Lessons of Florence

When you live more than three years in a place I suppose a decision needs to be made.  Basically, are you really living there?  That’s occurred to me a great deal lately.  Do I really live in Florence?  As I ask that, my cat Matilda who came here with me from LA is asleep by my side, I am looking at my living room walls covered with posters of the work created since I’ve lived here.  My “Ode-to-Andy-Warhol” installation of American products looks down from the top shelf…. I am, most definitely, ensconced.  But do I “live” here?  Is Florence my home?

Two days before New Year’s la mia banca (my bank) called me to tell me that the small bank transfer that was being made from a friend who I had loaned money to brought to their attention that my account was for residenti (residents) and not for straniere (foreigners) and that they would have to change my account immediatley.  Of course, I’ve been with them for three years - subito dopo arrivare (immediately after arriving) - and they are the ones that arranged the type of account for me.  That was back in the day when I was terrified of everything official…. and even non-official… in my new world.  I assumed they knew what they were doing.  Apparently they didn’t and I had to change the account which would mean a whole slew of things that I could not do with the new version which, after three years, and not really abiding any where other than Florence, would become quickly unnacceptable.  So, what could I do?

I decided to become a resident.

Now, that’s not such a big thing I guess for some people.  It’s not like saying “I decided to become a citizen.”  Although, for me, it feels a bit like that.  It’s a formal declaration (my appointment is tomorrow at 9:10) that you LIVE in Florence Italy.  That this is where you ARE and you are not somewhere ELSE.  That you have your cat (or two) here, build a life here, pay taxes (when you work).  And all of that, of course, is true.  Florence is where I have my life currently.  Not the states.  Florence is where I express myself, where I seem to learn more about myself in warp-speed than ever I did in the calm waters of LA therapy sessions.  Or, of course, maybe it was those oceanic journies which allow me to learn so much so quickly here in “Floville” as my friend calls it.

“I am a resident of Floville.”  That could sound nice.  That has a ring to it.

But to live here…. to truly live here… a great deal is missing for that to be the case for me.

First — there are about seven boxes of my life in two garages, one in Burbank and one in Reisterstown, which hold the things most precious to me.  They are not here on Via Ghibellina.  Why I wonder?  I tell myself it’s because I don’t trust the Italian postal service to get them to me safely.  And, that is absolutely true, I don’t.  But I could put these things in suitcases…. and bring them over bit by bit or send them with friends.

Two — I work too hard here.  That’s not what Italy is about you know.  No American in their right mind comes to Italy to work.  You come to Italy to live “la bella vita” (the beautiful life).  Let your crazy American friends back in the states do all the work… here the wine is good and the cheese incredible.

Three — I have no love life.  There I said it.  It’s confirmed for all to read.  I could have a love life, of sorts.  But that of course is more of a sex life, or a life of being desired which - believe it or not - is not enough from the wrong person anymore.   When I arrived, it might have been fun to play with Fabio the waiter who I have nothing in common with other than his wanting me (which I did for a while), or Pasquale who still leers with hunger from his pizzeria when I pass or Marco who would, sadly, give anything if I would just come back to his bar for a cappuccino someday soon (I stopped going when I realized how truly in love with me he is and it can NOT be returned).  It’s not that i think having a love life consitutes living in a place.  It’s just that I think it opens aspects of a place which allows you to experience it differently.  I’d like to try that for a bit if I’m going to be a resident.

Which, I suppose by 9:30 tomorrow morning I will become.  It’s amazing how simple it is to do.  I wonder if that could be a theme for this next year and the next three years of living in Florence — ease.  A bit of it would be nice.  As well as a nice piece of Pecorino Fresco (fresh Pecorino cheese) and a glass of Vernaccio from San Gimignano (a GREAT local white you should try it!).  Oh, and what the heck…. a kind, fun man sitting next to me on the sofa who is looking at the newly arrived box of memories of my past which I brought back from my trip to the states……

why not live the fantasy?

New resident of Florence signing out.

Un bacio grande,

Bari