I long, as every human being does, to be at home wherever I find myself. - Maya Angelou

I've moved! In the interest of saving a little bit of money, I transferred to the little apartment in the Tuscan hills with Gabriele for these two months. Talk about an adventure!

Siena, the city I studied and lived in on my other sojourns to Italy, is right nearby, but I'm settling in here about 20 minutes away in a much smaller town. First up was the chore of finding some space for me and my stuff in this little apartment. We stretched our imaginations and abilities, and G transformed a shelving unit into an awesome hanging space for some old clothing for potential costume parties... Some adjustments and sacrifices were made by both parties, quite willingly, although the timely finding of this article made some moments almost comical.

But now that that's worked out, my sights have been set on getting to know this little town. It's fairly small, but there's plenty for me to explore. Where do I get a hair cut? Found a new hair dresser! Where can I buy the best quality fruit and veggies? In under two weeks, I've already been there three times. Where can I find a replacement part for the sink? Discovered that store, too. Going about trying to make acquaintances in a new place is hard sometimes, but by now I should be a pro, right?

Mostly, I get around by bike. Luckily my dear friend Linda left me her bike in Florence, which also got some tender loving care from my handy man. Going around Florence was rough though between the cobblestones and crazy drivers. Here things are a lot easier, so I don't mind going to the edge of the town, even if I look like the weirdo on the bike. Plus, I'm learning quickly how the streets flow together and how to get from one part of town to another, which will certainly comes in handy for my driving lessons.

Yup, I'm learning how to drive, again thanks to G. Of course I have my license in the US, but I never knew how to drive a standard manual shift. In order to get around here where automatic cars are difficult to find, I'm learning how to juggle a clutch, "joy stick," and hand brake. After an amount of time in deserted parking lots, I've made it to the roads in short periods of time. Working my way up, slowly but surely.

So far my only friend in our little town is our next door neighbor, Signora Adriana. For now we mostly talk about the weather and her family, but she now remembers my name so things are looking up. Plus I'm hatching a few plans in my head on how to make some more. Sometimes I feel like that makes me creepy, but I know you all have done that some time. Don't lie! Yet a few times I've met someone new only to be greeted with something along the lines of "I've heard talk about you." Certainly not the most settling thing to hear. Considering that, to my knowledge, I am increasing the town's population of United States citizens by 100%, I am assuming that's my preceding reputation, but with this being my first time living in a small town, I can only imagine what's to come.

The best day so far was a few days ago, August 10, La Notte di San Lorenzo. The Night of the Shooting Stars! When G came home from work, we made a delicious picnic of Mexican food (new recipes!), resourcefully using the black beans and bell peppers left over from other dinners. Cooking time was spent singing and dancing to some sweet tunes and then out into the countryside to eat, to drink, and to watch the stars. I definitely won on sightings, wracking in somewhere around 20 in a couple of hours. We talked and sang and talked some more. G protected me from unknown animals. We had a blast.

All in all, it's everyday life here and that's all I have to report for now about my new home. Above's a picture I took, without editing, on the way home one day. It's hard not to love something so beautiful. Keep checking back for updates!

Today is the day.

Today is July 30th.

Today is the day several months revolved around: the day I would leave Italy again.

I've blogged a lot about my life decisions, revelations, and changes here, so I figured why not add a few more? And so the story begins:

My Fulbright year could be defined in many ways, but as I reflected the most fitting word is "challenge," be it referring to both the stand taller with a puffed chest type and the "am-I-ever-going-to-get-through-this?" moments. There was challenge everywhere. Challenge in my work. Challenge in my personal life. Challenge in my path to know myself. Challenge in living on another continent. I realized, maybe later than some or just in a different way, that growing up is hard. There are lots of things to do, many more than could ever be done in one lifetime, and so with that comes priorities and hard life choices. And that became my biggest challenge.

Among the series of challenges I fell into or created for myself, I started to doubt the plans I had set. Who knows why, but it was like a slow developing bacteria. A serious talk with a friend, a family member, or an acquaintance now and then grew in number and emotion. Soon attacks came more frequently and were stronger. My resolve strengthened and imploded on itself so often that I started to doubt my whole person and that, above all, made me unhappy. The only thing I could gather was that something had to change. So I took off the cruise control and pulled off the road to look at the map. My route had to change.

So then in May I emailed the professor at Western Washington University and informed her that I would no longer be attending the Experimental Psychology program. It was one of the hardest decisions I've made to date because it meant saying goodbye to something I still found interest in, but just wasn't a priority. The fear of making the "wrong" decision filled me with anxiety because WWU was an atmosphere and a setting that I wanted, that I had worked towards. Alas, I had found in my reflection more of a desire to add to community planning or policy change than I did to grow within an academic environment. Some work here in Florence with a conference called Diversi. E Allora? (Different. So what?) really enlightened that area inside my consciousness.

After that, I realized that I had to get to work. I have student loans to pay, after all. Which brings us to another more humiliating thing to admit: after all of this time, my project still isn't done. I got lost in theory. I made my life harder. I stumbled over my ideas and got discouraged instead of cleaning them up. I wanted so much and then didn't know how to ask for help. I could skip out of town or buckle down and make things work. In reflection I realized how much I had learned reading and not, interviewing and not, writing and not. This time with some real help from Gabriele--the person who knows best how to give it to me straight... in the nicest way possible, I recognized how much of a shame to my experience and a general disappointment to myself it would be to not complete a project. Plus I would feel so much better citing things I had learned from a finished product at job interviews.

And so today is the day I didn't leave Italy again. At least for now.

If there is a purgatory, this is it.

Today I went to the post office. I've talked a lot about the post office because it's a place no one really visits while being here for a short period of time, and, well, they are really Italian. At my particular branch you enter and take a number from one of three sections (finances, where you pay bills among other things signified with the letter "A"; banking, because the Italian post office also has a bank system, which have the letter "F"; and sending, for, you know, doing normal post office things, which is accompanied by the letter "P"). When I usually go, it's always a toss up what I'm going to find, but I'm usually pretty sure it's going to be a wait. If I'm both lucky and go at really unpopular times like early during lunch time or Friday evening, I usually only have to wait for 15 minutes. Tops I've been there for 45+ minutes before being called. Trips usually lean more towards the side of eternity than not. Usually I bring a book or my journal. Often I tweet. Anything to pass the time.

Today I went around 6pm. I'd never been there at that hour and thought I'd pass by. If there were too many people, I figured I'd head there tomorrow. I scan the room and find about 5 people waiting. I go to take a number. Of course there was a choice to make. Do I take an A for the bill I had to pay, or a P for the letter I had to send? Most times I take both, but I started with A244 and found that on the list of numbers recently called my number there was A243 making mine next up. I sat myself down without getting a second number. At least the place is one of the few here that has good air conditioning. People, it's hot here.

Anyway, the time stamp on my ticket was 17:55/5:55. Around 18:15/6:15 some girl jumps toward an open counter to ask if any A's will be called. P134. P135. P136. The woman sitting next to me had P137. She came in at 17:52/5:52. Apparently in this office they mostly pull numbers by order of arrival, but that's not always the case. Certain counters have certain functions. They can do it all, but they don't. Then there are people who jump the line. Why? Because they have something "urgent" or they just have a "quick question" that turns into being helped. After all, we are still in Italy.

So finally at 18:23/6:23 my number is called. Everyone with an A number behind me is saying "Finally, we're moving." I offer my bill to pay and ask if I can also get a stamp. She said of course. I take out my cash and she asks me if I'm paying my 75 euro water bill in cash or using a bank card. I tried once using the bank card, but apparently they discriminate about that, too. I didn't have this tiny design on the back so I had to withdraw from the ATM outside. "Cash," I reply.

In the meantime, a man walks up and asks if he can have the bag. "All of it?" she whispers. "Yes, I'll take all of it." He isn't an official. I don't know who he is. The woman goes in the back room, comes back with a medium sized shopping bag from a retail store. They start talking about lawyers and contracts. I white noise them because I don't want to be privy to any information I shouldn't be. Six minutes pass in this hushed conversation. The man walks away.

The woman returns to my aid, printing out the postage for the letter. I wrote down the address exactly as my friend had given it to me. Apparently I missed something he didn't write.

The woman asked me, "This is going to Holland, right?"
"No," I said quietly, trying not to avert the other clients, "it's going to Afghanistan."
"What?"
I clear my voice and raise it half a decibel. "This letter is for a soldier in Afghanistan."
"But the state isn't written!" she exclaims.
"Va bene. Okay. I can write it. Or I can just take it back and ask him again. Either way."

Maybe she didn't hear that last part. I'm not sure what happened, but the next thing I know this woman he got up and went to the two other women with clients and is "asking" what she should do. But really this asking is more like complaining. And she's doing it very loudly. I can feel everyone's eyes on me. Especially the other A's. My cheeks get hot. Despite the cool atmosphere, sweat starts to appear on my hands. A real Italian would have turned to someone nearby and pleaded their case. I can't even turn around to face the A's. I purposely don't pay attention to the words they are saying, a skill I now realize that I have clearly perfected. I hate that Italians seek to publicly shame, but it's part of their way. Especially postal workers. I think it's a job requirement.

After another two minutes in which her colleagues scream their advice and commiserate with her about just how impossible it is to send a letter without a state, she explains to me that this letter cannot, in fact, be sent if the state to which it is being sent is not known.

"But I know where it's going. It's going to Afghanistan."
"Oh." She pauses. "And this address in the corner of the letter is yours?" she says while pointing to the address of the street around the corner, followed by "Firenze, Italia."
"Sì." I say. "That is me."
"Ah, well, we didn't understand each other."

Yeah, something like that...

A Masterpiece.

In my search of integration, I have gotten obsessed with learning about the kitschiest parts of Italian culture and recently I was introduced to some of the very best of the worst best that I just had to share it with y'all.


I decided this post needed to be written while Lindsey and Chris were visiting from Pescara. We went to a restaurant and I heard what is possibly one of my favortie Italian songs of all time: Insieme by Mina. In all honesty, months ago I wouldn't say that Mina belonged in this category. She is a wonderful artist with an amazing voice. And I'm such a fan of the lyrics on top of it all. My German friend Linda gave me some of her music and I went through periods where I would play it non-stop. Her hit Parole, Parole, Parole will really get stuck in my head sometimes, but in the good way. While talking over these songs with Gabriele, he finally showed me some of her performances on YouTube. I can't believe I had never thought to watch her before. I'd say she certainly knows how to work a camera. But the strangest part is that at some point she decided not to make any more appearances on television after a huge success there. What a character! I consider her along the Barbra Streisand persuasion, maybe because they are contemporaries with strong pipes.


Gabriele caught on to my enthusiasm for early 70s Italian music and reintroduced me to Raffaella Carrà. I had first heard one of her songs a few months back at a private concert by Pilar, which ended in a wonderfully amusing scene between the sweet voiced Pilar and the host of the concert dancing. The dance happened because the song she sang is called Tuca Tuca and is accompanied with a dance I'd consider a more intimate version of the macarena. Gabriele explained that this song was often played at school dances when he was in middle school (which just made me giggle a lot). Turns out Raffaella is a gay international symbol a la Madonna as a dancer with catchy songs that are popular not only in Italy but also Spain, Brazil, Greece, Russia, and elsewhere. She was also in trouble back in the day with the Vatican because she was the first womanin Italy to ever show her belly button on television! Che scandolo! Anyway, after hours of more clips, I knew I wanted to share a bit with you, but this video sealed the deal. Ladies and Gentlemen: Raffaella on the tour of Italy in Tanti Auguri. A masterpiece.

Say "duty" five times fast.

I have far too many things to write about that are greater adventures, but I wanted to tell a fun little story here for two reasons: 1. To remember it myself; 2. To give you all a chance into my daily life.

The theme of this story centers around the blunders one learns while learning to speak Italian.

As most of you know, today is election day in North Carolina for some primaries and a really big issue known as Amendment 1. Because I feel strongly about this issue and am even more aware of my citizenship while living abroad, I made sure to do my civil duty and get my absentee ballot. Not having a printer, I've had to visit the cartoleria, or paper shop, to do all of my printing, faxing, and scanning.

In years (let's be real, months) in the past, I was so insecure with speaking to strangers that this would have been a near-impossible task. Speaking to unknown people involves spontaneous changes in conversation, unknown words, and sometimes impatience and even bigotry. Plus my need to be right always put a damper on chatting with someone new. But after all this time here, I've mostly gotten over all of that. Some people are just not going to have the will to talk to a straniera like me.

Thankfully, though, the young and older man that work in my local paper store aren't like that at all. I've gone in about 7 times since October to handle paperwork, and although we had never had a conversation before yesterday, they were always patient and kind with me. So I walk in the store tranquillamente with my pen drive, ask for them to print a document, and say I'd like to fill it out and then I need to scan it. Both of these men jumped back a bit so I insisted that it'd be really quick, but then I needed to scan this document.

The young man took my pen drive, printed out my ballot, and I stepped to the side to fill it out while he helped someone else. When I finished, I handed over the papers to the young man and he went to the fax machine. I pointed to the scanner and said, "Excuse me, I wanted--" to which the older man interrupted, "Yes, I remember," and the young man laughed, excusing himself for forgetting. Great customer service, right?

I thought so, too. Then I got a whopping dose of humility with a language lesson:

Old man: You know why I remember you wanted a scan?
Me: No, why is that?
Old man: Because you wanted to use the word scannerizzare but said scannare.
Me: Oh, excuse me, you're right....
Old man: Do you know what scannare means? (He chuckles.)
Me: No, what does it mean?

At this point I'm getting nervous thinking of all the things I could have said.

Then the old man takes a pen in hand and holds it up to his neck, demonstrating how I wanted to skewer slaughter really quickly after having my document printed. Cue laughter and blushing. Remember that great customer service? The young man insisted it was okay. I decided his job must be really tough since he admitted it's difficult for him to hear the difference between "sheet" and, well, some other word starting with "sh" and ending with "t."