Transports and Tuscan Terror

After drifting off to sleep in our new Florentine surroundings, we awoke the next morning to embark on our first guided tour adventure. We had selected a bike tour through the Tuscan hills surrounding Florence, specifically choosing this tour because it focused on a local winery. As we had had a thoroughly magical cycling vineyard spree through the Wachau Valley last year, my hopes were high that this tour would provide similar memories.

The weather was perfect, the young tour guide was cute, and we clambered into the van to take us outside the city brimming with excitement. That was of course until we started driving and I quickly realized that the van was more akin to a death mobile and I literally spent the entire length of the ride holding on for dear life. There were no functioning seat belts, the guide was whipping through the streets of Florence as if we were running from the law, and the back seat I was sharing with cousin and another girl literally lifted from the ground every time we hit a bump or rounded a corner. I sincerely believed the seat would go flying out the back of the van at any moment. There was also the moment when the van collided with a road barrier and the screeching sound reminded me of what I think the dark angels of satan might sound like.

At long last, we finally made it to our starting point but it took a few minutes to feel comfortable walking on firm ground once again. My spirits lifted as I breathed in the Tuscan air and feasted on the beautiful landscape, all rolling hills and picturesque vistas. I would soon find these hills much more akin to torture by incline but for now they remained serene. Over the next few hours we stopped at various points for beautiful photo opps, hit up a small local bodega were we got a brief snack and were able to replenish water. At this stage I was already beginning to feel small bursts of loathing toward the guide, as he insisted on rallying and motivating the team to roll up each and every painstaking hill, but with the result that he became much more of a big fat liar in his efforts. These hills were not at all easy to ride, every single member of the group had to walk their backs up certain inclines, and nothing about the landscape was enjoyable when you were fighting for your breath. In fact, the scary death can we rode to our starting point was following us the whole time in case anyone was over it and wanted to cruise about in the van instead. Deathmobile it may be but a tempted vehicle of terror more and more. Finally, we stopped at he winery we were all so anxious to see. It was beautiful and cultural, we saw some of e grounds and the barrels and heard a lot of great information.... But received no wine... I repeat... No. Wine. My resolve not to throw things at anyone in range was quickly melting away. And I have never once been mistaken for a person who remain quiet about their emotions, the tour guide was well aware that my patience was running thing.

When we reached our final "rest stop" and were told that the final stretch was super easy and we could all do it! I looked the guide in the eye, asked him to tell me the god's honest truth, and he finally conceded that it might still have a bit of steep incline before we got back to our original point way up top a hill. Without a moment's hesitation, I rolled my bike to the van, and climbed in with the other guide who knew just as much if not more of our surroundings than the other. I enjoyed the sun and the sights, and was soon joined by another of our team who was over it as well. As our van guide said, this is our vacation so why work so hard? Love the Italian mentality.

After what seems like eons or millennia or frankly parallel universe lifetimes, we got back to the meeting point and received our lunch and wine. Two wines, two tasting, and while the glasses were given a hefty pour, any further tastes required additional purchase. The lunch spread of meats and cheeses and various other treats was certainly adequate, but I was not at all happy with the overall value of our tour. Perhaps I was bring petulant (yes, duh) and perhaps with more training, those hills would have felt like rainbows gliding beneath our Pegasus wings. But while it was a gorgeous day with spectacular scenery, I wouldn't necessarily imbibe again.

Feasting, Flirtation & Florentine Widows

The best thing about taking train rides between cities is that it offers an often much needed respite from the exhaustion of travel and vacationing. Especially when you are two hot blonde (and currently single) cousins who don't allow a moment of waste. It proved to be a lovely train ride from Pisa to Firenze, and we didn't have too much trouble locating our little hotel once we arrived. Centrally located, a stone's throw from the historic Duomo, our resident dwelling for the next 2 days lived up to all the charms you would expect from a slightly more traditional city. We dragged our bags up two flights of stairs and were greeted by a rather large Italian women who was not at all well-versed in English, but more than familiar with a lifetime of cigarette smoke. She did her best to communicate, we took note of the sign above the desk that said no visitors allowed, and realized that we had definitely chosen an old-school boarding house run by a traditional Italian widow. This was made more abundantly clear when we layed eyes on our tiny little bed chamber with two itty bitty single beds and a standup shower in the bathroom that didn't always like to offer hot water. Hanging on the door were two bedsheets that we soon realized were actually towels, though how absorbant or effective they were remained to seen. Not to mention the fact that there was a lingering waft of smoke scent in the air and the jolly old woman could absolutely hear anything we said through the walls, whispered or otherwise. Still, nothing is better than a real peak into the heart of Italia and our location really couldn't be beat.

Our main event for the evening, after check-in and some time to primp, was a dinner reservation at a local restaurant. A student of mine in Paris had told me this place was affordable and possibly one of the best meals she had ever had. Sold! After wandering the streets a bit, we found the restaurant and were happily seated at an elegant looking table. We perused the menu for a spell, trying to figure out how on earth we would choose from all of the decadent looking offerings. Eventually, we decided to share several courses, allowing us the best opportunity to taste as much as we possibly could. Now, in Italy it seems that pretty much every restaurant demands a cover or table charge. I am not sure the reasoning for such a custom, though most places seem to make use of this fee by providing aperatifs or small appetizers, digestifs, or bread, etc... At this restaurant, all seemed to be included. While we waited for our bottle of wine we were each given a complimentary glass of prosecco, a basket of bread, and a plate of the most heavenly fried puffs of dough that I have ever had. For our first course, we ordered a sampler of charcuterie with various cheeses and spreads. We then had a pear and ricotta ravioli served with shredded almonds and chives. For our main course, we chose a pork dish that was roasted and crisped to perfection, accompanied by a literal mound of roasted potatoes. No no don't worry, we certainly weren't done there. Our charming and flirtatious Italian waiter coaxed us into the traditional tiramisu for dessert, with which we also received a complimentary limoncello and plate of biscotti. This particular waiter had grown very fond of my hot blonde cousin throughout our meal and managed to slip her a business card when I frolicked off to the bathroom. He was, however, our first introduction to the aggressive Italian spirit, making no secret of his desires, wants, needs, intentions and overall seductive flare. Too bad he couldn't play by the rules of these two hot blonde cousins who have long since established their travel laws of life and love. Besides which we had an early start the following morning and were very thoroughly enveloped in food coma by the time we found our beds that night. I am pretty sure the Italian landlordress was probably hiding behind our door ready to wave her holy cross if we considered any shenanigans anyway.

Listening, Looking and Leaning

After several weeks playing involuntary hooky from the blogosphere, I am finally returned in full force, ready to tell my epic tales of absurdity and adventure. To begin with, my most recent holiday to grand Italia.

First of all, I have what could be considered a rather unfortunate and irrational fear of flying.... As a rule, I exclusively worry about things I have approximately zero control over. Since a fear of the soaring skies has been passed down from my dear mother to my sisters and myself, I have only been able to temper it by an inherent thirst for travel. The destination is abundantly worth the effort, despite the fact that most of the flight is spent listening to the sounds of the engine to determine function and watching the nuanced facial expressions of the flight attendants to gage their level of calm versus panic. The recent German plane crash into the French alps did absolutely nothing to help, especially when we were casually flying over the same mountain range and I felt us flying precariously closer and closer to the great snowy peaks.

Needless to say, I made it to Pisa airport after an anxiety pill, a glass of wine at 8am, and less than two hours of fitful fretting. The good news is that I was able to have my first outstanding Italian cappuccino while waiting for my cousin at the airport, and the weather was so blissfully accomodating as we pranced through the streets, that all previous thoughts of catastrophic death soon went sailing away with the wind. We purposely chose to land in Pisa because it is notoriously cheaper to fly into that airport instead of Florence, which is only about an hour away. Pisa is also very much known for housing the infamous Leaning Tower and.... well, pretty much nothing else. Our plan was to see the rising landmark, feast on some afternoon Italian fare, then hop our train to Florence for our first night of fun.

I have in fact already been to Pisa, circa over ten years ago when I was studying abroad in London. My amazing friend who traveled with me is one of my oldest and best from college. We did the same thing at that time too, taking some shots of the building, then continuing on to the bigger city. Those pictures, however, are sitting somewhere in an old box in Connecticut, so I can't say I am disappointed to have a fresh set of photos to share. The day was bright and clear, infectious in its warmth. We took the obligatory pics of the tower, trying to hold up the leaning facade, trying to push it back into position, etc... The biggest challenge was actually trying to navigate around the dozens of other tourists vying for exactly the same shot. When we finally had our fill of the landscape, we made way to a restaurant my father recommended from when he was traveling through Italy. It was very conveniently located, good prices (one can always count on Travel Agent Dad to scout out the deals) and I was delighted to commence my Italian smorgasbord with a piping hot plate of gnocchi... and our first caraffe of wine.... followed by coffee... followed by gelato. This would essentially be our daily routine for the next week. Thank goodness for the vast amount of walking we would engage in over the following days or I sincerely believe we would have had to roll ourselves back home.

From there, we sauntered back to the train station where we collected our bags and awaited our transportation to the Renaissance capital of the world, Florence.

Lady Angela's Bohemian Etiquette

As I have mentioned in several posts previous, I sometimes attend a British Meetup group. I have been to a few midweek pub nights, and of course the infamous night when a handful of expats were cosmically fated to create a pub quiz and become champions of the night. This past Friday, however, was my first attempt at co-hosting a Meetup event. Though it is a British Meetup group, several of the organizers are from various other countries, so a delightful Frenchman asked me to be his Gal Friday for an early Saint Patrick's Day soiree. A Frenchman and an American girl hosting a British event for an Irish holiday. Yes and yes. Unfortunately, the event began at 8pm while I had to work until 8:30pm. Fortunately, however, the bar was a stone's throw from my job, just across the Champs Elysées. 

When I arrived at the pub, the party was already going strong, but would still be growing larger as the night sallied forth. The Frenchman gave me a Union Jack to tie around my arm in addition to a stamp I could smack down on anyone's hand for discounted drinks. I felt the power of authority rising through me immediately. Now, being a hostess means trying to mix and mingle and make sure everyone is having a good time. If this was 50 years or more ago I might consider the ideals of etiquette according to Emily Post. Instead, I decided to embrace the Bohemian ideals hailed by the timeless children of the revolution. And if we're taking a page out of Toulouse Lautrec's book (or maybe taking a color from his palette), that means alcohol. 

Now, it was never my intention to be a tipsytastic fool... It really never is... But as a hostess, I was adorably dressed, charming in manner, and therefore a beacon for free drinks. I had a nice little following of men creating an entourage for a while and at one point definitely decided that the Irish bartender was going to be my new best friend. I even ran into the Scottish douche bag I thought I had forever dispelled, and after calling him out on his past behaviour, we ended with overenthusiastic hugs and a promise of friendship. It was a banner evening for the Bohemian ideals, running free, looking beautiful, telling the truth in more ways than one, and effusing love to all. I was gracious, I was accomodating, I was bathing in attention, and I was absolutely absurd. While I doubt that Emily Post would have approved of me stumbling home in a late night Uber, I consider Lady Angela's rules of Bohemian Etiquette much more in tune with the Parisian, and in fact my own, spirit.

Think Like An American

For the past several months, my employment slash vaguely career-oriented path has taken a vastly optimistic turn. Back in November, I finally landed myself a job that fit the much-needed bill of not only working incredibly well with my bizarro world schedule, but also giving me a decent amount of money to boot. Since I am notoriously almost irreparably damaged when it comes to finances, having a consistent income could never be a bad thing. This job of which I brag and boast is at a school dedicated to English exam preparation, aka TOEFL, GMAT, SAT, etc... I currently teach the TOEFL, but have been slowly being considered for SAT, essay writing, and it looks like I will be captaining the currently flailing social media ship... taking the wheel and taking control, one might say. Prior to this job, I was doing my best to patchwork together enough private students to make a living... Epic. Fail. That being said, we live and learn and as is always the case with my dancing through glitter stars style of existence, when it rains it pours, good or bad.

The one double-edged sword about this job is that I have quickly fallen back into my old tendency to work like a fiend, at odd hours, nights, weekends, and all of the above. Now, the good news is that it allows me an enormous amount of flexibility, so I still attend French school (when so inclined), fit in a dance class, take guitar lessons, though I have many a creative brainwave making its way onto a nice long list of thoughts I need to manage my time well enough to actually conquer. My social life is also blooming again as the temperature rises and the sun begins to thaw, making my schedule even more incomprehensible. I'm also trying to fit in various forms of exercise, signed up for another 5k next month, but either have not nearly enough time to eat or want to gorge myself on anything edible. 

Now don't get me wrong, I am never ever happier than when my schedule is fit to bursting and I can enjoy the trials and tribulations of confidence, fulfillment, and a brain active enough to not create quite so many dramatic interpretations as normal. My head held high, I wander the streets aware of how lucky I am, how beautiful life can be, though also very much aware of how much more work there is to be done. The benefit of being raised in the United States, in a relatively privileged environment, and in a family with open enough minds and hearts to let me frolic the globe as I see fit is that I often really do believe that anything is possible. Perhaps naive, perhaps cliche, perhaps living in the fairy tale world I so often yearn for. I don't shield myself from tragedy or heartbreak or the realities lingering far closer to home than we can ever imagine. At the same time, it's not such a terrible thing to feel confident and productive, maybe work a bit too much, maybe speak a bit too loudly, maybe even feel I am right just a bit too often. 

Still, there are a great many times when I am working with one of my students and I see that their confidence is waning. They feel insecure about speaking in English or unsure about their future goals. It is much more common in the French culture to be trained in one career path that you follow till your dying days. An older country means that traditions are embedded that much more deeply. As a girl from the United States who has had a billion jobs, creative interests and life paths, sometimes changing daily, I don't see walls without immediately brainstorming ways to conquer them. And I certainly don't speak without doing it at a hefty decibel. When trying to get them through what can be a strange and trixy little English exam, I often tell them to go ahead and think like an American. For better or worse, own it, use it, fight for it, and never do it quietly.

Language Barrier Breakthrough

I haven't done language exchange in quite some time. If you have ever read my blog before, you know full well that this is an issue rife with ups and downs, pros and cons, moments of living in the moment seize the day sort of euphoria matched equally with moments of wait how did that just turn into a date with a married and/or in a relationship Frenchman? Needless to say, I go through phases of thinking this is a good way to practice my language skills often followed by phases of keeping an epic amount of distance. Why do I not make a larger effort to meet with other GIRLS for language exchange? An obvious question, to be sure. The answer includes reasons like the fact that females are a tricky breed, French females even more so, and frankly I have a billion female friends as it is. I am single, I am running around Europe, I am an obscene romantic, and I might as well indulge in a bit of male attention while practicing a language supposedly renowned for romance. One day there will be a man who thinks I am just that little bit extra special enough to make a princely gesture, fight through strange dwarfs or treacherous thickets and climb my blonde locks in pursuit of my shining soul. Until that day comes, I will do my very best not to technicolor myself into a Disney animated classic.

That being said, I once again became frustrated enough with learning French to seek out some rendezvous. I go to classes (sometimes) and use my 5-10 boring French phrases on a daily basis. But via the grammatically-centered French learning system in general, combined with the fact that I teach English every day, speak to most of my friends in English and can rarely shut up regardless, speaking is the most difficult of all. I therefore set up some meetings. Now, unbeknownst even to myself, I have apparently been learning more than I had thought over the past few weeks slash months slash years in France. Yesterday I met with a guy for an early evening drink and for whatever reason found myself engaging in French from the first moment, producing rapid repartee of a degree I was never aware existed in my current skill set. I have always known that starting the exchange in English is a ginormous no-no. Little did I realize, however, that beginning in French gave me a strange level of confidence that would persist throughout the meeting. I actually had a moment where I felt like it might be easier to explain what I meant in French rather than English... What the WHAT?! My brain normally rejects precision via the gallic tongue. Yet here I was, openly communicating in a language I normally want to guillotine right along side that crazy Marie Antoinette. Sorry girl, I love the dresses but so help me God if I have to consider gender specification for even one more second I might have to light Versailles on fire.

Not only that, but the following day I met with another gentleFrenchman, and found that this brand new phenomenon had prevailed. The weather was fine, the sun shining, the ripples à la Seine were flickering in the breeze as I made my way to a café with another guy I continued to word vomit to in brilliant français! Now let's be real, not at all brilliant. But I did manage to produce complete sentences without pause, making few grammatical errors, not stopping to consider what I was going to say and lasting more than 60 seconds at a time. Something clearly has clicked, my friends, something clearly has clicked. And while there is absolutely no way on Earth that this miracle of miracles will last for more than a shining star beacon day or two, I will embrace, I will brag, and I will wear that little lightbulb of spontaneous epiphany just as confidently as all the other cartoon creatures of the world... And I will wear it atop a sparkly pink beret!