A MESSAGE FOR YOUR TIRE FOOD

I’m in Paris with my newly-intrepid daughter Bree.Her experience backpacking through Europe, has transformed this once reserved, homebody, into the adventurous woman I see before me today.  A woman who believes anything in life is possible…. IF, you are willing to take the leap of faith required to face  ones inner-most fears.  My youngest daughter is formulating a plan to live in Barcelona, regardless of her somewhat reserved character, limited Spanish, and the daunting task of relocating to a country with minimal job prospects, her steadfast determination persists. (motherly pride oozes from every pore)

Our dual purpose of converging in Paris will be threefold: ONE, to discuss her options, TWO, receive guidance, THREE, to explore this incandescent city.  What could possibly top all that???  How about a bizarre incident with a French waiter!

We begin our second day, shopping in the 1st Arrondissement (the district around the Louvre).  After an extensive hunt for Aveda hair products, (isn’t that what everyone does in Paris?), we settle into one of  the many outdoor cafés along the engaging, Rue de Rivoli.

We delight in the quintessential bowl of French Onion Soup, chaperoned by a crispy baguette, and a glass of fine French wine.  Bree has insisted on paying for lunch, so while she waits for the bill, I excuse myself to search out our waiter to; #1 – have him write up our bill,  and #2- inquire as to the locating of the ladies room.  As with many Parisian men in the service industry, our somewhat annoying waiter comes complete with: tailored white shirt, black vest, form fitting pants, coiffured hair, steel blue eyes, and an overly confident demeanour.  Considering “le garçon” has scarcely attended to us during our lunch, he’s now making direct, intense, and excessive eye contact, all the while pointing to a spiral staircase, where I presume the toilets are located.  In addition, he adds the following comment in fractured english.  ”If you please Madame, I have a message for your tire food“.  Puzzled, I request clarification, he repeats, ”I have a message for your tire food”.  I’m confused, and quite frankly, simply want the bill, and the bathroom, I really don’t care what he’s trying to say.  I point in the direction of my daughter, indicating she will be taking care of the bill.  He nods with perceived understanding, bows his head graciously, and states once again, “I have a message for your food madame, après”.   I grow weary of his peculiar attempt to engage my food in conversation.  I remove myself from this little tête-à-tête, by winding my way down the stairs to the ladies room below.  It’s quite possible, his English is worse than my Italian.

Upon exiting the facilities, le garçon is waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase.  He reaches for my hand, and as he does, I pull my arm away, making my way past him to the first rung of stairs. He smiles, and motions for me to take a seat in the chair to his right.

You may consider this strange, however, for me, when visiting a foreign country, if I don’t necessarily understand the customs, I’ll, at times, simply go with the flow.  With hesitation, and I admit intrigue, I lower myself onto the chair, all the while maintaining a prudent eye on the customers & staff, to my left at the top of the stairs.

He inquires after my comfortable level, then lowers himself on one knee, he tenderly lifts my foot, then attempts to remove my sandal.  It would seem he wants to “massage my tired foot”  not  ”message my tire food“.   

I resist his efforts, however he assures me, with a gentle voice, and an oh so delicate, and surprisingly respectful hand, that he merely wants to “message my tire food”…. to tell you the truth my “tire food” could use a messaged.  I actually look around expecting to find Alan Funt from Candid Camera, hiding in a corner, ready to reveal the classic tag-line from the TV show I watched in my childhood…. “smile, your on candid camera”.    Ok, now is where it gets really weird…. he proclaims, “your ‘food’ is beautiful”,  and in that moment he raises my “food” to his lips, and kisses my tired, dusty, and I suspect slightly stinky “food”.

He then request a kiss….. I reply with a definite… NO !!!  However, at this point, I’ve  splintered into laugher…. confusing my laughter for demur consent, he leans forward with one hand on my shin, and the other on my ‘food’, he leans in for the kiss. (same lips that just kissed my foot, and I know where that foot’s been walking)  I turn my lips from his overly familiar advance, at which time he modifies his approach, he kisses my cheek, when I resist further, he retreats, without fan-fair.  He’s remarkably non-pulsed by my resistance, as a matter of fact, he’s rather calm, he expertly slips my sandal back on, then helps me to my feet.

Could he possibly pull this stunt on a daily basis?  Do women actually fall for this?  Have I seriously just come face to foot with a full blown foot-fetish?  Does foot-fetishism include; fatigued, non-pedicured, size 8, not overly attractive, Canadian feet?He’s unfazed as he directs me, without conversation, to the table where my daughter sits relaxed, and untroubled, enjoying the activity on this engaging street in central Paris.   Before I regale my daughter with this “message” vs ”massage” incident, I interlock my arm in hers, as we walk toward our shared afternoon at the Musée du Louvre, enjoying the company of, Mona Lisa, Venus de Milo, and inverted pyramids.  With one final glance behind me, I spot our waiter as he casually clears our table, a look of passive contentment settled on his face, with a nonchalant raise of his eyebrow, he winks, and smiles in our direction.

Only in Paris….

Eiffel Tower at dusk… La Tour Eiffel

Tuileries Garden – Jardin des Tuileries

 Paris in Springtime

Mona Lisa

La Vénus de Milo

ROASTED TOMATO SAUCE

                                              BASIC ROASTED TOMATO SAUCE  

INGREDIENTS                                                                                                                                24-30 Organic Roma Tomatoes (depending on the size of Roma)                                        24-30 Garlic Cloves                                                                                                                           3 Tlbs. Olive Oil                                                                                                                                  1 Tlbs. Ground Pepper                                                                                                                       1 tsp. Salt                                                                                                                                             7 Tlbs. Fresh Basil (3 Tlbs. dried)                                                                                                   3 Tlbs. Fresh Rosemary (1 Tlbs. dried)                                                                                           1 Tlbs. dried Oregano

METHOD                                                                                                                                       *Throughly wash & rinse tomatoes (I use a vegetable wash with Dr. Bronner’s castile soap)

*Place in a large baking dish with sides ~ glass 5″x 10″x 2″ (12.7 x 25.4 x 5.1/cm)         *Peel garlic cloves ~ **if cloves are large, cut in half                                                    *Remove core of tomato, allowing just enough space for a garlic clove~save and use cut-out core as it adds extra flavour to your sauce

*Insert clove into tomato, until flush with tomato

*Drizzle evenly with olive oil, and sprinkle with salt & pepper (omit salt, if on a sodium reduced diet)

*Bake @375F (190C) 4-6 hrs. until dark brown ~ convection oven 2-3 hrs @375 (190C)

*Remove from oven, cool slightly  (I allow mine to cool completely, transfer to large pot, blend, re-heat, ‘then’ add my fresh herbs)  However did that glass of vino end up on my cutting board?*Blend tomatoes, garlic and all liquid, using mix-master, blender, or hand blender (use caution if tomatoes are hot, as they burn skin on contact)                     If I had it to do over, I’d purchase a steel hand blender, not plastic!!!

*Season with herbs of your choice, or leave plain, then seasoning when ready to use.

*For sauce with a little Spice: add 1 – 4 tsp. of dried red chilli peppers. (depending on your idea of heat)

VERSATILE                                                                                                                                        *AN EXCELLENT SIMPLE SAUCE FOR, PASTA, CANNELLONI, SAUCEY MEATBALLS, or ANY SAUCE BASED MEAL.                                                                                                           *Simply add your choice of sliced & sautéed vegetables eg. onions, celery, red/yellow/green pepper, mushrooms, zuccini… whatever you have on hand, or in season *Meat lovers add: sliced chicken, ground beef, pork, veal, lamb, mild or spicy sausage

STORAGE                                                                                                                                          *I prefer canning in glass jars 1-2 & 4 cups, for later use. (keeps for up to a year)    *freezes well, in individual 1-2 or 4 cup glass jars, or zip-lock bags.                     *refrigerate up to 5 days.

 

 

DID I JUST SAY THAT???

I’ve had my fair share of amusing circumstances learning a new language.  On numerous occasions, I’ve chuckled at my/or my friends, mix-ups, while translating our respective languages. 

Six of my All-Time Favourite bloopers:

#6 ~ One sweltering summer day, I arranged two separate get togethers with 2 friends, Irenna, and Gia.  First off, I met Irenna for lunch, in the centre of Florence, at Palazzo Strozzi.  The Palazzo is an ideal location to have lunch, on a blistering August afternoon.  The restaurant spills into the open-air courtyard, with protection from the intense rays of summer in Tuscany.  We enjoyed garden-fresh salad, & chilled vino.  To reach my 2nd engagement on time, I cycled to Gia’s, for a tour of her ancestral home, AND Gia’s legendary, iced cappuccino.  After a scorching 15 min bike ride, in +39 degrees, I discovered, to my dread, the elevator was out-of-order.  An unavoidable five-story climb, inside a roasting marble stairwell, had me sweltering, upon entering her Villa.  The ever gracious Gia, handed me a refreshing glass of lemon water, and a monogrammed linen napkin, to dab my face & neck.  She suggested, (in Italian), that I was more than welcome to have a dessert, before she showed me around the Villa.   (In my broken Italian) I declined her kind offer, explaining that I’d shared a dessert with Irenna, at the restaurant, in Palazzo Strozzi.  Gia stared at me in amazement, repeating my statement, turning it into a question.  You and Irenna had a dessert, AT the restaurant?   After a confused exchange, we realized, that I was using the word SHOWER, thinking it meant DESSERT.  No, I did not have a shower, with my friend, in the restaurant at Palazzo Strozzi, after a glass of crisp white wine, & caprese salad.                                                                                                                               SHOWER =”DOCCIA” vs DESERT =”DOLCE”

#5 ~ My landlady, Federica, invited me for dinner, and as was our custom, she included me in the preparation of her flavourful recipes.  That night, she described the main ingredient in the dish was in-season, and proudly announced she was preparing:         “Pasta with Garbage” !!!  Before I had an opportunity to react, she corrected herself saying, “No-No-No, not  ”Pasta with Garbage”,   “Pasta with Black-Garbage”.  My eyes widened, and an astonished look came over my face.  She clarified the main ingredient, a 2nd and then 3rd time:  ”B-L-A-C-K    G-A-R-B-A-G-E !!   Clearly, I was not reacting how she had hoped…. Federica motioned me into the kitchen to “show” me the star ingredient of her feast.  She pointed to the “BLACK KALE” in the sink,                                                                                                not the “BLACK GARBAGE” under the sink.

#4 ~ While out for dinner with friends, I removed my scarf, setting it on the floor, beside my chair.  Realizing once we were at our next destination, that I’d forgotten my scarf, I asked, in my best Italian,  if we could swing past the restaurant, on our way home, to retrieve the item.  My Italian friend, and the driver of the car, was amazed that I’d removed it, and somehow left it beside my chair… he was obviously perplexed, and with an awkward laugh, asked me, “WHY did you remove it in the first place???”  I shrugged my shoulders, replying, “it was warm in the room !”  I thought to myself, good grief what a strange question, do Italians never remove their scarves, was it rude of me to do so in a restaurant?  With obvious confusion, he consented, and we returned to the ‘scene of the crime’.  As he emerged from the restaurant, with my scarf in hand, he was chucking, and now understood the mix-up.   His bewildered reaction made sense now!  My erroneous translation was as follows: “I removed my ”shoes” and left them beside my chair”.                                SHOES =”SCARPE” vs  SCARF =”SCIARPA”
#3 ~ I was having a conversation, in English, at a dinner party, with the Italian host.  He spoke of his family, his daughter, and the quiet life he now lives, in Florence.  Our conversation progressed to his occupation, he explained that he was an antique dealer, however had not been working for the past 3 years.  He sold his antique store in town, as he was retarded.  When my eyes widened, and I stifled a grin, he stopped mid-sentence, with a disclaimer; “I said that wrong didn’t I?  I often get those two words mixed-up.”  RETIRED vs RETARDED

#2 ~ I was invited to dinner at the previous residence where I’d lived, when I first arrived in Florence.  The owners had become friends, so it was always a joy to return.  On this particular evening, my daughters were with me, and I was regaling how I decided to renamed the room I lived in, and loved for 2 months, from their adopted name of, “The Deco Room” (referencing Parisian Style Art-Deco decor) to my version of simply, “Shauna’s Room”.  I’d been taking pictures of everyone at the party, and inadvertently left my camera behind.  (there seems to be a pattern of forgetting things)Two days passed before I realized it was missing.  I recored the following message on Federica’s answering machine, in my broken Italian: ”My camera is on the side-board in your dinning room… I’ll come pick it up tomorrow!”  She returned my call, in total confusion, as to what I was coming to pick-up.  In translating my message to her, I’d mistakenly recored: “I left my ‘room’ on your dinning table hutch, I’ll stop-by tomorrow, and collect my ‘room’!                                     ROOM =”CAMERA”  vs  CAMERA =”MACCHINA-FOTOGRAFICA” 

#1 ~ I’m a lover of Italy’s unique bread, I drizzle it with olive oil, and a sprinkle of salt.  It’s a addiction, and I indulge whenever I can.  I often order a second piece, when out for meals.  In bakeries, in Italy, (unlike the Canadian term, a loaf of bread), a clerk stands behind the counter, asks you the size of piece you would like, cuts if from an oversized loaf, and wraps it for you.  When locals order from a bakery, they either give a measurement, or indicate visually with two hands, how many inches/cm, they require for that day.  To keep things simple, I’d say, “bread please”, and give the appropriate hand gesture.  I tried to imitate how locals ordered their bread, and it confused me as to why I seemed to get the ordering part wrong…every blinkin time.  One afternoon, while studying my English/Italian dictionary, I discovered this latest translation disaster:  For months, I’d confused the word bread for penis.  I’d been ordering “this much penis please, OR  may I have one more inch of penis”  as I would invariably hold up two hands, indicating the size I wanted.  Often, male waiters would asked me to repeat myself, nod, turn around, and laugh, as they walked away.  It became clear why, at my local corner bakery, when I entered the store, the baker would call her father over, and he’d personally take my order. He was always grinning when asisting me.  She must have decided to give the old man his thrill for the day, with the clueless Canadian….                                                                 BREAD = “PANE”  vs PENIS = “PENE”

EVERYONE SMILES IN THE SAME LANGUAGE

Reblogged from italianliving1:

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It’s been a busy few weeks… below, the condensed version of my life of late:

#1) I move to my own apartment, it’s just one block from the river.  In 10-minutes-flat, I unpack everything I own.  The apartment is furnished with the following: three kitchen tables, (no idea why), seven kitchen chairs, three of which, I personally reclaimed from the side of the road, one hutch, one dresser, two “

Read more… 871 more words

My Easter Celebration a year ago !!

GUESS WHO’S COMING TO DINNER

Two of my daughters arrive this evening for a visit.  The oldest will be apart from her husband for the first time since they were married, and my youngest is embarking on a trek through, Italy, Greece, Germany and Spain….after our 10 day Family Reunion here in Tuscany that is.  Elation fills my heart at the thought of wrapping my arms around my girls, and as an added bonus, introducing them to my beloved Florence.  All three of my children have supported my decision to move here, allowing me the flexibility to follow my dreams, free of the futile, and often absorbing… mothers-guilt.  (yes, I know my children are all adults, however…. mothers-guilt/worry/responsibility, does not miraculously vanish when they turn 18… dagnabbit!!) 

In anticipation of their arrival, I’ve stocked the fridge, arranged flowers throughout the apartment, outlined a flexible itinerary of locations to visit, cuisine to savour, and experiences for the three of us to share.  As for tonight, after 18 hours of gruelling intercontinental travel, I’ll offer them two choices for dinner;  sparkling Prosecco, accompanied by a light Caprese salad, consisting of fresh buffalo mozzarella, vine ripened tomatoes, basil and olive oil,

OR, if they’re famished, a full-bodied vino, with hand-made (not by me) mouthwatering Ravioli topped with pesto, pane (bread) drizzled in olive oil, and a sampling of dark chocolate for desert.  After dinner, if they are up for it, a stroll along the river to stretch their legs before bed.

I can’t imagine they’ll be interested in partaking in the nightlife after an exhausting travel day.  Then again, I’m a mother…. a full belly, and a good nights sleep, is the cure for everything!

Any self-respecting Family Reunion in Tuscany wouldn’t be complete without trips to Siena, Venice and possibly Rome.  As for meeting my newfound Italian Family, my friend Monica, has arranged an afternoon get together on Saturday.  Federica, my original landlady, is throwing a ‘Welcome to Italy’ dinner Wednesday evening, at the residence I lived at, when I first arrived in Italy, Residenza del Palmerino.  If that were not enough, friends from Siena will join us next Sunday, with their two young children, for brunch in the centre of Florence.  My heart is full !!

With everything in order in my apartment, I strike-out for the station.  As if on cue, the twinkling lights of Florence flood the evening sky, sparkling just in time to greet my daughters.  In typical mother fashion, I arrive a-vee-bit early, and of course their train is a-vee-bit late.  I anxiously, sit then pace ~ sit then pace, for 73 minutes… up and down the Stations crowded walkways….

If you enjoy people watching, a busy train-statin in Europe, is the place to be.  Like ants in an overturned ant-hill, life, and motion erupt within this bustling transportation hub.  Normally, one or two trains arrive at once, tonight however, five trains from across Italy and Europe, arrive simultaneously.  The vibration originates beneath your feet, then encompasses your body at its core.  The sight, sound, and aroma, of five trains rumbling forward almost in unison, fill the cavernous building.  The emerging metal structures displace the still air with their heavy, humid exhalation.  The rugged scent of steel, oil, and diesel fuel, mix with the thunderous energy enveloping the previously deserted tracks.  Within seconds, the platform swarms with unrestrained passengers.  Locals, at the end of their work day, intent on making it home for dinner.  Disoriented tourists struggling to hoist overpacked bags, down steep, uneven trains steps.  Backpackers, slinging life-sized knapsacks across tired shoulders.  The merging sounds of wheels from, suitcases, strollers, carts, wheel-chairs, and bicycles, ADD to what could only be described as orchestrated mayhem.  A jumble of diverse languages echo off the tiled walls, ceilings, and floors of this energetic building.  As my eyes scan the mass of people….. I suddenly spot my two beautiful daughters standing at the end of platform #1.   

An excited squeal escapes my lips, as I bolt towards them…..                                                Our Italian Family Reunion begins !!

CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR…

I believe the moment you allow someone into your life, they leave an impression on your world, be it positive or negative… it’s YOUR prerogative, how that impact is felt in your life.

I possess a deep affection for Italy, and a sentimental appreciation of the Authentic Italian Experience, be it through cuisine, friendships, or circumstances.  Previously, I wrote a story introducing my shy Italian neighbour entitled; A Dance In Piazzale Michelangelo.  I detailed a first date, (a dance of sorts) one glorious spring day, atop the famous Florence landmark, Piazzale Michelangelo.

As per readers requests for more information on “the romance“… what follows is my Authentic Italian Experience:

Spring afternoons melted cordially into the tranquility of an Italian summer.  We enjoyed idyllic walks down cobbled streets, gelato under starlit skies, afternoon bike rides, outdoor music festivals with friends, scenic drives through the countryside, dinners by candlelight, and moments of shared laughter due to mis-communication, attributed to our limited understanding of one another’s native language.

Now I admit, this all sounds like a script composed for Hollywood.  I seized the opportunity to participate in the quintessential Italian Romance, complete with a handsome Italian,  designer shoes, dark sunglasses, Armani sweaters, tousled hair blowing in the warm Italian breeze, whilst driving a two-seater-convertable. (what is it they say about things that seem too good to be true???)

Being pragmatic about the relationship, I understood it to be a lovely spring ~ summer romance.  The duration, scarcely a whisper past the blooming Wisteria of Florence.

My eternally optimistic nature presumed he would remain an enduring, albeit distant memory, dissolving like the summer sun over the Tuscan hills. (makes it all sound so carefree doesn’t it!)

Fast forward to the fall ~ insert reality aka Real-life into this charming Tuscan-Scenario.

Real-life, or at least my experience with it, rarely plays itself out as carefree as on the silver-screen.  Picture if you will, as the oscar winning director cues the music, an overpaid, B-list actress, (portraying my cheesy character), runs through a field of sunflowers, wearing a flowing cream dress….  (normally the script would call for a flowing white dress… however, being the proverbial; redheaded, pale-faced, speckled, Irish-Scottish-Canadian~~ the cream-coloured dress would drastically reduces the cameras glare off pasty white skin)

Join me now, as I recount Real-life… no need for imaginary movie scripts here:             #1~ I receive a heart wrenching email from a despondent woman.                               #2~she introduces herself as the Real-life & long-term (4 years) girlfriend of the man in my blog post,  A Dance In Piazzale Michelangelo.                                              #3~remarkably, she’s discovered my sentimental pros on this blog, complete with his first name and picture. (ironically, he eagerly granted me permission to use his real name and picture)                                                                                                                        #4~ he is in fact, the identical, hand holding, bike riding, gelato under the stars, two-timing, snake in the grass. (oops was that my outside voice?)                                          #5~If that wasn’t enough of a shock, she informs me, while he was dating both of us, he was dating two, count em’  TWO other ladies…. that’s a grand total of FOUR women at the same…..blinking…..time!!!  How’s that for a healthy dose of  Real-life?

Fortunately for me, Mr. Flim-Flam Man, was no longer in my life, had not been for some months……..You’re going to appreciate, and I suspect, see the humour, in the reasons I ended our spring/summer romance.                                                                                     #1~he canceled plans, using ‘flimsy’ last-minute excuses                                                 #2~had mysterious ‘business‘ calls at odd hours. (he’s a jeweller for Gods sake, not an international spy)                                                                                                                    #3~my personal favourite… he was tired 24-7.  (no sh#t Sherlock!!)

Initially, I justified these excuses believing it was due to our language barrier, our age difference, our culture differences, his overbearing Italian mother, his brothers impending divorce…..blah-blah-blah.  After two months, his theatrics became all together too much drama for me!  Output vs Input, simply did not compute.  We parted on friendly terms.

Little did I know how much drama was actually going on behind those charming, a.k.a., ‘exhausted‘ eyes, he cleverly concealed with designer sunglasses…..

Fast-Forward to Real-life… I emailed him with this blunt decree; “NEVER contact me EVER…don’t call me, text me, email me, or so much as glance in my direction!!! (did I mention I have the blood of the Irish coursing through my veins?)  Personally I think he got off lucky with me… I’m a reasonable woman, I let the little reptile live…. as far as I know he’s still able to father children.  Unless of course, one of the other woman dealt him a deserving sentence.

I have passing thoughts; Whatever became of the woman who contacted me?  Did she forgive him?  Was she so invested in the relationship, she overlooked his infidelities, remaining with him in the misguided belief he would miraculously change?  I’ll never know what she decided, that’s her dance now, her Real-life.

My current Real-life Authentic Italian Experiences is SUBLIME, it continues in full Technicolor.  Remaining filled with; star-lit-nights, double-scooped gelato savoured on sunlit afternoons, bike rides over cobbled streets, and sunsets in Piazzale Michelangelo, solo, or shared with friends.  The reality of this beautiful city is all I require, Florence prevails larger and louder than any romantic movie could ever portray, real or imagined.

There’s an old saying I used to quote to my kids… “be careful what you wish for…. you may just get it”

I wished for an Authentic Italian Experience.  Can’t complain when you get exactly what you wish for now, can you?  I’ll refine my wishes from now on, be a little more specific in the asking…..

***(If you reread my two stories on “Dancing”… You’ll note I’ve changed the “characters”  real name, and deleted his picture.  Mainly to protect the privacy of the woman who emailed me…. I do not wish cause her further pain or embarrassment)***

SHOPPING…NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART

~  In my opinion, Italy produces the finest clothing, shoes, and handbags.  Then again, I’m  a ‘weeeee-bit’ biased.

~ If one wishes to browse, or purchase, these exquisitely designed items, one must tolerate the occasional ~ domineering-Italian-sales-clerk.

~ Distinctive characteristics of this belladonna;  5′-1″ tall, black hair, chocolate-brown eyes, flawless olive skin, unparalleled personal style, AND… attitude up the wazoo!!

~ In my experience, you have one-shot at receiving outstanding service from this pint-sized Totalitarian.  It all rests on the ensemble you pieced together that morning.  If you miscalculated, and wore the: ”CLEARLY-you-are-NOT-from-ITALY”, outfit… I have to warn you, you WILL be punished.  That punishment will come in one of three forms; the perfectly timed eye-roll,  a single raised eyebrow,  or my personal favourite, the exasperated ‘sigh’ released from pursed red lips. (on a slow day, expect all three)

Walk with me now, into a high-end Italian boutique.  Thick glass doors encased in an olive-wood frame ~ honed travertine floors ~ the alluring aroma of spun-silk wafting through the air.  As your foot crosses the threshold, you are scrutinized by discerning eyes; they commence at your hairline, move seamlessly down your left side, pause briefly on your footwear, and terminate in the vicinity of your right shoulder.  Amazingly, she never makes direct eye contact.  If your chosen attire is meet with approval, her salutation, although bored, is sincere…. In contrast, if you’ve broken the Cardinal-Dress-Code-Rule, a disapproving, “buongiorno”,  is casually tossed in your general direction, laced with a side of intolerance.

(You feel about as welcome as you would if you’d pushed your way, ‘uninvited’, into a strangers home, sat at their kitchen table, helped yourself to pasta & vino, then belched in Nonnas’ face…. (nonna=grandmother in Italian)

The sales clerks steely gaze speaks volumes: “You…. want to come in here…. dressed like that?”

Assuming you dare proceed past the frosty glare, she’ll chaperone you at a distance of 3ft., as you browse the merchandise.  Summon the audacity to disturb a hanger, or God forbid, actually touch the apparel, within seconds of your hand leaving the item, she will proceed to; re-fold, re-hang, or re-arrange the erroneous mayhem you’ve apparently caused.  My all time favourite sales-clerk-diva reaction; after I slowed down to glance at a display of sweaters, she walked over to the undisturbed stack, smoothed them down, then patted them gently….as if to convey to the sweaters, “it’s ok, you’re safe, she’s leaving soon!!!”

I must admit when I first moved here, it took me a few attempts at shopping Italian-Style, before I realized, these clerks are merely a form of the schoolyard bully dressed in Versace.  I notice when I, (a) stand my ground, (b) ignore their impossibly close proximity, or (c) carry on, nonplussed, with my intended shopping…. they become weary of me, retreating to their respective corners, and wait on my eventual departure.

This morning, I find myself face to face, with a worthy sales-clerk adversary.  I routinely go for a Monday morning bike-ride.  I love Mondays as they are quiet in Florence, most stores are closed until mid-afternoon.  Today, I happened upon a boutique I’d always admired.  The lights on, a sales-clerk busy in the doorway, all signs pointing towards ‘open for business’.  As I enter the boutique, I find myself face to face with a miniature Mussolini, sweeping the threshold.  I sense she knows I’m standing in front of her, yet she does her best to ignore me.  I inquire politely if the store is open, and in place of an answer, she turns her face and left shoulder… ever so slightly to the right, allowing me barely enough room to pass.  In the face of such blatant disrespect, my tenacity to shop here intensifies.  I squeeze past her tiny frame, and to my delight, the boutique is filled with clothing that matches my personal taste & style.  Enthusiastically, I launch into what can only be described as a fitting-frenzy.  Conservatively, I try on 80% of the merchandise.  Initially, she’s reluctant to assist me, her every attempt at intimidation is in vain as I’m on a shopping-mission.  It takes her 45 minutes to acquiesce, and actually participate in her job.  We proceed full steam ahead with operation clothe Shauna, and she is phenomenal!

Two hours, 15 outfits, and a memorable morning later, she is sharing her favourite locations to buy quality shoes, the number for her hair-stylist, and tips on haggling with street vendors.

With shopping bags brimming from the basket of my bike, I leisurely pedal the cobbled street.  I turn toward the sound of a voice… to my surprise and delight, she’s standing in the doorway of her boutique, smiling and waving, and her warm Italian “Arrivederci” echos through the narrow passage!

I did not arrive in a Ferrari, dripping in Fendi, however, this petite Bella-Donna proved to me once again…… this IS the amazing, and hospitable country, I know and love.

If Italy puts on a frosty-facade at times…look deeper, it’s well worth the effort.

A RUN ALONG THE ARNO

My day begins at dawn with a run along the River Arno.  My language teacher and dear friend Monica requested I listen to Italian music whenever possible, so  I have reluctantly added an iPod to my morning run. I must admit I’m an iPod snob and have looked at ‘those people’ with little white buds stuffed in their ears with judgment.  “Why not embrace your natural surroundings?”  Today I concede that the allure of singer Eros Ramazzotti, filling my head with his romantic melodies, has dissolved my longstanding iPod boycott.  Magnifying this Utopian state is the mystique of Brunelleschi’s Duomo, greeting me affectionately from across the glassy waters of the Arno.

The River Arno is shouldered by a rock wall that seems to urge individuals to lean against, sit upon, or embrace a loved one along its idyllic and sturdy borders.  The obliging, yet at times temperamental river, was in Medieval times, the main mode of transportation for the Cloth Merchants who colonized Florence.  In recent history,  The Arno silently spilled her banks in the early hours of November 1966, disrupting the harmonious lives of the inhabitants of this Renaissance city.  The flood destroyed countless paintings, collapsed massive statues, damaged historical documents, and left irreplaceable artifacts virtually unrecognizable.

Today, however, The Arno dances as if expressly for me in the citrus light of sunrise in Florence.  It welcomes natives, visitors, and temporary transplants, like myself, who have fallen in love with the rhythm and shape of this passionate city.  The Arno’s allure is enticing as she ambles past historical buildings, private homes, and legendary bridges lovingly built by skilled tradesmen.

She seems affectionate and unflustered today, chaperoning my eyes to the glistening reflection of the sun caught in the tiny ripples of her hushed exterior.  A sleek boat pass silently, less than 10’ from the wall, carrying four chiseled athletes.  The teams identical oars, skim Arnos serene facade for a single weightless second, scarcely enough time to discern the silky stream of water gracefully relinquishing its hold on the painted blades; the droplets linger expectantly between oar and river for one glorious moment, then disappear into Arnos nurturing embrace.  Ribbons of ripples dissolve into the shimmering waters as the Scullers vanish between the bridge supports.

The sun caresses the nape of my neck, urging me forward to one of my favorite destinations… ‘Pointe Vecchio’ (Old Bridge).  Its familiar stone arches, topped with miniature buildings, are reflected in the river’s calm facade.  Playful hints of yellow, cream and burnt orange drench the buildings that line this graceful River.  I feel intoxicated with appreciation and admiration for this moment of my life.

I approach the almost deserted Pointe Vecchio, the oldest and most famous of bridges in Florence.  Charming jewelry shops adorn the bridge with individually carved wooden shutters that have lined this famous crossing since the 13th century.

On any given day, this lively ‘must see’ attraction brims with retailers,  lingering in storefronts that are bursting at the seams with jewelry both new and vintage.  Skilled Jewelers work within the confines of these microscopic boutiques, wedged together like Lego on this legendary bridge.  In addition, a multitude of artisans offer their etched drawings, musicians entertain enthusiastically, and the classic wheeled carts of Florence are laden with souvenirs.  Most days, you’ll find the local beggar woman, dressed in quirky layered clothing, her unmistakable voice that has the quality of sandpaper on rusted metal, her petite frame moving with the crowd, shaking her worn paper cup into the faces of unsuspecting tourists.  I must admit, on more than one occasion this little dynamo has frightened the bejesus out of me.

Adding to the curious spectacle of locals, you’ll find countless exhausted tourist, overburdened with parcels, cumbersome guidebooks, oversized cameras dangling from strained necks, as they stand fascinated, (in the middle of traffic) by the spectacle playing out before them.

Gratefully, at this early hour, only sporadic local Florentines inhabit the bridge.  My preferred encounters are with the boisterous street cleaners, as they eagerly sweep this historical crossing with brooms that look as ancient as the bridge itself.  These handmade working tools are constructed of thick straw, tied at the base with twine.  The handles themselves seem magical and romantic, with their well-worn contours, used for sweeping and or leaning against. The untroubled workers sweep and chat amongst themselves, occasionally pausing with a smile and heartfelt ‘buongiorno’, greeting locals strolling to work, or runners like myself, on the seemingly endless quest for improved physical fitness.  These men have no need for such rituals; they stay in shape by actually working throughout the day. What a novel idea!

As I cross Pointe Vecchio, the tip of Duomo peeks over the buildings ahead, and I marvel once again at its beauty and architectural wonder.  As I run beneath the 17 graceful arches of the Covered Walkway, built by Vasari, my pace naturally quickens.  To my left stands the Uffizi Gallery, poised for the tourists who will soon queue beside her doors: her visitors anxious to linger in the halls, pass through rooms filled with world-renowned collections of paintings and sculptures that are proudly displayed behind this artful edifice referred to as Uffizi.  On my right the River Arno, and directly ahead, the elegant hills that surround Florence.  A sigh escapes my lips, I know my time in Florence is limited, but my heart lives along this river, on her bridges, and within the dignified walls of the majestic city I call home.

As I climb the stairs to my apartment, I realize my morning run has not exhausted me; quite the contrary, my step is light and filled with the enthusiasm of a teenager.  The reflection that greets me in the mirror in my apartment reveals the maturity of a woman, yet somewhere behind the lines that trace my face, a youthful girl resides.  I’m refreshed by the morning air, my run, these spectacular surroundings, and the freedom that comes with following ones bliss.

Remarkably, each day that greets me in this city gives me the sensation that life has just begun.

Perhaps it has……

THE PRICE OF INDEPENDENCE

Today I purchased a shiny new bicycle.  This fills me with independence: independence from breaking down, independence from failing breaks, independence from chains that slip and fall off in traffic.  Up until yesterday, I cherished my old blue bike, however it rattled to a halt halfway up a bridge, leaving me stranded, and walking home in the dark for thirty minutes.

This gleaming new bicycle is not only practical, it fills me with a secret pride… there are few things as memorable as a new bicycle !!

This morning riding along the streets of Florence, I’m reminded of my very first bicycle as a young girl.  A banana bike with a red seat, and silver fenders.

In addition, it stirs a memory of the hours teaching my own daughters how to ride a two-wheeler.  The letting go….  Permitting them to ride away from the shelter of my arms.

A recollection that prompts me to consider my own independence, this new life in Italy, the choices I’ve made, the unfamiliar road ahead…..

Recall if you will the day your parents hand let go of the bicycle-seat, and you rode a bicycle without assistance for the very first time!!

Think back to how your fingers fit perfectly into the groves of the sturdy rubber handles.  How tightly your hands gripped, bracing against the unknown, refusing to let go, to give up.  The breeze adding to the thrill as it gusts across your face in perfect unison.  Excitement and angst toward this newfound independence.  The quiver in the front wheel as you turn your head to look behind you, amazed you are actually riding on your own, keenly aware of the distance between you and your parents.  The smile on their faces as they watch you ride away, their one hand raised in a wave, the other clenched in fear for your safe return.

Quite unexpectedly you are now the one in charge.  Every move you make is a choice.  Glancing back is no longer a sensible option.  Looking forward is the safest course of action.  By peddling harder, you make it up the hill.  Breaking softly keeps you steady.  Swing to the left, you risk riding into traffic.  Wobble too far right, strike the curb.  Stay the course, and you’re further from home.  Further from the strong safe hands that hold you upright, giving you direction, offering sound advice…. shielding you from harm.

If you refuse to remove the training wheels, you’ll never experience the thrill of that first autonomous ride.

What should you do?

You have a choice…. stand next to the curb OR experience the adrenaline rush of a solo ride….the excitement of a new adventure….achieving it on your own…these choices demand independence.

An irritating requirement of independence is that you must become independent!!!

A DANCE IN PIAZZALE MICHELANGELO (part 2)

(part 2)

It feels like an hour passes before he makes his second bold move.  He reaches up and touches my hair, I feel my entire body tense.  He smiles at my reaction and remarks in half-English half-Italian: “Io…. like….. capelli rossi!”. (translation) “I like red hair!”  He seems oddly fascinated by my hair, I can’t tell if it’s because of the conditioner or the fact he has never been on a date with a foreigner, let alone a red-headed one. With every calming stroke of my highly conditioned hair, I eventually relax and allow him to share his personal story.  In four weeks it will be his fortieth birthday.  He reaches into his pocket, retrieves his cell phone, and introduces me to his life through pictures.  His smile grows tender as he looks at a picture of his niece, who is clearly the light of his life.  The next photo was taken with his father & brother on a recent skiing vacation.  I thank him for sharing his family memories understanding their significance to him.

As our eyes lock, and he holds my gaze the intoxicating  scent of Jasmine surrounds us.  He brushes the hair from my face, my greasy hair day all but forgotten.  Lost in the romance and not wishing the spell to be broken, I enjoy this moment while still holding steadfast to my first date rule, I have no intention of contributing further to Piazzale Michelangelo’s famed reputation of melting the will of even the strongest of women.  On the other hand a little voice in the back of my mind is gaining strength asking me “what’s the harm of a little kiss anyway?”  YES-NO-YES-NO… damn this city, this Piazzale, how is a woman expected to resist, with this view, the Jasmine, the gentle unhurried afternoon.

We sit quietly as the sun warms our arms and faces.  He’s wearing a light sweater & jeans in contrast to my cotton dress and sandals.  Is seems Florentines rarely dress in the casual fashion we North Americans adopt once the Italian sun heats the hills of Tuscany.  His hand caresses my shoulder for what seems like an eternity as I watch the light reflecting off the Duomo in the distance.  The imaginary dance between us becomes an old-fasion waltz and I’m lost in a vision of Floriten life of a century ago.  How many lovers have sat on this very spot with their wicker picnic baskets and white parasols, admiring the awe inspiring view of Florence?  The silence between us is comfortable, inviting and natural.

Raising his hand to my cheek he gently angles my face towards his. Tenderly tracing my lips with his finger he raises my chin with one seamless movement……My resolve evaporates and is carried away on the breeze that cools my neck on this perfect spring day.

Arrrggghhhh what the hell Shauna, you’re in Italy!  Go on, kiss the adorable Italian!

I’ll leave the rest to your imagination…..

By chance, were you wondering how I discover once and for all if his name is Riccardo or Alessandro?  I could blame the conditioner or the view or the intoxicating scent of Jasmine in the air, or simply being caught up in the moment.  The fact is I whispered the wrong name into his ear that afternoon.  You may well ask why I even attempted it?  I have no answer to that question.  After an awkward explanation, and an emphatic apology,  Riccardo smiles a charming smile, and forgives my blunder.  As we walked home, shared laughter rang out, arms intwined, and secure in the knowledge that tomorrow brings a new day.  Our journey begins…continues…unfolds.