makes mad, passionate love to me, maybe I’ll let you know in some secret way like by titling a blog entry, “It’s a whole new world” and then writing about something that has nothing to do with that topic. Until then, it’s safe to assume that it’s just me enjoying Italy and all that I can make of my life here.

Florentines have no awareness of spacial relationships!

2010-01-03T14:38:00.002-05:00

There are now 2 things I miss about Rome; the Villa Borghese and Roman drivers. Yep, that’s right, Roman drivers. Those people know the rules of the road. They stop for pedestrians in the walkways, yield to other vehicles when appropriate, and seem to have a sensible understanding with the motorcyclists and bicyclists.

I knew without a doubt if I walked out in the middle of the street at a designated pedestrian crossing the cars in Rome would stop. In Florence I feel like I’m taking my life into my own hands even though I’m crossing legally. Luckily my exceptional “Frogger” skills come in handy when maneuvering through the very busy, very unpredictable streets here.

Equally as clueless as the drivers in Florence are the walkers. No one looks before they pop out into the middle of the street and no one yields. I had a man look at me for several steps as he walked right into me and then started yelling at me. He honestly expected me to move, even though he had cut into my lane walking in the opposite direction of pedestrian traffic. I just laughed when he started yelling. Oh wait, no. I mumbled that he could bit me too.

No one seems to have any common sense here. For instance, the sidewalks are very narrow. If a couple is walking down the street with open umbrellas, they will not form a single file line to make room for you on the same sidewalk. So, if you're already on the sidewalk, as close to the building as you can go, the couple will not form a single file line. Instead they’ll bash you in the head with their umbrella, get you soaking wet, and keep on walking without a care in the world.

Women are certainly not granted the courtesy of going first here. The phrase “Ladies before gentlemen” might actually make the men in Florence laugh out loud. I can’t tell you how many times a little old Italian man has cut me off or bumped me out of the way. It’s not just me. Italians cut everyone off. It’s equal opportunity discourtesy here. This was surprising for me. I was expecting that women would be treated with kid gloves and pedestrians would have a kinship against the evil drivers of automobiles no matter how “Smart” their cars were.

I have access to a bicycle now. The freedom one has with a bicycle is fantastic. Obviously you can get to places in less than half the time and you can go farther than you can when you’re walking. However, motorists here think that cyclists are less than dirt! Cyclists have no rights, which is weird because so many people ride their bikes in Florence. Helmets are not worn because, apparently, Gucci hasn’t designed one yet. And cars come so close to you on the street that it takes all your resolve to remain calm and focused.

This kind of anarchy would not fly in Amsterdam, I can tell you that! You can get stoned off your ass there, but don't even think about messing with a cyclist!

So, I guess Rome wasn’t all bad, and Florence has some flaws. Sorry Rome. I suppose I owe you an apology.

Follow Your Destiny Wherever it Leads You

2009-12-31T12:29:00.001-05:00

Sometimes in life you reach a crossroad, where there is no turning back and a new path has to be chosen. I was standing at this crossroad over a year ago, agonizing over which path to take. My sister, knowing I was at this intersection, gave me a card with an inspirational theme written by Vicki Silvers. I have retyped the inside of the card below.

I kept the card and brought it with me to Italy. In the past whenever I would re-read it it would bring me to tears. Today as I re-read it, it put a HUGE smile on my face. I have never felt more secure in myself and the path I have chosen. I know where I am now is where I am supposed to be in my life. I wish everyone the same peace for the New Year!

**
There comes a time in your life when you realize that if you stand still, you will remain at this point forever. You realize that if you fall and stay down, life will pass you by.

Life’s circumstances are not always what you might wish them to be. The pattern of life does not necessarily go as you plan. Beyond any understanding, you may at times be led in different directions that you never imagined, dreamed, or designed. Yet if you had never put any effort into choosing a path, or tried to carry out your dream, then perhaps you would have no direction at all.

Rather than wondering about or questioning the direction your life has taken, accept the fact that there is a path before you now. Shake off the “whys” and “what ifs,” and rid yourself of the confusion. Whatever was – is in the past. Whatever is – is what’s important. The past is a brief reflection. The future is yet to be realized. Today is here!

Walk your path one step at a time – with courage, faith, and determination. Keep your head up and cast your dreams to the stars. Soon your steps will become firm, and your footing will be solid again. A path that you never imagined will become the most comfortable direction you could have ever hoped to follow.

Keep your belief in yourself and walk into your new journey. You will find it magnificent, spectacular, and beyond your wildest imaginings.

The Importance of a Job Well Done

2009-12-30T16:53:00.001-05:00

Italy is facing an economic crisis. Work is not easy to come by. Many young people, those in their 20s to 30s cannot find any work at all. This country does not have the expression “under employed.” Employed is employed. And being employed is considered a good thing. It’s not like it is in the U.S. where we won’t take a job at the grocery store or in a restaurant because those jobs are below us. Young people here would be happy to have “those” jobs. They’re just not available. Work is a privilege here.

Italians take great pride in their work. From the janitor at the airport, to the Barista at the café, to the gentleman working behind the register at the local clothing store; Italians dress in their Sunday best, consistently keep themselves busy with work, and truly seem to care about a job well done.

I respect this. It’s nice to see so many people take pride in a job well done. And it’s absolutely refreshing to be away from the constant size-you-up-to-see-if-I’m-doing-better-than-you-in-life questions that are so prevalent in the Washington, DC area. You know those subtle, but not so subtle questions like, “So Valerie, what do you do?” “Oh, really? How long have you worked there?” “My god! Did the stock market hit you like it hit us this year? I certainly hope not!”

Ugh! Spare me the pleasantries and just ask to see my bank statement already!

Witnessing the pride Italians put into their work, and not working for two months have actually restored my appreciation for my own job and reminded me how much personal value I derive from it. I can't believe it but I'm really am looking forward to working again! What a great thing to realize when you’re on vacation!

Woo hoo! Chalk up one more lesson to the “What Val learned when she left it all” list!

Staying True To Who You Are and What You Really Want

2009-12-28T20:21:00.003-05:00

The first time I said aloud that I was moving to Italy, I was joking. Truly, I was being reactionary. The bloody Englishman (see “About Me” sidebar) and I had broken up just before a planned 2-week trip to Italy. Several years before this, my husband and I were supposed to travel to Italy for our five year wedding anniversary, but he changed his mind at the last minute. When I was talking with my friend, Nat, trying to figure out why all of my trips to Italy had been cancelled, I declared, “Fuck it! I’m just gonna move there!” As soon as I said it, it felt right. I can’t explain why. It just did.

After this declaration, I had several internal discussions trying to convince myself this idea was the stupidest one I had come up with yet, but I couldn’t get the wanderlust out of my heart. I knew I had to do this.

Several people asked me why I wanted to give up everything I worked for to move to Italy. “What?” they would ask. “Are you trying to find yourself?” Although a legitimate question, it was hard for me to answer. There was no one reason. It was more complicated than that.

I knew this trip was not about “finding” me. I’ve already spent most of my adult years doing that; trying to break free from the roles assigned to me by my family; trying to break free from my self-imposed insecurities and impossibly high standards; trying to forgive myself for my failed marriage; trying to be okay with who I really am.

Without a doubt, after quite a bit of effort, I have already “found” the new me. This trip was more about taking the new me out for a spin. I wanted to make sure the woman I thought I had become, was indeed the woman I was.

I’ve discussed in previous blogs that my strength had been tested several times since I landed in Italy. Over the past few weeks I’ve had some tests of a different nature that have challenged my old ways of thinking and reinforced my faith in who I have become. However, for you to really understand my growth in this area you need to understand some of my old ways of thinking. Until not that long ago, I was in such a state that if a guy liked me, I might like him back simply because he showed interest in me. It’s not something I’m particularly proud to admit, but it’s the truth.

Yet on three separate occasions here I have chosen to not settle for, pursue, or accept that which is less than what I truly want in my love life. The choices I have made may sound like common sense, but in reality it’s not that easy to stay focused and do the right thing.

My first challenge was turning down an offer to be placed on lay away while the guy I had been dating tried on some other girls for size while I was in Italy. It may sound like a logical request to date other people given that I was in a different country, but it was not the relationship I wanted. This was a hard decision. It’s not easy to tell a gorgeous, romantic, successful, and in most ways great guy, “Thanks, but no thanks,” when in the very back of your mind you think to yourself, “What if I never find anyone I connect with as much as this man. What if this is the best I will ever find?”

The second example was choosing NOT to tell a married friend (who I have a close personal connection with) that I desperately wanted him to come to Italy to hold me, make me feel safe, and tell me I wasn’t going to be alone for the rest of my life.

The third test of strength was turning down an offer to have an affair with a very sexy, very successful, very charming, and very unavailable man who I felt an intense connection with the moment we were introduced at a party.

All of these tests have helped reinforce that the new me is built from a solid foundation. I’m not embarrassed to share that I'm really proud of myself for doing the right thing, staying focused, and for holding out for what I really want in life.

Okay now, where is George Clooney these days?

Honoring the King of Pop and our King and Savior Jesus Christ

2009-12-26T08:54:00.008-05:00

On the Eve of Christmas I was fortunate enough to attend two concerts. The Concerto Di Natale (Christmas Concert) started at 4 PM and consisted of a symphony playing music from the Grand Mass of Mozart. This included 2 female and 2 male opera performers singing gorgeous lyrics in Italian (or Latin I couldn’t really tell). The music and singing were phenomenal.

Apparently, because the concert was a "mass” (but not like a church mass) the entire concert is considered one song. Therefore, audience members do not clap between songs. They clap at the end of the hour long performance. And then they clap for a ridiculously long period of time.

It was weird for me to hear complete silence between these really great pieces. Good thing I’m not the first person to start clapping at events, or that would have been very embarrassing.

The second concert I attended was in a small concert venue that holds about 2000 people. I’d say the concert was 90% sold out. This was a performance by the “World Famous Harlem Gospel Choir.” The concert started at 9:30 PM and went until about 11:30 PM.

The choir came out in a single file, mamba-style line, singing Hallelujah and asking the audience in English to put their hands together for the Lord. I could not help myself, I laughed aloud. It sounds ridiculous now, but I wasn’t expecting gospel music. I was expecting Christmas music. I mean, it WAS Christmas Eve.

I don't think I have ever been so happy and so embarrassed at the same time as during the first ten minutes of this concert. How, I wondered, will this audience receive all this? How is this going to translate?

Oh they got it!

I think the turn in audience participation came when, after a ten minute tribute to the importance of praising our Lord Jesus Christ, the choir moved directly into the song Billy Jean by the recently departed Michael Jackson. Just in case you're not getting the irony here, this is a song about a man denying he is the father of Billy Jean's illegitimate child.

"Huh, interesting song choice." I think to myself. I was not quite sure what Billy Jean had to do with showing honor to the Lord, but it was soon revealed to me and my fellow audience members that the concert would be honoring the King of Pop AND our King Jesus Christ!

Okay… NOW I get it.

The next hour and a half consisted of all almost all Michael Jackson songs, where an occasional line was changed to accommodate a, “Praise the Lord,” or “In His name.”

Another of my favorite quotes from the evening included the ever so important audience participation chant. “I say Jesus, you say Christ.” So it went a little something like this…

Singer, “Jesus,”

Audience, “Christ.”

Singer, “JESUS!”

Audience, “CHRIST!”

Maybe it’s just me, but I was a little uncomfortable with this exchange. I don't know. Is it okay to yell, “CHRIST” back at someone yelling, “JESUS” at you? I’m still not quite sure.

Because it was Christmas Eve, we did receive a fantastic medley of Christmas songs which, along with the King of Pop tribute, made the evening just about perfect for me!

Think what you want, but those M.J. songs sure got those Italians on their feet and dancing in the isles with arms waving high. I have never seen anything like it. They loved it. Of course they did. It’s Michael Jackson for Christ’s sake! And I DO mean that literally.

Excuse me? What did you just say?

2009-12-22T11:13:00.006-05:00

I was in the grocery store last night buying as much as I could in preparation for the long closures of almost all businesses over the holiday season. As I have learned, the “holiday season” varies from country to country. For instance, in the U.S., many retail shops close early on the Eve of Christmas and for the entirety of Christmas day. But come December 26th, commerce is back on in full swing.

In Italy, businesses (and I mean ALL businesses: gyms; retail stores; grocery stores; pharmacies; gas stations; nunneries… no wait, not nunneries) start to close their doors the day before, the day before Christmas and then reopen promptly on December 29th… only to close again on December 30th in preparation for the celebration of the new year.

But, I digress.

One might think the grocery store is simple enough to manage in any country. And, before I got here, I would have agreed with you. But then one of the cashiers asks you questions that you did not learn in Italian class and you cannot figure out by context. Questions like, "Do you have a frequent shopper card?" or "How many bags would you like?" How many bags do I want? Umm, I dunno. How about as many as I need to fit all of my groceries? I’m not really the expert in this area.

Cashiers get to sit in comfy desk chairs at their registers by the way, AND they make you pack your own stuff.

Seriously, who learns this stuff before they get here? No one, right? No one learns this stuff ahead of time. Surely, I cannot be the only one who did not?

I learn a lot by hanging back and watching what others do. The produce section of Italian supermarkets is much like those in the U.S. except they have more variety, you have to wear plastic gloves to pick up the fruit and veggies, and you need to weigh and print a price tag for your items before you get into the checkout line. A lot of U.S. markets are moving to the, “You weigh, you tag system,” so buying fruit seemed simple enough.

I also learned recently (after 5 minutes of walking back and forth from the stand where I selected my artichokes, to the scale where I could not find the weight code for the artichokes) that if the fruit or vegetable did not have a “weight code number” on the sign above you just paid the flat price that was associated with that item. Apparently, someone finally noticed me walking back and forth like a wind-up doll stuck between two barriers and taught me how the system worked.

Last evening, when I could not find the weight code for a pineapple and just saw the flat price, I didn’t even hesitate. I plopped that pineapple in my cart, weighed my other fruit, and was on my way.

When I got to the checkout line, the cashier asked me in Italian if I had a frequent shopper card. Yep! Got that one covered; here’s the card. How many bags do I need? Zero thank you. I brought my backpack and my portable rolly cart. Then she asked me “Italian word, Italian word, Italian word, pineapple?”

Umm, what? I never heard that one before. I told her in Italian I didn’t understand. She said back to me, “Italian word repeated, Italian word repeated, Italian word repeated louder, pineapple?”

Nope, still didn’t understand what you said even though you were kind enough to repeat the exact same sentence, but louder this time.

I tried to explain that the pineapple didn’t have a weight price code so I didn’t weigh it, but I just didn’t have those words in Italian, so I said it in English.

The cashier was apparently not impressed and had some problems hiding her frustration as she said out loud (but not while actually looking at me) something that did not have a very pleasant tone to it. In all honesty, the only word I understood was, “Inglese” (English).

At this point, I had already apologized in Italian and gave her the universal hand symbol for just forget about the pineapple. But the cashier could not be consoled. She kept repeating herself in Italian as if by some miracle I would learn the language on the spot in the middle of the checkout line. I just stood there not knowing what to try next while the cashier continued to go on and on speaking to no one in particular.

So, I did what any red-blooded American would do; I mumbled under my breath that she could bite me. Yep, never underestimate the power of a well placed, albeit mumbled, bite me!

Actually, I have also found that singing quietly out loud (but to myself), “I don't underSTAND you” and “Ever heard of a single file line (pronounced la-hein),” are also quite helpful with maintaining one’s personal sanity.

I’m not sure what I finally said or did that registered with her, but she eventually understood that we could just put the pineapple aside and not worry about it at this time.

Okay then, international crisis averted! Time for me to pack my own groceries!

The First Snow of the Season!

2009-12-19T18:01:00.034-05:00

I had a childlike enthusiasm this morning as soon as I opened the shutters that shelter my window and saw the first snow of the season. It was 2 degrees Celsius today. Yes, as much as I hate to admit it I have learned to understand the temperature in Celsius without any ridiculous math calculations. Let’s just say 2 degrees is very cold, so the snow did not melt when the sun came out. I put on my plastic boots, grabbed my camera, and was off for what turned out to be a 7 hour walk across the city (la città).

Grammar school and university students are on winter break now, so they were out in full force scrapping snow off of cars to throw snowballs at their friends. Their enthusiasm was infectious and I couldn’t get the smile off my face watching it. The whole city was alive with Florentines enjoying the reclaimation of their city center since the tourist season officially ended in November.

I thought I'd start taking picutures at the park near my house, but the park gates were locked, so I just took some shots at the entrance.

My next destination wasn’t really a destination at all, but a walk to get from one side of the city to the other. I included some pictures below of things that caught my eye on my walk from the park by my apartment to the Piazzale Michelangelo which is about a 40 minute walk from one side of the city to the other (if you walk directly and fast).

Piazzale Michelangelo is on the opposite side of the Arno River and has a fantastic view of Florence, the bridges over the Arno River, and the Tuscan Hills that shelter Florence.

After Piazzale Michelangelo, I headed to the German Christmas Market that has been set up temporarily at the Piazza Santa Croce and bought myself a Nutella crepe and a pair of shearling slippers. Yes, I am now officially 80 years old and sporting shearling slippers, but I don't care. My feet are ALWAYS cold on these tile floors and now my feet will be toasty warm!

After the Santa Croce market, I bought some turtle neck sweaters at the San Lorenzo market (they have the best quality stuff and the best prices around) and then headed to this great pizza place I've been wanting to try out for a while. I parked myself down, ordered a caprese pizza, and drank a wonderful glass of red wine while I waited for the cold sun to set. I wanted to make sure I was able to get some pictures of the street lights that have been put up in the City Center. My favorite street has a blanket of lights for several blocks. It's an absolute pleasure to walk up and down this street at night. I'll be a little sad when the holidays are over and they take down these amazing lights.

On Christmas Eve I will walk to the Piazza della Repubblica to hear an old fashioned Christmas Carol concert, and later that night I will attend a concert put on by the Harlem Gospel Choir, from New York City.

Christmas morning I will attend Christmas mass held at the Duomo (the Cathedral). Although I’m more spiritual than religious, I think this will be a special way to spend Christmas morning.

New Year’s Eve in Florence is supposed to be packed with activities the entire city can enjoy. A huge fireworks display is scheduled for over the Arno River and it looks like I will be with friends that evening, so I’m excited for the next few weeks ahead.

Buon Natale everyone!

OH MY GOD! My Spin Instructor is GORGEOUS!

2009-12-18T16:32:00.010-05:00

I joined a gym my first week in Florence. The Italian word for gym is palestra. I wasn’t able to join a gym in Rome because Roman gyms only allow year-long memberships. In Florence you can go month by month. Have I mentioned how much I like Florence?

I am now a card carrying member of Palestra Ricciardi. Palestra Ricciardi is the equivalent of Gold’s Gym in the United States… well, the retarded cousin that no one ever talks about equivalent, but who am I to judge.

As a requirement of my membership I had to obtain a passport-sized photo of my head within 48 hours so that it could be stapled to my paper membership card and give me full access to the facility. Ah! Now I understand why there are so many individual photo booths located throughout Italian cities. Based on what I witnessed several times on my walk from Rome's Termini Station to my apartment, I thought they were provided as quick accommodation for random blow jobs. But, I suppose, I could have misinterpreted that one.

Anyway, even though I had to pay extra for the cycling classes at this gym, I knew it would be well worth it because running to keep in shape when I had no access to a palestra was KILLING my knees. Cycling classes provide me the cardio without the threat of being crippled in my old age.

Cycling classes are offered 4 times a week; Monday and Wednesday at 1:30 in the afternoon and Tuesdays and Thursdays at 7:30 in the evening. My first class was Monday at 1:30 PM. I got to class about 10 minutes early to warm up on the bike as it had been 2 months since my last cycling class. I fitted the bike to match my size and started a steady spin.

Apparently group exercise classes in Italy start promptly at whenever the instructor decides to get his or her ass into the class because, so far, no class I have attended in Italy has started on time. So there I was doing the self-induced warm up with the rest of the “dedicated” women in my class when the clock clicked to 1:40 PM and still no instructor. Jesus! I thought to myself, this is really annoy… and then the instructor walked in.

OH HELLO! I think to myself. And there he was; my perfectly toned, perfectly chiseled, and perfectly HOT cycling instructor! YESSSS! I knew these cycling classes were going to be worth the extra money! No wonder no one seemed to mind he was 10 minutes late. This guy was gorgeous!

Of course I could not understand a word he was saying, but luckily cycling is an easily mimicked activity. The instructor (BLOG UPDATE: his name is Fabio) got off his bike several times to check the cadence of our peddling. His perfect butt was so distracting I silently prayed he would get back on his bike and stop tormenting me. I mean, really, what's a single girl to do?

After 55 minutes, I was completely drenched in sweat and I could feel my face was flush with exhaustion. And, of course, I was not wearing any make-up seeing as how the gym is the only public place it’s acceptable to be without professionally applied make up.

When class was over, I hung back a bit and watched what the other class participants were doing to clean up their bikes. After I felt like I knew what to do, I walked to the paper towel dispenser at the front of the class. That’s when Fabio came over to me with a cute smile and started speaking in Italian. “Shoot!” I didn’t understand what he said, and I didn’t want to wing this one with a guess at an answer. I had to admit I didn’t speak Italian. “Oh, you’re American!” he replied in English. “YAY!” I think to myself, “He speaks English. This day just can’t get any better!”

Turns out he asked me if I liked the class. By the looks of me, he probably thought I was going to have a heart attack because I was so spent by the end of class. “Hmm, how did I like the class? How did I like the class?” The image of his perfect gluteus maximus ran through my head. “Yeah, I liked it a lot.” I replied with a slight smile at what I was really thinking. “See you at the next class then?” he inquired. “Certemente” (certainly) I offered.

Of course you know I’ll be at EVERY CYCLING CLASS THAT GYM HAS TO OFFER for as long as I am a member! Hey c’mon, I’m just rededicating myself to a healthy lifestyle. Plus, I can't disappoint Fabio. There's nothing wrong with that, right?

The Thing about Italian Men

2009-12-16T05:56:00.007-05:00

WARNING, WARNING! This blog contains sexually related content. Do not read if you are one of my brothers, my nephew, or my Dad as it may embarrass you! The rest of you may proceed.

Before I came to Italy I was warned about Italian men. “Don’t look them in the eye and don't smile at them,” I was told repeatedly. “In Italian culture eye contact and smiling is a signal you are interested and it’s okay for them to approach you. Italian men are quite forward. And all they think about is sex.”

“Well, that’s inconvenient!” I thought to myself. In business and in self defense women are taught to walk with confidence and purpose, to keep our heads held high and look people directly in the eye. And how am I supposed to not smile? It’s all I do! “Okay, okay,” I told myself. “No looking at men in the eye.”

I was also warned that Italian women are very jealous and if they catch you looking at “their man,” be prepared because they will have words with you about it. “It’s best just to keep your head down when walking and if you bump into someone don't bother saying scuzi because no one does.” Great! I get to go to one of the most beautiful destinations in the world, never talk to anyone, and the only thing I’m going to see is the pavement!

For the first month and I half I followed this advice. I averted my eyes at all costs. I mostly kept my head down and walked the “city walk.” This is not easy to do by the way, when you have no idea where you are going and you have to look up to the side of a building to discover what street you are on! It’s definitely an acquired skill.

During the month of November, Rome experienced an indian summer. Winter coats were not necessary until the very end of the month. One night, when I was in a particularly good mood, I decided to head out to the City Center for dinner on my own. This required a 25 minute walk from my apartment. I was enjoying the warm Mediterranean air and had a bounce to my step. About 15 minutes into my walk I saw a gorgeous Italian man walking my way with a motorcycle helmet in his hand.

He was distinctively tall for an Italian (6 feet 2 inches) and had the quintessential thick, wavy brown hair and olive skin. He truly was the picture of male Italian beauty! I could not help myself. I did a double take when I passed him. That was when it happened. His eyes connected with mine and I held the gaze for only a second before remembering the rules of Italian mating.

“OH CRAP!” I thought to myself, and swiftly looked down and continued walking. But it was too late. The ritual had begun. He jumped on his motorcycle and followed me down the road. When I crossed the street he followed me. When I cut down to the next street he followed me. He parked his bike, took off his helmet, and signaled for me to come over. I did, and promptly said to him in Italian that I could not speak Italian. I asked him in Italian if he could speak English. He said he could… a little. He asked me for my number. “Why do you want my number if you cannot speak English?” I asked. “Language exchange,” He replied.

Language exchange is a pretty common thing in Italy. Many legitimate people are interested in meeting native English speakers to improve their English and learn the slang that is not taught in foreign language courses.

Naively, I gave him my number and we agreed to meet the next day at a public place and at an early hour to have a language exchange. Honestly, I knew it wasn’t all innocent, but I thought there may be some fun flirting and I’d get to hang around with a really good looking Italian guy for a while. To spare you all from the uncomfortable and (only after some time has passed) “funny” story of how I almost got date raped, let me just summarize it like this; apparently language exchange in Italian really means fluid exchange.

Even though I was warned about Italian men, I was really surprised about how aggressive this guy was. Did he really think I was going to sleep with him on the first night? I mean, you know, without him even buying me dinner! A girl's got to have her standards you know! ;-) Anyway, this event was a good reminder that I was in a different country and didn’t know the rules here.

Since then, I have been approached on the street several times without me accidentally initiating it. Italian men are definitely not shy about going after what they want! Don't get me wrong, I don't have the “don't even try it” scowl on my face anymore like I did when I first got to Italy, but I am definitely not giving the, “Hey, come talk to me,” signal either. I’m just walking, head up, no smile. Just walking.

Now that I am finally meeting some English speaking friends in Florence, I've been asking about this trait in Italian men. “Why are these guys so horney?” I inquired. The new group of girls I met last week had many thoughts on this topic and they were happy to share, as most of them have Italian boyfriends.

One woman shared something with us that her Italian boyfriend told her when she asked him the same question. What he explained was this. Look around Florence. Look around most of Italy. We are surrounded by beauty 24 hours a day; beauty in architecture; beauty in landscape; beauty in food and beauty in the human form. We are surrounded by naked statues or paintings of physical perfection. At every corner there is a scantily clad statue of some man or woman posing suggestively with an exposed breast or a perfectly proportioned penis proudly displayed for all see. Sensuality and sex are in the air here. It permeates our thoughts without us even realizing it. It is not shameful; it's beauty.

I thought about this explanation for a few days, and as I walked through the city and through the Uffizi Art Gallery, I realized this man was absolutely correct. Florence is the birthplace of the Renaissance; the time of reborn appreciation for beauty in all things. Sex and sensuality ARE everywhere in Italy. Without realizing it, being here heightens your sexual senses. It makes you see things in a different way. It helps you see beauty in all things; even in that which is not particularly beautiful.

It all makes perfect sense to me now!

Huh… Maybe this is why I keep having erotic dreams about a man named David.

Random Acts of Kindness

2009-12-14T15:31:00.094-05:00

Blame it on the holidays, but I am feeling very sentimental these days. Throughout my time in Europe, random people have extended selfless acts of kindness. I want to share some of these experiences with you because they have restored my faith in the inherent goodness of people. I'll warn you, this is a long blog without any pictures, but it was important for me to share my appreciation for the kindness I have received since landing in Europe two months ago.

Natalie, a business consultant who sat next to me on the plane trip to Rome invited me to tag along with her from the airport to Rome's main train station Because she knew the train system quite well after several business trips to Italy. I do not know if Natalie sensed that I was close to vomiting on her because I was so shaken by what I had just left behind, but she sure did jump in and save the day! Natalie showed me how to maneuver through the confusing airport to the airport's train terminal. She showed me how to avoid lines at the ticket counter by using the self service ticket machines. She showed me which train to board, and she walked me to the taxi stand when we reached our final destination. Natalie also gave me her business card and told me to keep in touch. But more importantly, she offered herself as a local contact if I needed help. I might still be at the airport in Rome trying to figure it all out if it were not for her unsolicited help.

Brenda and Patrick, a married couple from Canada traveling in Italy for their yearly vacation (Brenda a business manager and Patrick an IT guru) sat next to me in a small cafe in the Tuscan village of Cortona. The three of us struck up a conversation. After discovering that I was traveling alone, Patrick and Brenda invited me to dinner that evening because, as Brenda put it, "Eating alone sucks!" We ended up having dinner for the next 3 nights (every night we were together in Cortona). These guys gave up their personal vacation time to make sure a perfect stranger did not have to eat alone. Who does that? By the way, Brenda and I are talking about meeting in January to travel together in Prague.

I contacted Gio (pronounced Joe), through an international Website that connects those renting rooms with those searching for rooms to rent. Before I left for Italy, I made plans to meet with Gio on my first night in Rome to check out her room for rent. After 10 minutes of speaking with her, she invited me to dinner with her and a few of her friends.

Gio was born in Korea, but was adopted by Italian parents. Italian, of course, is her native tongue. She also speaks English very well thanks to a year-long study abroad program. Gio's exchange program took place in Pittsburgh, PA. I am originally from a suburb outside of Pittsburgh, PA. I met this woman over the Internet!

Gio spoke English to me the entire night and helped interpret for her friends who could not speak English. That night (October 11, 2009) I agreed to move in with her for 3 months. My lease with her would start on November 1. But, as I have said in other blogs, from the moment I arrived in Rome, I did not connect with the city. Which is to say, I hated it.

After a few days I regretted my decision to start my trip in Rome. But now, I had committed to 3 months there. Normally, I would just suck it up and say to myself, "Well, Valerie, this is what you said you were going to do, so just deal with it and make the best of it." But something inside me did not want to do that this time.

I took a chance and shared my feelings with Gio. I told her I wanted to travel to Florence to see if that area was a better fit. If it were a better fit, I would come back to Rome and rent for the month of November so that she would have time to find a new flat mate. Gio said that she would never get in the way of my dream. Although she could have been very unpleasant about loosing a flat mate, she was nothing but gracious and helpful.

Katrina is an Italian transplant. Originally from Scotland, she moved to Sorrento 13 years ago after coming here with her cousin for an impromptu week-long vacation. Sorrento is located by Naples in the South of the country. After the week-long vacation Katrina's cousin left. Katrina did not. Italy captured her soul. I can understand why. Italy gets into your blood. The lifestyle, the food, the cadence of the language, and, of course, the wine is intoxicating.

While in her mid-thirties, Katrina, an accomplished business woman went home to Scotland to sell her car, her house, her clothes, and give notice at her long-time employer so that she could move to a country where she knew no one, did not speak the language, and did not have a job. Sound familiar?

I used the same international apartment search to find the room that Katrina was renting in South Florence. We agreed that I would stay with her for 11 days. That would give me time to experience Florence and she and I could see if we were compatible to live together. As I mentioned in a previous blog, Katrina lived too far from the city center for me. When I explained to her that I wanted to live closer to the center, she could have done nothing to help me, but instead, she warned me about areas to avoid due to safety concerns.

Katrina is a travel tour manager. She knows all of the ins and outs of Florence (and most of Italy). Without having to ask, she took me into Florence several times to show me the typical sites that tourists should see, but added tons of places that only locals would know. It was awesome and dramatically reduced my learning curve of getting to know the city.

She helped me buy my first pair of amazing Italian leather riding boots (and later, my second pair of amazing Italian leather riding boots) which was extremely helpful because it's not easy to tell a sales person in a foreign language that you have "special needs" due to your enormous calfs!

Last Saturday, Katrina took me to the December meeting of a group called YAWN, short for Young Anglo Women's Network. This group is made up of native English speaking women who live in Florence. Within 2 hours I connected with several great women from different countries and backgrounds; Gabby from London, Nadia from Toronto, Christine from Atlanta, Michele from LA, and Jennifer from NYC. Each woman has her own distinct personality. I had a lot of fun. Okay, I admit it, I was in heaven! I love meeting and getting to know new people. It's one of my favorite things to do. We all already have plans to get together again this week.

Quick reminder here: I met Katrina on the Internet. I have known her for less than 2 months and she has already made a huge and positive impact on my experience in Italy.

Agnes is my new flat mate in Florence. Again, I met her over the Internet. Agnes is originally from Paris, but has lived in Florence for over 25 years. She teaches French at the University of Florence. She and I have shared several meals and long talks together. Agnes has a kind and giving heart. I sense a strength in her that I am not even sure she recognizes in herself.

Agnes hosted a small dinner party for me on my first night back in Florence. She invited two of her American friends, Barbara and Henry who also live in Italy. The very next night, Barbara and Henry called to invite me to dinner so that I could meet one of their English speaking friends. Barbara even contacted me to offer me work so that I could earn some extra spending money! Perfect strangers have gone out of their way to make me feel welcome in Florence.

Agnes has also helped me learn the city and my new neighborhood. She showed me a charming park nestled in the hillside of Florence where one can see a phenominal panoramic view of the city from above! She took me to the best pastry shop in the area, (man those French know their pastries!) and she pointed out the one and only sushi restaurant I have seen in Florence. That reminds me. I'm really craving sushi!

On my second day here, Agnes took me to her gym to try out one of the classes and then helped me understand the contract details and membership dues. These things may seem small, but I assure you, there is nothing small about someone giving up large quantities of personal time to help a stranger in a foreign country.

Tuesday, December 15 marks the one year anniversary of the death of my former husband, Steve. Perhaps this is also why I'm feeling so sentimental. Although it will be a day of introspection, I have made plans to see some of the best works of art known to man. I will do this to remember the artist that Steve was, and to celebrate life, not mourn the loss of it. After all, his passing gave me more resolve to move my life toward something a little less ordinary.

Thank you again everyone for your extraordinary acts of kindness!

Reflection on my first two months in Italy

2009-12-10T18:24:00.007-05:00

Today marks two months that I have been in Italy. About a month and a half of this time was spent in Rome. The other time was spent traveling to Florence or other towns throughout the Tuscany Region.

My days in Rome were filled with productive and non-productive activities. I slept 9 to 11 hours a day. I worked out when I could. I checked my email constantly. I explored Rome and took pictures when something moved me. I did quite a lot of nothing in particular. Sometimes I didn't even leave my apartment. I generally had things to do throughout the day, but nothing with any significance.

This was new for me. It’s not easy doing nothing when your last 18 years have been filled with almost constant activity. I like being alone, I honestly do. But alone in a different country is different from alone at home where you’re surrounded by your own things; when you can understand what everyone around you is saying; and when your friends are only 20 minutes away. For me, Rome was more about feeling isolated than feeling liberated.

I’ve always wanted to travel to Italy. I’ve only met one person in my life who didn’t always want to travel to Italy. The art; the architecture; the food; the wine; the pace and passion of the people all seemed so charming. Movies and books help promulgate this myth of course, and I wanted in. I wanted to live here; to experience the culture here; and maybe to start a new life here. Anything was possible in my mind. I wanted no restrictions and no safety net.

I had no expectations of Italy or what it might be. Actually, I never planned anything less in my life than this trip. I just wanted to get here. I felt that I needed to shake things up in my life. I wanted to have an incredible experience. I was not okay with having the typical Washington, DC life that is dedicated to work and the pursuit of career success.

Of course the time before my move was stressful. C'mon, I had to do a lot to get here. I sold my car. I gave away or sold most of my things. I rented my condo and moved in to a friend’s basement. I hired and trained my replacement at work. I moved away from the great guy I thought I could fall in love with.

To any normal person, these are big things. I put my entire life on hold to move to a country I had never even visited and where I didn’t speak the language. As soon as the plane landed, I regretted my decision. I truly wanted to vomit. I immediately thought to myself, “What have I done? Why did I do this? Why do I always have to push? Why can’t good be good enough?”

I talk a lot with my friends about following gut instincts. I have said repeatedly that whenever I ignore my instinct, things don't work out. When I listen, they do. I came to Italy because I wanted to challenge myself. I wanted to test the strength of the woman I had become. I was not prepared to be so sad the moment we landed. I hated Rome almost immediately, and was never able to fully recover from my bad first impression of the city. Instantly my “strength” was tested.

Luckily, I understand that strength comes in many ways. Sometimes strength means reaching out when you need help. And, of course, a few of my good friends from home were able to give me encouragement when I was afraid; to make me laugh when I was sad; and to help me work things out in my own mind when the “great guy” I was dating before I left turned out to be the “not so great guy” I was no longer dating when I was here.

What I have realized over these last two months is that I had become so accustomed to moving my life forward and creating the life I wanted, I didn’t realize it was the life I already had. In the months leading up to my departure for Italy, I knew I was the happiest I had ever been, but I attributed much of the happiness to my upcoming adventure. In reality, I was happy because I actually love my life in Washington, DC. It's the life I’ve always wanted and I worked very hard to get. I have a beautiful condo. I have a wonderful and supportive circle of friends. I have the career balance I sacrificed quite a bit to obtain.

I have also learned to accept more things about myself. I always push and move myself forward because that is who I am. It’s just the way I am made. Luckily, I also frequently do pulse checks to make sure where I am moving is where I want to be! I don't settle. I don't accept things if they don’t feel right in my core. “Know thy self” my friend Mike always says to me, and then he usually adds, “And then accept it ‘cuz you’re pretty great!”

Yeah, I told you I had great friends.

I’m in Florence now for the next few months. As soon as I walked out of the train station here on December 5th I was reminded Florence is where I want to be. Although I love my life in Washington, DC and I do miss my friends, I’m not ready to come home yet. I still have a lot to do and a lot to discover. And I’m really, really, REALLY looking forward to what my future brings. I’ll keep you posted!

Park at your own risk

2009-12-05T04:02:00.013-05:00

Much has been said about the horrors of driving in Rome. Upon first blush the criticism is understandable. Driving in Rome is a fast paced melee of buses, cars, and motorcycles. Traffic seems to come from all directions with no rhyme or reason as to who has the right of way. Taxis unexpectedly cross over traffic from the left lane to take a street on the right. Motorcycles pass buses and cars from all sides, and most of Rome does not have stop signs. It’s not that the drivers don't abide by them. Rome doesn’t have them.

Parking here seems similarly chaotic. Sidewalks are used as parking lots. Motorcycles are jammed into long rows or huge clusters where it seems impossible to even find your bike let alone have the room to walk up to it, throw your leg over it and move it out of the jumble.

Double parking for hours and hours and blocking entrances to buildings and sidewalks is the norm. Put simply, cars, motorcycles and trucks park wherever and however they can. Roman neighborhoods have no provisions for those with handicaps. It must be terribly inconvenient, but the fact is Rome is just not designed for those with disabilities.

But unlike in Washington, DC where you’re never really sure what the yahoo behind you is doing or how he or she will respond, driving here is actually very predictable. It’s predictably crazy. There is no such thing as “unexpectedly crossing over traffic” because anything is expected; therefore drivers are always prepared.

Romans are practical and alert drivers who use foresight and prediction to their advantage. After a little over a month in Rome, and hours and hours of walking, I have never seen a traffic accident; not a fender bender, an overturned bike or any twisted wreckage at all. I just hear a lot of honking; lots and lots AND LOTS of honking. Romans have no patience for those who hesitate in traffic and they certainly don’t have time for those who don’t know where they are going!

Again, parking is similarly practical. Compact cars will park horizontally if it makes more sense to do so and drivers think ahead. They don't take space because it’s available; they pull up as far as possible to make room for the next driver who may come.

Italians don't mandate “no parking” near a curb or near the end of the block just because it is easier to see the other car coming from road. They believe it is the driver’s responsibility to pay attention and use the right amount of caution. I like the common sense in this. Things are not over mandated here and parking tickets are, to this day, unseen to me.

Although I sometimes have to go around 4 cars or so to have enough room to gain entrance to a sidewalk, I don't mind. The anticipation of the next crazy parking job that will give me a chuckle is well worth it.

Un tavolo per uno

2009-12-02T13:30:00.011-05:00

Tuesday, November 24

Today was a good day. I was feeling particularly empowered, spurred on perhaps by a great conversation with my friend from home, Sherrie and recent download of fantastic female artists like Adele, Meaghan Smith, and Duffy.

I cooked a meal from scratch this evening. I haven’t done that in quite a while. I love to cook, but cooking for one pretty much sucks. There’s always too much food left over and the same meal for several days gets old. Writing about cooking for one reminds me of a time I was waiting to order at the seafood counter in Washington, DC. When it was my turn I asked for one Tilapia. The fish monger asked, “Just one?” I looked at the substantial line of people waiting behind me and replied, “Yes, just one and thanks for the painful reminder!” The people behind me laughed. I’m sure they could relate at some point in their lives.

It is in no way an exaggeration to say that most Italians eat some form of pasta every day. Have you ever checked out the calories involved in a box of pasta? I did once and then immediately admonished myself for doing so. Pasta has never really been the same since. How do these people stay thin when they eat so many carbs? The bread here alone will wreck any sensible diet. Then add the fussily, the ravioli, the gnocchi. OH MY GOD, I NEED SOME VEGETABLES STAT!

And that’s what I did. I went to the market and purchased some fresh eggplant, potatoes, zucchini, and yellow peppers. I just wanted some sautéed veggies. No pasta. No risotto. No rice, just veggies; and lots and lots of wine. You know what they say, "When in Rome…"

Feeling inspired, I stopped into the large wine shop on the corner that I had wanted to try for a while but was hesitant to do so (yes, because of the language thing. WHY DON'T THESE PEOPLE SPEAK ENGLISH FOR GOD’S SAKE?). I started by asking the shop keeper in Italian if she spoke English. When she said, “no” in her very matter of fact tone and stared at me defiantly, I was forced to pull the words I needed in Italian. If I were to translate in English literally, I asked her, “What is there of good from a bottle of red wine from Tuscany for around $10 Euros.” I used hand signals for “around.” She smiled and more “empowerment” came my way from getting it right! When, I wonder, will I learn to trust myself? Every time I do, it works out. When I don't, I’m a wreck. It’s really not that difficult, but I still trip on this one way more than I’d like to.

I had fun cooking for myself. I cracked open one of my new bottles of wine, roasted the yellow pepper on the flame of the gas range, chopped up the eggplant, potatoes and zucchini and cranked up some Joss Stone on the iPod. I even imitated the professional chefs and flipped the veggies in the pan instead of using a spatula! I lit some candles and set the table for one. It felt good and the veggies were yummy.

I’m learning quite a bit by being here. And being okay with being “me” is one of the most important lessons I want to leave with. Lessons may come later in life than you would like, but if you’re open to them they do come. Life is good. I am happy.

Just do it

2009-11-22T08:09:00.003-05:00

To dress improperly in Italy is to ask to be shunned. One does not wear “active wear” on the street unless one is working out. And, as I discovered the hard way, one does not do such a vial act as run on the streets of Rome. Running is done in the park or in a gym… only.

There is little forgiveness given to those persons actually walking to the required park in which to run. Piercing stares from un-approving Italians at all socio-economic levels are to be expected until the running actually begins. At that point there seems to be a collective sigh of relief from the Italian citizens keeping guard of decorum while sitting on the park bench; each seeming to turn to their fellow sentinels and nod as if to say, it’s okay. It’s okay. She’s running.

The disapproval starts again when one reaches the 2 block threshold outside of the park. The other day, a garbage man looked at my sneakers and shook his head in disgust.

I understand that appearance is paramount in Italy but, really, must I be treated like a leper while clearly heading to and fro a little healthy recreation?

Henry Kissinger is my new BFF!

2009-11-19T04:29:00.004-05:00

OH MY GOD! I was walking down a side street the other night on my way to my apartment in Rome, but I wasn’t walking the typical easy peasy lemon squeezy Roman pace. My step was full-on fast-paced city walk. You know the speed that says, don’t mess with me. I’m a very busy person!

So, there I am walking when all of the sudden this little old man pops out of the doorway of the Commissione Tributaria Centrale building I was walking past (yeah, I have no idea what that is, but it sounds REALLY important!). I barely had enough time to stop myself from crashing into him. I ended up about 1 inch away from his face.

“Oh Scusami” I offer, as I pull my body away from his.

I recognized him immediately and my face did nothing to mask this recognition. I could feel my eyes widen and my lips turn into a huge smile at the sight of who I had practically knocked to the ground. It was… It was… umm… umm… OH CRAP! I CAN’T REMEMBER HIS NAME!

So I kept on walking.

“C’mon Val,” I say to myself, former Secretary of State, diplomat, Nobel Peace Prize winner. I had nothing. His name would not come to me. But I had to do something, so I turned around to discover that he had turned to look as well.

This was my chance. I had to say something, and so with the biggest, cheesiest, stupidest smile on my face I waved and said, “HI!”

Yep, that’s the best I could come up with… a loud, high-pitched little girl, “HI!” He didn’t seem to mind. Afterall he did smile and wave back.

I walked on with a new bounce to my step, now only two blocks away from my apartment door. His name, what was his name? Very important man. German born. Nixon. I arrived at my door, inserted the key into the keyhole and yelled out loud, “HENRY KISSINGER!”

I ran up the six flights of stairs to my apartment. I had to Google him to see if I was right. Two short minutes later I was reading his bio on Wikipedia. Staring back at me was the picture of Henry Kissinger, the man I had just, almost, knocked to the ground. I couldn’t believe it. I just ran into Henry Kissinger on the streets of Rome, AND he smiled back at me!

Think what you want, but I know he and I shared a moment!

A Lesson in Humility

2009-11-17T04:50:00.036-05:00

Italy is an exciting and beautiful place. Although I have been here a little over a month, I still cannot believe this is my life; that I actually get to live in Italy. I have nothing but appreciation for this opportunity, but the reality is it’s not that easy to be here. Living in a foreign country sounds ideal, but let’s face it, when a dog understands more Italian than you do, it’s a humbling experience.

I’ve had many lessons in humility over these last few weeks. Of course there’s the typical, I can’t figure out how to work my Italian mobile phone because all of the instructions are in Italian, or the,"Oh! You’re not supposed to enter the bus in the middle section because that’s where people exit." kind of stuff. But recently I had a great reminder regarding the importance of not taking yourself too seriously and being humble.

Two weeks ago, I arrived back in Rome after 11 days in Florence. The night I got back an acquaintance of mine, named Pam called out of the blue to say she was in Italy for the next two weeks and could we meet up.

I wasn’t expecting a visitor for another week when my long-time friend Jen would fly to Rome for a short visit. Now, I feared, I would have to change what I had planned for the week and focus my energy on making sure Pam was taken care of and having a good time in Rome. I resented the intrusion on my time in Italy and was not that excited to meet up with her.

I made plans to meet her the next day by the Spanish Steps; Spagna as the Italians call it. I had not done any significant sightseeing yet in Rome so this was my first time in that area. I got lost several times and had to pull out my map to gain my bearings. This frustrated me because I didn’t want to look like a tourist. I kept getting turned around in the confusing narrow streets of Rome. For quite a while I could not find my way, but was too intimidated to ask for directions because of my limited Italian. I was grumpy, frustrated, and resented that I was in this situation in the first place.

After 45 minutes of being lost within the same 5 block radius, I eventually found the café Pam was waiting in. As I walked up to her she stood and gave me a big smile and hug. She started speaking English a mile a minute as loudly as she wanted. She wasn’t obnoxious; she just did not bother to hide the fact that she was American.

Seeing her was like a breath of fresh air! I hadn’t spoken full-on-rapid-fire-girl-style English in weeks. My bad mood melted away and I jumped into the conversation with just as much enthusiasm as she had. I realized immediately I had been a selfish jerk. I didn't have to take care of Pam, she was quite capable on her own!

Pam wasn’t ashamed that she stood out as an American, she embraced it. And, at 5 feet 10 inches tall with platinum blonde hair it’s a good thing she embraced it because there was really no hiding it. Her approach was that she was on a once-in-a-lifetime vacation and she was going to enjoy every moment of it.

That was such a great reminder for me to relax, enjoy the experience, go with the flow, and not worry so much about looking stupid or even worse, looking like a tourist! After all, I AM a tourist; just a longer term one.

Pam and I were practically inseparable for the next two weeks. In that first week together I did things on my own that I had not tried before, like driving a car in Rome and conquering Rome’s underground Metro system. Both were not as hard as I imagined they would be.

I traveled to places I had not even heard about, like a tiny town in the Mountainous Abruzzo Region of Italy named Calascio (kind of pronounced like kah-lodge-e-oh, without the d in lodge), where Pam and I had wonderful Italian dishes that were just added to the fall menu, as most Italian restaurants prepare dishes with what is available in season.

Pam had a chestnut and ridiccio filled ravioli with venison, olive oil, and a little sea salt served on top of the pasta. She said it was the best meal she had ever eaten! Of course the pasta, and ricotta cheese (from my tomato ravioli) was made fresh in the restaurant that very day.

The owner of the restaurant treated us like royalty and provided many extras to our meal like several after dinner drinks that are specialties of the local area.

We had a fantastic time and saw breathtaking views of the mountains and the countryside on the 3 hour drive from Rome to Calascio.

Earlier in the week, we stayed up until 4 AM dancing in a “high end” night club. Night clubs in Rome are just as bad as night clubs in Washington DC, but the drinks are more outrageously priced (a glass of no-name champagne was 15 euros!) and there are more men than women. Most of the Italian men in this club were on the prowl for American woman. As one man explained to us, they do this because they think American women are “easy.” DAH! Considering most American woman in Rome are either college students or on vacation, I imagine they are “easier” to get than Italian women who are looking for their future husband.

Although “clubbing” is not my thing, it was fun watching the dynamics of the crowd. Imagine a typical dance floor with disco ball turning, lights flashing, music blaring and EVERY Italian man singing American songs at the top of their lungs with a horrible English accent. I still can’t get the sound of this out of my head… “I got a fill-ing, that to-night gonna be a goohd night. That to-night gonna be a goohd, goohd niiiigh…” It was great!

My friend, Jen joined us exactly one week after Pam arrived in Rome. Jen was happy to have the extra company and was up for anything that week. The three of us had a blast! We toured around the sights of Rome, went shopping at the local market, and drank way too much wine! We were on a mission to find the best Aperitivo and Gelato in Italy. We went shopping in Florence. We toured Sienna (one of the most beautiful Tuscan towns I have seen yet!). And we just had a fun laughing and being in good company!

After Jen left, Pam and I jumped a train to Venice for the weekend. SERIOUSLY, who gets to say that? Who gets to say, “Okay, I’ll meet you at the Coliseum in 30 minutes.” or, “Hey, do you want to go to Venice this weekend?” I am indeed a fortunate woman!

Venice is like no other place on earth. The bridges, the architecture, the canals, the morning mist that hangs over the water, all add to the romance and mystery of this place. I have decided that I must live in Venice for a short time while in Italy.

These past two weeks have been exceptional and have served as a great reminder for me to be appreciative, to be humble, to be up for anything, and to not take myself too seriously.

Thank you Pam for being you and for reminding me that it’s okay to be me!

Expressly Espresso: The rhythm of making an Italian Coffee

2009-11-08T06:59:00.015-05:00

It’s quick. It’s intense. Just, as I imaging, is an Italian man in bed.

It starts with a quick and loud bang to get the spent coffee grounds out of the single-sized, spouted-cup that will be swiftly shoved back into the massive stainless steel espresso machine.

BANG! BANG! BANG! The fourth bang empties the cup completely.

The bean grinder hums a quick hum and dispenses a perfectly portioned amount of grounds back into the spouted cup.

The tiny espresso cup "chings" when it is placed under the spout to receive the coffee.

Then the hot water chimes in and floods through the coffee grinds to create an intense and insanely hot cup of espresso.

Gulp one. Gulp two. Gulp three. It’s over... and I’m spent!

Happy Hour Should be Ashamed of Itself!

2009-11-07T03:54:00.009-05:00

In Italy it is completely unacceptable to sit at a table or at a counter while in a bar or restaurant unless you pay extra for service. Same food, same drinks, but if you order at the bar and stand at the bar it’s cheaper. If you sit, you’re charged a service fee. Same concept as in the States, but you don't tip based on the cost of the meal, you pay a flat fee.

The exception to this rule is Aperitivo. You can sit during Aperitivo and not pay a service fee. Aperitivo is similar to Happy Hour, but it starts later and ends later (around 6:30 to 9:30 PM) and provides an extensive and free buffet of make-your-mouth-water Italian dishes.

Warm penne pasta with pesto? Sure. Why not? Mini faccia sandwiches with salami and pecorino cheese? Why, yes, thank you! Caprese salad; thin crust pizza; creamy risotto with asparagus; bow tie pasta with olives and cherry tomatoes; pistachio nuts; marinated olives… YES, YES, YES! And all for around 6 to 9 euro, the price for one glass of wine. OH MY GOD, I LOVE APERITIVO!

I must find a way to get this tradition instituted in the United States. Happy Hour must be adjusted from measly drink specials and discounted mini burgers to a full buffet of Italian wonderment for less than $10! C’mon my American compatriots! Who’s with me?

October 29 - A Foreigner in Florence

2009-11-02T09:43:00.030-05:00

I spent the entire day traveling within the Historic Center of Florence meeting potential roommates and visiting new apartments to live in while staying in Florence.

I am quite fond of Katrina (pronounced Kat-air-ee-na in Italian) the woman I have been renting a room from for the last 11 days in Sud Firenze (south Florence), but the bus trip from her house into the heart of the city is taking up to an hour due to construction. Florence has captured my heart and I want to be a part of it. Living on the outskirts of the city isn’t real enough. I want to be in the center. I want to be part of the city; part of its energy. I want to be a Florentine! Allora, the outskirts will not do!!!

My first stop of the day ended up being the apartment I selected. My new flat mate is a French woman who has 47 years. Italians don't say “years old.” Agnès (pronounced An-yay) teaches French at the University of Florence and speaks French, Italian, and (thank God) English fluently. Of course she speaks English with that amazing French accent that every man melts for and every woman would love to have... Oh, oui, Val-au-ray, I wood lik to off-air you zis flat, az I think you air a lovely perzon, noh?

My room is large and bright, thanks to a nice-sized window that lets in tons of natural light. It’s been painted a soft yellow, has a queen bed, and a big white desk and bookcase from IKEA. French posters are hung on each wall. The cutest antique chair rests in the room.

My view out of the window is of the terracotta rooftops next door. I love terracotta roof tops! The color, dimension, and texture give the roofs their own personality. Too me they are art.

It’s about a 15 minute walk to the Historical Center from my new home. I can see the very top of the Duomo from my new street. My neighborhood is chock-full of beautiful buildings with character and style that new construction simply cannot recreate. The area is blissfully free from the graffiti that plaques much of Italy.

After my new domicile was secured with the required deposit, I ventured out to discover my neighborhood. An Italian girl, who looked to have about 25 years, stopped me to ask for directions. When I hesitated at her question she said in broken English, “Oh, you no speak Italiano,” and I quickly replied in Italian, “Yes, I speak a little!” I motioned for her to go ahead with her question. She asked if I knew a particular street in the area, which, of course, I did not. BUT, I had a map of the city.

I whipped out my map and found her street in less than 5 seconds (it was only one street over from where we were standing). She looked at me, laughed, and said in English, “I can’t believe a foreigner had to give me directions!” I smiled and walked on thinking to myself, “Yeah, well, THIS foreigner just handled that situation pretty well.”

Feeling proud of myself, I walked into the self service market at the end of the block to buy a bottle of water. I pulled at the refrigerator door lightly at first and then with more gusto, but I couldn’t get it open. I pulled again, with no luck. Oh god! Was it not really self service? I tried to look casual. The shop keeper said something to me in Italian. After seeing the confused look on my face he rolled his eyes, walked from behind his counter, pulled the door open from the opposite side I had been tugging on, and handed me a bottle of water.

I paid the man, smiled, and thought to myself, “Yeeaaah, this foreigner could have handled THAT situation a little better!”

24 October: Allora!

2009-10-31T03:43:00.008-04:00

I’ve only been in Italy for 2 weeks and I am already sick of the word, allora.

Allora!

My spell check doesn’t even like that word. I can tell by the way it continues to underline it in deep red as if to say, "CAUTION! DO NOT USE THIS WORD! WE DO NOT LIKE IT." And, at this moment, I can relate to my trusty spell check. I don't like it either.

Allora means so, hmmm, or well then in Italian. Oh, don't expect to see it in the latest version of Rosetta Stone. This is a colloquialism that one has to be in Italy to learn. It’s used many different ways including as a start, middle, filler, and sometimes end of a sentence, if the sentence ends in a question.

Allora doesn't sound too bad right? But now, factor in my very poor understanding of the Italian language and listen to a sentence as I hear it: Allora, blah, blah, blah... Allora, blah, blah, blah. Allora.

Yeah, it gets old after 14 days.

20 October: A Green Apple

2009-10-30T10:24:00.012-04:00

As I entered the local produce market in Cortona this morning, the shop keeper, a tall stately man with graying brown hair was waiting on a portly, well-dressed Italian woman with deep creases in her face and a stiff waddle in her step. The woman followed the shop keeper around the tiny shop to inspect his selection of her fruit and vegetable order, as there is no “self service” in this shop.

I stood as out of the way as I could and watched the transaction. The woman seemed impatient with my presence. As if she were thinking, “I'll take all of the time I want and YOU will just wait!” And she could have. I had plenty of time before I had to catch my train to Florence.

The shop keeper handed the woman her bag and change and, at the same time addressed me in Italian. Unsure of what he just said, I responded, “buongiorno.” Yes... not the most appropriate response, as I’m sure he was asking what I would like. I waited a second or two longer before speaking. I was not quite sure the old Italian woman was officially done, even though she was counting her change.

“Posso avere una banana e una mela? Per favore." (may I please have a banana and an apple)?" I asked,

The shop keeper looked surprised that I addressed him in Italian. He darted over to the barrel of bananas, selected one, and showed it to me for inspection.

“Si” I responded in approval. He then moved to the barrels of red apples. “Gala?” he asked. “Ah, no,” I responded and pointed to the bushel of granny smith apples.

“Ah, si, mela verdi (green apple),” he responded.

“Ah, mela verdi,” I repeated with a pretty good Italian accent.

“Mela verdi!” the old woman still standing by the cash register repeated with bravado in her tone.

I looked toward her, surprised she was paying attention. “Mela verdi” I repeated in a tone equally as bold.

“Mela Verdi” she said again, this time introspectively and with a seemingly proud smile; proud, perhaps, of her heritage and of me for respecting it.