Italy Needs Labor Mediators-Right Quick!

Off to a slightly, bumpy start. On Wednesday evening, I flew ORD to AMS (Amsterdam) on KLM, AMS to FCO (Rome) on Alitalia, and then STOP! After waiting 2.5 hours for my Alitalia flight to FLR (Florence),it canceled. No announcements, no help, just TV monitors displaying, “Some flights may be delayed or canceled due to a Union meeting scheduled from 1300 to 2300.” That’s one hell of a long and late meeting! Okay, but Power to the Worker I believe, so I find another way. I could have spent the night in Rome and let my travel insurance fit the bill, but I was tired and was ready to be in a location I had already studied and planned for (I’m positive this is a trait I received from my mother- Come hell or high water (or union strike) I was going to make it to the place I had planned to be in! I waited another 2.5 hours for luggage and then found my way to the train.

The train would take me first into Rome and then back out to Florence, or Firenze as the Italians have dubbed it. All told, I would end up in Florence at 01:45, exhausted and sweaty. I hate to admit that I ate at McDonald’s at the train station, something I promised myself I would never do in a foreign country. I have excuses: I was starving, I needed sustenance to continue schlepping this 40 pound backpack and 40 pound suitcase, and it was the only thing open at the station. (Please help me feel better about this by sharing your American fast food fumbles in foreign lands by adding your comments to this entry, see “Comment” link below entry.)

So much for stilling the soul.

But enough with logistics. First official day in Italy! Walking around Florence was hot and crowded, still, with many tourists. Quite a feast for the eyes and ears and nose. San Lorenzo’s Market was my favorite of course. At first I was sorely disappointed to find it an outside market of leather wares-this can’t be it-where’s the food?! Looking back, I’m not sure how I stumbled upon it-an indoor Italian Food Pavilion, or Heaven, as I like to call it. Meats, fish, veggies, fruits, pasta, cheese, bread, bread, bread, flowers, wine, olive oil, oil, oil –Heaven. I couldn’t help but just gawk with my mouth watering, listening in on the old women’s conversations, and thinking of all the parties I could throw with these treats. Don’t worry, you’re invited!

I bought my bread –Tuscano-soft inside with an extra crispy crust, decorated with toasted sesame seeds –tasted very toasted, almost smokey, not sweet. Then my peaches. Of course I picked out the bright red ones, till handed a sample of the yellow ones, clearly that’s what I must have or that’s what I’m being told to have. Without a lick of Italian, I understood this new friend of mine to say “these peaches make my stomach fit,” as he jiggled a non-existent belly. Funny old man. Sweet, full of juice that dripped down my arm, I ventured back out into the blazing sun in search of the Oil Shoppe for lunch.

A hole in the wall, populated by university students, I ordered a Prosciutto Panini with porcinis and artichokes and a garlic truffle spread all of which made for a divine lunch and dinner. Back to the Basilica di San Lorenzo to sit in its shade, people watch, and eat my lunch.

Renewed but still dripping in sweat, I made my way to The Paperback Book Exchange (they have a sign on the door that says the hours plus “Without Break” which means they are the only store open during the two hour lunch break most stores take in the afternoon.) This is an expat bookstore for Brits and Americans and the first question I am asked on entry is if I am registered to vote. “Yes.” “And you have signed up for an absentee ballot?” “Yes.” “Okay, good.” “Why?” “We are registering people in the back.” “Interesting.” No campaign slogans, just registering. Can you imagine if every time you walked into a store in the states they asked if you were registered? What if you couldn’t get your Big Mac or Starbucks Latte until you registered? Or until you voted? We might have a better turn out. I did over hear the Brits behind the counter discussing Sarah and they were appalled that she would “choose” to have a child with Down Syndrome. They thought it was cruel and irresponsible. I’m amazed they care. But they had watched the convention speeches, both Democratic and Republican! I bet the majority of Americans can’t say they watched both. I picked up a copy of Dante’s works, seems appropriate given that he was from Florence.

I never considered myself into clothes, doesn’t seem important. Clothes are very important here, however, probably on par with food, or a close second. I could really be into clothes in Italy-they are beautiful and stylish and there is such variety, and all in my brown, fall colors. In Florence, they seemed reasonably priced -70 Euros for a sweater, 80 for a suit jacket, 50-200 for shoes. Good thing I’m poor and people in Seattle don’t care what you wear!

After walking my legs off in Firenze, it was time for a nap. A very dramatic thunderstorm woke me: lightening, thunder, and golf ball sized rain which made a great sound on the orange tiled roofs. I opened my windows and watched it go by.

Fiddler’s Elbow-I was looking for a place to get a glass of wine, but it is dinner time on a Friday night, and I don’t want a whole meal to go with it. Instead, I found the Irish Pub around the corner for a liquid dinner. This was a familiar and comforting Guinness Pub and my lack of Italian is overlooked immediately-I know how to order a pint of Guinness in any language. The bartenders are speaking in English about their favorite 80’s movies, mostly anything by Scorsese (because he’s Italian American?) True to form, most customers are standing outside the pub on the sidewalk, smoking and drinking. A Guinness ad on the wall shows a pint and the caption reads, “The Presence of Beauty-Guinness.” Jonny Cash is singing “Goodnight Irene,” and that’s my cue. Goodnight.

-side note drama about the Pub-at one point the Irish owner scolded the bar wench for being late-again! Of course the Irishman should have known he can’t win an argument with an Italian woman. It started off softly at the end of the bar, right next to me, and as soon as she started to defend herself, it went up 10 octaves. Now how do I know what they were fighting about? The boss had spoken in English to the earlier bartender and asked where this Italian one was. The bartender replied that this was becoming a pattern, The argument was in Italian but as you can imagine, pretty easy to figure out with all the hand gesturing or Italian sign language. Really, work-place disputes are the same in any language. How did it end? She walked behind the bar, he followed her trying to keep her quieter, then both came to the front of the bar, but it only escalated, then both walked in opposite directions as if to say “Fine!” It looked like he gave up because she went back to work behind the bar. I guess it’s Fine!