Lessons of Florence

But I’m teaching a course on writing memoir not fiction…. so let’s get down to the truth of the matter.

A truly wonderful way to advance your sense of self worth is to stand in front of a group of glass-eyed 20 year olds and teach something you’ve never taught before. It’s not even the fear of their judgment…. maybe it’s judgment in their eyes. Or maybe it’s the affect of the anti-depressant and anti-anxiety drugs that, apparently, 70% of all college age students are on. I’m sure in my class it’s at least that amount. I don’t think we can include the two that come in stoned. Well, one I think comes in stoned. The other I am sure is on coke. Anyway…..

A truly wonderful way to advance your sense of growing antiquity…. that moment where you cross the line into adulthood and can never ever go back no matter how many nights you stay out until 3 in the morning with your 26-32 year old friends drinking and listening to loud rock and roll (but we’ll discuss my social life and limited entertainment opportunities for 35+ in Florence another time) is to stare at your students… those 8 comatose faces…. and think “what has happened to kids today.” That’s right, I’ve done it. I’ve crossed the line. They forced me into it and now I can’t go back. I don’t blame them, really. Not after the article I read on “the millennium student.” Apparently they all have enough problems of their own from the over-protective upbringing by their parents. I certainly don’t want to add my fear and loathing of aging to it. Not when they are so stressed and incapable of thinking without their parents’ help that, when given the complex homework of bringing in a dictionary definition of the word “passion” 7 out of the 8 were incapable of doing so……

God forbid I ask them a question in class. After watching “Adaptation” for two hours as an example of the writer’s process and the possibilities which exist for using oneself as subject in writing, I asked the terrifying question: “what did you think about the way the character was portrayed by the writer in the expression of internal need and internal fear” (we had been discussing internal needs and fears of characters for four weeks at that point). I say terrified because they all had this look of fear on their faces. The kind I usually see when I ask them the dreaded “yes or no” question which I think may be too advanced for this level of education… as they never have any response to it…. yes… or … no…..seems too complicated a thinking process but, as I said I’m new and just learning! Then again, I’m not sure if it was really their normal expression of fear or if they were still adjusting to the lights being turned on. We were, after all, in the dark for two hours so I must give them that at least. But why am I giving them anything really. I have a group of students in a writing class who can’t stand the idea of writing…. they resist me constantly. They don’t do their homework, they don’t listen to… or understand….. or comprehend much of anything I’m saying. At first I was sure it was me. I had no doubt it was me… I mean I’ve never done this before and my instinct is always to blame myself. Maybe I suck as a teacher. Maybe I can’t teach the writing process. Maybe I’m not so “cool” when I stand in front of a class of students who think my job is to entertain them between jaunts to Berlin and Madrid on their long weekend’s or after their drinking binges in the endless Irish Pubs that help to make Florence on some nights not much more than simply being one big college town.

But my friend, Dawn, who was visiting here last week (and who I kept out until 2:30 am on the morning her taxi was coming for her at 4am just so she could have the complete Florence social experience before heading to see her brand new nephew - sorry Dawn!) has looked at the communication of my assignments and assured me I am not being unclear. My friend Mary Jane, who has been teaching for more years than I need say here, tells me that every now and then you just get duds. So I have duds. What a true shame it is. Because I think, honestly, I created an interesting class. I enjoy the concept of it. Of teaching a process of writing where you access yourself and draw the reader on a journey. I like that. Where you look to your own life as a way of expressing something that can tell a story of growth and risk. Of change and stagnancy. Of the wonderful human challenges we all face every day.

Speaking of challenges:

I have a quandary. I want to start dating again. Just for fun. What the heck. I mean I miss the feel of a man’s arms around me. Ironic I had to come to Italy — the one place everyone fantasizes about having that experience…. to find out it’s not that easy to find a man who’s going to do anything more than take you for an apperitivi and then a nice thank you between the sheets and then back to Mama for freshly pressed underwear (the Italian Mama honestly irons underwear here). Not that I’ve actually had this experience…..I’ve avoided this experience. Two words… “bicycle man.” Well enough. I believe I have two real possibilities now and I would like your advice. Both of them involve language education. Thank God! Which is very important because I have regressed in my Italian skills. Terribly. I think my brain imploded about two months ago, it pretty much said: “fuck this!!! I can only do so many new things at once so fuck you with the apartment search, teaching writing, starting a theatre company, meeting new people, dealing with bureaucracy, dealing with Syracuse University dysfunction, meeting new people, dealing with trying to find Jewish holiday foods in a Catholic kingdom (see seder plate with blood orange for roasted beet which usually stands in for lamb shank), meeting new people, meeting new people, meeting new people….. so fuck you! I am no longer processing, speaking, thinking or caring about the fucking Italian language. I can order a cappucinno. That’s enough. So….. Fuuuuccckkkk youuouououou!!!!” Or some….. articulation…..like that.
But we are entering a new age now. Spring is here…. time to relearn the language, find a man and, for your consideration:

Candidate number one. As I was walking down the street the other day, last Tuesday actually, on my merry way to my lovely studenti, I was approached by a man who was standing in front of the Edison Bookstore at Piazza Republica. Under the Loggia. He was shorter than me by a few inches, dark hair, dark eyes. A bit of a determined look in them. I did what I always do with Italian men. Ignored him. You really must or it opens the door for things you may regret later. (two words: “bicycle man”) This behavior is, of course, completely against my instincts which is to say “Buon Giorno” to everyone I pass. But, apparently, if I do this I will also be inviting the possibility of saying “Buono Notte” and I don’t have that much time in the day. Especially when my students are waiting! But back to candidate numero uno. I walked by him, when he takes one look at me and says “Mama mia! Sei belissima!” and starts to gently follow me under the loggia. Needless to say I was both secretly thrilled, flattered really and, at the same time, just slightly put upon. He continued to speak to me in Italian as we walked. (well, I walked and he followed…. my legs were slightly longer, but he kept up God love him. As I said, he’s determined) and he asked me to go out with him for a coffee. Well, first I was not available because, as we know, I was enthusiastic to confirm my aging process at class at 3pm. But second I was a bit concerned as to how he would pay for such a generous suggestion. I guess if I added a few coins…. maybe a euro….. to his cup he would be able to take me. I think Italy is the only country I can imagine where the beggars ask you out in the same breath they ask for change. The Italian male…. ummmm.

Candidate number two, however, is not Italian. And, as my friend Dawn who was with me at the time can confirm…. and I believe these are her words….. “he has a slightly sleezy sex appeal. And he’s cute.” Or something like that. Long dark hair, brown eyes, dark skin. And that sort of growth on his face that might be a beard once it figured out what direction it was going. Jimmy works in a leather store. Actually, and I’m not sure so ironically, almost literally next door to the leather store that my one “real?” Italian romance owns. In fact I was walking Dawn past there so she could get a look at Thomas who, unfortunately for entertainment value wasn’t in at the time. And, two doors down, just as it happened with Maia two years ago at Thomas’ shop, Dawn saw something in the window she just had to try on. A leather jacket. In Jimmy’s shop. We are browsing. In walks Jimmy. Did I mention he has long hair. Speaking Italian…. kind of cute in a sleezy way. Did I mention that? Dawn tried on several jackets, but nothing appealed to her. But there was this one …. a light green I think … that was high up on the rack. Jimmy had to reach for it and when he did I saw this little patch of skin just above his hip bone. Hmmmm. Dawn didn’t like the jacket. But Jimmy like’s my eyes. So we may go out for “Italian practice” when he returns in two weeks. I think he’s going to Pakistan. He’s Pakistani. Of course my friend, Giuseppe, along with so many other Italians think that the leather shops which are owned by non-Italians are just fronts for terrorist organizations. I don’t think Jimmy is a terrorist. First, he doesn’t own the shop. And second he took me into the back to show me how they make the jackets. He obviously has great pride in his work. He’s been there twelve years, speaks very good Italian….. and has long dark hair. Did I mention that? And that … patch above the hip….. hmmmm….

Well…. as I write this I am in my new apartment. My home. With my white walls, high ceilings with dark wood beams and functioning lavatrice and warmth and full sized fridge (for Italy standards). Some day I’ll tell you what it took to get this place. The paper work alone was emotionally draining (Italians LOVE paperwork…. that way they get to use those stamps. You know the “stamps” with the ink that cost you money every time they hit the paper? Also the stamps at the post office which will buy you anything here from health insurance to permesso sogiorni - but we’ll leave my struggles with working here legally for another time, shall we?) and I am also now a happy taxpayer for Italy. Apparently rents don’t include the owner’s tax responsibilities…. so tenants get the privilege of sharing that as well!

I’ve already started decorating (see wall of my father’s art) and every single person who comes into this place is jealous of me. The neighborhood is a completely different energy… I am in the heart of the city…. no longer across the river where I “really wanted to be”, but in the center of college town and tourist trap and loving every minute of it. It’s like a party every day, every night and I feel I can create here, make something ….. make something. We have already started having gatherings for FITC (Florence International Theatre Company) in my living room — production meetings, business meetings, readings. It’s our hub and that makes me happy. There are, of course, a few things. via Ghibellina is the home to a bar a little up the street that can’t seem to fit the 200 Italians who like to drink there on Friday and Saturday nights (and Sunday and Monday and an occasional Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday) so they simply hang out in the street until 3 or 4 in the morning. The lovely ancient stones of the palazzi - including the Borghese palace - create a very deep resonate echo effect. Sort of like a stampede of drunk buffaloes. It’s not a problem really. My bedroom is right on the street side and it lulls me to sleep. And when I have a problem sleeping it’s not the noise from the street that keeps me up. Or even the occasional drunk ringing my buzzer at 4 am for fun. It’s the twin beds that are pushed next to each other to give the illusion that the mattress is larger. Italians do this for some reason I refuse to understand. I don’t think I’ve slept in a twin bed since I was 18 years old. My body keeps forgetting that if I roll too much to the right I will fall into the gap and slowly begin to descend to the floor…. or twist something. But my new landlady has assured me that we will get a larger mattress. Which is good. Because, although I await your advice, I am leaning toward candidate number two…… but only for practicing the beautiful language of Italiano. Of course then, why would it matter the size of the mattress? Well, where will we put all the books? It would be too easy for them to fall between the cracks. And then we’d have to reach down to get them. And we might twist something. Or I could just let Jimmy reach down to get them….. because there is that…. patch….

Ciao Ragazzi!
Oh! If any of you have been trying to telephone me and don’t know why you can’t get through, that would be because Telecom (sort of like Ma Bell but Italian) decided in the middle of the day on Thursday that they should change my number without telling me and take away my DSL (I write this in anticipation of having it turned back on and my number restored). Aaron, my co-Artistic Director and regular savior here, called to tell them this and they immediately knew what happened (apparently they do this all the time) and assured him by Saturday night at midnight all would be well. It’s Sunday at 2:06pm and I am still waiting….

Vediamo…………

Oh! Oh! I have included a photo of me in that parade months ago when I was Eleanora Medici. The Knight on my arm is kind of cute… no? He’s only 21 though which is of course the age of my studenti…. hmmmmmmm……..