Lessons of Florence

And I think I am doing that.  In many ways.  For example:  Fabio.

Now here is a lovely man I have known - casually - for about a year now.  He works at my local pizza place and he’s quite sweet.  Every now and then I pass by and he says “buon giorno” and I say “buon giorno” and sometimes he’ll ask “hai un fidanzato?”  (do you have a boyfriend?)  and I’ll say “No, non ho un fidanzato.”  and then I move on.  But the other day I didn’t move on.  The other day I did something I’ve been doing a lot lately.  Sitting on steps and crevices in the city.  Just sitting and resting for a moment.  Fabio was sitting drinking a coke at the corner of the Bargello (an old prison where Savonerolla apparently put people who didn’t agree with him.  Now they house some of the most important works of art in the world - just down the street from my house actually) and so, since I was in my sitting phase, I sat next to him.  Again - “Hai un fidanzato?”  (Fabio)   Me - “Fabio, tu sai io non avere un fidanzato.  Ogni tempo mi vedi mi chiesto”  Fabio - “okay…. prendi una birra con me staserra?”  Well it would have been nice to “take” a beer with him but it was Rosh Hashanah and I was committed to subjecting myself once again to the orthodox Synagoge where there is no English spoken and I could try my best to find some moment within the service which touched me in some way.  So I said no, but we exchanged numbers for the future.  Of course it was in this discussion I learned Fabio was only 29 years old.  I was going to have a beer with a 29 year old.  I figured he had to at least be 33 like everyone else I know in this city.

The next night I had dinner with my friends from LA who are visiting - Ann and Anthony.  It was SUCH a pleasure to see them, to learn about what is happening in the states and, through our conversation which was stimulating and inspiring it suddenly dawned on me that no one I know here speaks politics at all.  I mean not at all.  Other than telling me that the United States blew up the world trade towers and not a single Jew died because we were given a memo two days earlier not to show up that day, I really haven’t had any discussions of any significance (although that wasn’t a discussion…. I just listened believe it or not).   I guess on some level it has been such a relief that I simply didn’t notice it - the lack of political debate.  And yet back in the states it was so important to me.  To be informed, to stand for something, to “fight the good fight”(whatever it was that day).  Odd.  Anyway, we had a lovely dinner, I took them to one of my favorite gelato stores in Santo Spirito, walked them to their hotel, and headed home.  My pocket vibrated - an SMS.  Fabio.  Wanting to prendere una birra con me.  Well, why not?  It was early - midnight.  So I sms’d “okay” and headed toward home.  On my way I glanced to my right.  A GLANCE I swear to G-d that is all it was.  And…. that is all it takes.  Because Salvatore was on me like … what’s that phrase? …. white on rice (which I don’t understand).  “Ti conosco?”  I hope, dear students, we all remember this phrase….. I will remind you of it’s meaning in case you have forgotten — “do…. I….. know….. you?”  Mama mia!  But I was feeling pretty good from the wine and so I said “no” which means “please talk to me and follow me down the street and then try to get my phone number” to an Italian male.  Which is exactly what happened.  And, because he was young and I didn’t want to hurt him (I know, I know) I gave it to him …. like the idiot I am. I think he was 23.  A trend?  Anyway he’s only called six times since then (of course this was last night).  But we are not discussing Salvatore.  We are discussing Fabio and growing up.  We are discussing having a birra with a nice enough young man who I know has a crush on me, who walked me along the Arno, took my arm and kissed me very sweetly.  And all I could think was….  “I am kissing a 29 year old who’s wearing a baseball cap at 3 oclock in the morning out in public, what if one of my students comes by and sees me?!”  And that… in my opinion… is a sign that I am … growing up.

But there are other things, maybe a bit more significant than the recognition of the aging process versus the rise in my hormonal responses.  Such as my life in general.  I realize that I am in a minority here.  Almost all the women I have met - not all but most - came here either for an Italian man or met one while studying here and then stayed and had children.  Or they are professors, or retired or wealthy enough to make a change without needing to make a living.  But that isn’t me.  Not my reason.  Not my situation.  And when I meet someone and they ask me why I came here and I say “I don’t know” they look at me like I am from Los Angeles or something.  I mean I really don’t know now do I?  I followed an instinct…. something in me that strongly said “do this, move to Florence.”  It wasn’t a life long dream fulfilled, it wasn’t my fantasy of Italian men (that came after and then immediately was….. brought to a level of realism), I don’t eat pasta since I’m allergic to farina (sorry - wheat) and can’t enjoy the pizza either for the same reason (in fact I’ve lost weight since I moved to Italy) so it wasn’t for the food either.  I spent the year since my first steps on these beautiful cobblestones focused on coming because I simply thought I was suppose to.  But is that mature…????

I thought for a long time that it was spiritually mature, perhaps.  But, although I say and believe I have done what I was to do, I am convinced it wasn’t realistically mature.  What it is…. is forcing me to be.

Now I live in Italy.  And I am coming to appreciate it.  To settle in and resist less.  To understand the culture and learn that sometimes the only way to get what you want is to see it ahead of you, then confidently go toward it by turning left, left again, right, go backward, backward again, left, right and forward.  Then you’ll get there.  Or you won’t.  But you’ll be somewhere.

I am somewhere.  I am entering the last days of my first year.  I have been through a lot.  A freezing apartment with a water heater the size of a thimble, married men throughout the city who keep reminding me they “are here for me” when I am ready, personal experience with what the kernels of censorship and propaganda really are, challenges which were - at the time - incomprehensible with starting our theatre company, language and cultural barriers everywhere I turned.  But the hardest challenge….. was within my own head.

When I look back at the tone in my words - I was first so hopeful, then so beaten down.  What did I expect?  I came to a city - a different culture, with a very specific set of standards for living and seeing life - and tried to fit myself into them very quickly.  Apparently I’ve achieved a great deal here in a short period of time.  For me that was hard to understand while it was happening.  Now I see it is true.  Things are about to unfold…..

When you live an artist’s life - actress, writer, painter, whichever - you make choices.  I made choices.  Such as coming to Florence.  And sometimes they are not ….. rational choices.  But they are all I was capable of making at the time.  And now I am …. on an edge.  An interesting edge.  I live in a foreign country.  If I tried to rationalize why or how I got here, I would find no answer.  It’s been very hard lately….. growing up.  In the US I always had some opportunity to be “saved” when things got difficult.  And by difficult right now I mean financially.  A residual check of ridiculous proportions would arrive, or I would get a job on some television show.  My friend Mark always said I was “blessed.”  There was opportunity to push back the wave of economic reality I created as I followed my “heart.”  But that doesn’t exist here.  And, for the first time in my life, I am truly terrified.  I wake up this way, walk through the day and go to sleep wondering what will happen to me.  How I will make ends meet until it all comes together.

I ran my first marathon last Saturday.  12 kilometers (just short of 7.5 miles) which was more than twice what I had ever run before.  I did it in less than an hour and a half which for me I think was quite good.  As I was running I remembered that - almost exactly a year ago to the day - I had made a goal to run in a marathon in Florence.  I had forgotten I made that goal.  Yet there I was, running through the Boboli gardens in all their stunning beauty, through the streets of the city, up through the hills over looking the Duomo doing it - meeting my goal.  I was incredibly proud of myself.