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?
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Growing Pains - Part Due
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Mio Amore
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.
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.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The Valetta Stone
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!
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!
Sunday, January 2, 2011
A Year In Review 2010
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!
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!
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
I am not a COUGAR!
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?
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?
Sunday, September 19, 2010
50 Days in America
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!
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!
Sunday, August 1, 2010
My Last Day in Florence
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.
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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.
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Tuesday, July 27, 2010
I’m Not Special
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.
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.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Differences: Toilets & Sinks
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.
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.
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