Italy Part II: Florence

So although I flew into Bologna, my classes began and ended in Florence. My quick take on this city: incredibly beautiful architecture and scenery, full of culture and history, but also pretty chock full of tourists (we were there in peak season) and people speaking English. But I really did love everything I saw and ate there. Here are pictures of that remarkable city! 

The Basilica della Santissima Annunziata

This was the first piazza (or town square) we visited - Piazza della SS Annunziata - this is a statue of a Medici noble - one of many around Florence. Notice the view of the Duomo!

Florence's main cathedral - Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore (Brunelleschi's Duomo di Firenze) completed in 1436. You can see the Baptistery of St. John in front is undergoing construction...as you might imagine in these old cities, repairs and restorations were everywhere you looked.

Piazza della Repubblica

A bronze model of the city in Piazza della Repubblica

And from above...can you spot the bronze model from the above picture?


Monument erected by Donatello in 1431 at the crossing of the Thistle and Decuman, two main roads from the Roman period.

Piazza del San Marco

Palazzo Pitti

These are all around town - cast iron rings used for centuries to tether horses. 

One of many evidences of WWII bombing. 

The entryway of one of the noble Florentine family homes. Descendants still occupy upper levels and rent out the ground level as storefront property.

Geeeelaaaaato...

My roommate Taylor and I on the steps of the Uffizi gallery - home to a multitude of Italian masterpieces.

A beautiful Michelangelo - see placard below

 "Annunciation" - Leonardo da Vinci's earliest complete work, completed while still an apprentice for Verrocchio. 

"The Birth of Venus" by Botticelli

Snapped this picture of the Ponte Vecchio (Old Bridge) from the third story of the Uffizi. This is the only bridge Hitler did not destroy when he blitzed through Florence. 

Mmm...like a sparkling lemonade.

This is the Palazzo Vecchio (Old Palace) - the heart of political and civic affairs in Florence.

And inside...

You'd never know I was a tourist.

The chalk artists were unbelievable.

Panoramic on the River Arno

Bust of Benvenuto Cellini (famous goldsmith, sculptor, soldier and musician) on the Ponte Vecchio.

So after a walking tour of Florence, lunch, gelato and the Uffizi Gallery, my class dispersed. We had a few hours before dinner, and I considered how best to spend them. I had an internal debate about spending the 10 Euro to see Michaelangelo's David. I'd just seen a replica outside the Palazzo Vecchio, but I heard the replicas were no comparison. My friend Amanda and I were lucky enough to secure tickets (thanks to our sweet classmate) to the Galleria dell'Accademia where David is housed, along with other paintings, instruments, and sculputures. 

We saw many Stradivari's...

This is the father of all pianos.

The Accademia was once a literal academy. Those little black dots are tiny nails hammered into the plaster to act as reference points for students.

But the main attraction was David. All the anticipation made my heart flutter when I turned the corner and caught sight of the 500-year old masterpiece for the first time.



For contrast's sake, here's the replica I'd seen earlier:



And here is the real thing:

I was blown away. Maybe it was the scale, or the way he was perched high in his own private rotunda, but I felt like I was meeting a celebrity who had earned every bit of his fame. Amidst so many other adoring fans, I marveled at the exquisite detail and contouring. Every tendon, muscle and vein.....somehow Michaelangelo created this stunningly lifelike figure out of a hunk of discarded marble.

There is a rounded bench that lines the wall behind him, and we just sat and absorbed the beauty. So grateful I chose to go! Here's to taking full advantage of our opportunities in any given place and time.

Italy Part I: Arrival

So - I studied abroad in Italy last month. It was amazing, and even though I've been an absentee blogger, there is so much to say and show. Things have been busy since coming home, and the giant paper I have to write has commandeered most of my free computer time. So. I'll just document the experience in parts. Here is part one - the first entry from my travel journal. I will post pictures soon!

June 9th

I stare out the plane window, then refocus on my solitary reflection. Am I a bad, selfish person for doing this? The decision had certainly not been rash. We thought and prayed about it for months, and felt a peace about my going. But two and a half weeks away from the boys sounds eternal....still, Italy has been my dream for so long, and this opportunity will never come around again. Knocking out two required classes with tuition covering room and board, getting to really see and experience this country's people and culture as more than a casual tourist...I would definitely regret not going more.

I peer down as we descend, and the thrill of a dream realized sweeps over me. There it sits sprawling: Italy. Ten minutes later, and the thrill was gone.

Inside the Bologna airport, the flood of Italian voices sounds foreign to my foreign ears. In an effort to withdraw euros, I approach an ATM only to have it spit my card out, inexplicably announcing it is not authorized to withdraw funds. Odd...I had notified my bank twice of this trip, and the card worked when I left. I try again with no luck. At the exchange counter I am able to ascertain that the sixty US dollars I have in my pocket would yield only thirty-seven euro - not even enough for a round trip train ticket to Florence - where I was to meet my classmates.

Perplexity turns to fear. We had not purchased an international cell phone plan (we planned to simply FaceTime in wi-fi for free), but I desperately needed to contact Andrew, contact my bank. I switched airplane mode off and that's when the messages from my family appear: my grandmother has just passed away. The sting of this unexpected news and the realization I have no way home to attend the funeral (the only real reunions we have in my family) brings unwelcome tears. I have no money, speak almost no Italian, and back home, my family members are beginning to die. There is no hope...I would be forced to live out my days in this airport.

I kneel on the dirty airport floor and say a prayer. I know this is a refining experience, an expected trial along the short sojourn of mortality. It will be okay...even if I don't know how. I stand and keep my head down as tears pool on the ground. I have to get it together - No one will help me if I look nuts.

I place some expensive phone calls and at length am able to withdraw cash. I still feel nervous and sad. The next hurdle is getting to Florence.

A placard at the information desk advertises a bus schedule and  it takes me a moment to realize 14:00 means 2:00. I check my watch - 1:45. The bus to Florence would be arriving in 15 minutes, and the woman working explains in broken English that the bus to Florence would be arriving in 15 minutes, “Out door, to left.”

I grab a bottle of water from an airport cafe, feeling grateful the short request is within my 10-word Italian vocabulary. As I make the exchange with the woman behind the counter, she returns my bright smile with a cloudy look. Had I irritated her? I stride toward the glass doors and forget everything as a bus speed past. My heart plummets - Could that have been mine?

On the crowded curb, I am welcomed by a thick haze of smoke billowing from too many mouths to count. I see a bus with people clustering around it. I try asking a woman next to me if this is the bus to the Florence station, but had too few words in common. I ask a man, who looks confused, but then nods, assuring me that this bus goes to the station. But the vehicle was dirty and impossibly crowded inside. Could Italians stand with their face in a stranger’s armpit for an hour and a half?

Unconvinced, I rush the opposite direction, although there is no bus in sight. It is 5 after 2:00 now, and I feel my panic start to rise. I stop another man who is more patient with my tragic Italian. He confidently points me around the corner, and as I turn it, feel joy at seeing a coach labeled “Firenze.” I melt into the seat, weak with relief.

Party in a Bowl

Five or so years ago, we attended a ward potluck. These were the happy days before I'd witnessed the kitchens on Hoarders: Buried Alive. Consuming food with unknown origins now induces mild to moderate anxiety. Maybe leaving a potluck with an empty stomach sounds stupid and prissy, but I guarantee I've ingested less pet hair.

Anyway, after spooning a colorful salsa on my plate, I took a bite and almost choked with delight. It was so fresh, the flavor so pleasant and complex....It was like a tiny Mexican angel had landed in my mouth and created a miracle. But my ecstasy ended in heartbreak: when I rushed back for seconds, the glass bowl was empty...I could deal with not having seconds, but a future without this salsa? Unbearable. I had to find the maiden to which this glass bowl belonged.

Fortunately, shameless, creepy gluttons tend to get to the bottom of these matters quickly. My good friend Anna had actually made the salsa and gladly shared the recipe (just an aside - recipes are made to be shared. If you are one of those withholders out there who wants to be the only one able to make your top secret, extra-special blah blah blah....stop being cray and just share, please).

When a recipe is both healthy and delicious, it gets put on repeat around here. We make this salsa probably once every couple of weeks in the summertime, and everyone loves it. It is great plain or with chips, and makes an excellent side dish. Everything in it is good for you, which makes it easy to enjoy responsibly. 

I think out West, they call similar dishes "Cowboy (or Texas) Caviar," but after its ultra-warm reception, Anna dubbed it "Hit of the Party Salsa". Hope you love it as much as we do!

Hit of the Party Salsa

4-5 tomatoes, seeded and diced
5 green onions, diced (we just wash and snip them straight in)
1 can corn, drained
1 can black beans, drained and rinsed
1 handful of cilantro, chopped
1 avocado, cubed
The juice of 1 lime
Garlic Salt to taste (but don't be shy!)

Combine all ingredients, adding the last three in order. Stir together and enjoy!

Getting Good

This past Winter was tough. It was as if Hell actually had frozen over, and we happened to live there. We'd had many detailed discussions about the different seasons with Asher, then Mother Nature sent snow in mid-April and made us look like big liars. Our little condo had long lost its luster for these active boys, so as soon as it hit 50 degrees, we took to the streets. Here are some pictures I snapped last month of our driveway shenanigans.  

 Asher oscillates between dressing as Jake the pirate and Superman. This was a Jake day, complete with plastic sword shoved down his pants.

Master P is getting a reputation for his mean stink faces. I worry about his future social life. When he actually smiles at a stranger it's like....wait. He's never smiled at a stranger. Anyway, don't let his little permascowl fool you - he loved his first cozy coupe experience! 

But taking turns is hard.

Asher and Dad broke out the t-ball set...

 But soon gave it up in favor of a little slow pitch.

 Making contact

Asher has actually begun hitting really well, and we are excited for him to be old enough to play coach pitch softball. Looking forward to that chapter of parenting when your kids play and perform while you watch on with deep pride (or perhaps deep embarrassment). 

Life is really getting good.

The Library: A Beguiling Farce

The library seems like a perfect place to take kids. The walls of colorfully illustrated books, train tables, puppet theater and children’s computers give you a thrill of excitement as you set out to explore with your little ones. You envision peaceful moments tucked away in some quiet nook, your child cuddled close on your lap, reading last year’s Caldecott Award winner and suppressing soft giggles.

You might discover, however, "booking it" means something entirely different to your child. Depending on their age and disposition, he or she may look past the puppet theater in favor of the long, open aisles. They will be faster than you, and you’ll find yourself hoping they trip and fall so you have a prayer of catching them. When you finally wrangle them onto your lap in an overstuffed armchair, insistent upon enriching their minds, they’ll writhe and wriggle like a fish on a hook, then tear the borrowed book as they break free. They’ll push another child as they run from you, then scream, flail, and finally go boneless as you drag them away. 

Your older child will whine about your abrupt departure, and drag their feet. As you round a corner ahead of them, they'll start panicking, believing you have finally made good on the "Okay, see ya later!" exit threat you've used too many times before. Now with two children crying, you make it to the door and in your haste, hit the handicap button with your elbow. Bad move. The children erupt with fresh wails: "BUT I WANTED TO PUSH THE BUTTON!!!!" 

You make it to the car and find children strapped to chairs never felt so right. Taking a deep breath, you think of all the alcoholic mothers out there and for a moment, completely understand. 

It all might not be such a crushing experience if it wasn't your primary goal of every day to teach these kids how to be good. Subtle signs indicate you are failing. But they'll get bigger, you'll keep trying, and they'll learn in time. At least, that's what you tell yourself. One of these days, we will check out books without contemplating checking in to an institution.

You win again this time, library. But - and don't ask me why - we'll be back.