Ooh - blisters.
Being that yesterday was a self-proclaimed day of sloth, ambivalence (read: weather sucked donkey balls), and much nappage, the weather this morning returned to its previous state of fabulous and dragged me outside by my ponytail. Two and 1/2 hours later, I noticed the old running shoes are protesting my attempt to make them last just one more month. C'mon, Asics, man up, you can do it!
You know where I went - out of ca**o central's crush of humanity, across the river, and above the city. Breathing space. Quiet. Nothing but runners, walkers, older people, dogs, and the most beautiful views of this gorgeous city. One would never guess, looking at the mother ship (Duomo, aka my back yard) from San Mineato that the streets were a cesspool of tourism on steroids. I linger longer and longer these days, loving Florence, but not wanting to return to the center ... and the hordes.
NOTE: Living central is fantastic the first time you live here - getting your bearings, vicinity to the station, shops, schools, etc. Honestly, the whole time I've lived here I believed I had the best location, especially for going out at night - all and all - pretty safe. Lesson learned, however, for next time. Next time? Hell yes, I said next time! There's going to be a next time! I absolutely adore it here in the fall, winter, and, well, like I said before, spring is bullshit everywhere you go - so might as well be here. What will I do? Study the language, read, write, travel around the rest of Italy ... experience ... stuff.
I returned to that park, that bench, that sunny spot, and actually laid in the sun for little while listening to my latest obsession, Franco Battiato. You know the drill - I stumble (sometimes literally) across something new to me, explore it, exploit it to pieces until the next addiction. Same as Nutella. Same as the cheese. Same as all things Sicilian (food, wine, literature, history, landscape). Oh, and guess what? Signor Battiato is Sicilian. I didn't know this when I posted a link to La Stagione Dell'Amore to my facebook page the other night. I had fallen asleep on the sofa watching an old Italian film and woke up to a beautiful "unplugged" version on some TV show. My Palermitana friend informed me that he was Sicilian; the next day, he was in my iPod.
Today I was the stupidina ragazza Americana, fully blissed out, face to the sun, 1/2 dancing my way down the steps of Piazzale Michelangelo singing along with a beautiful version of L'Animale, "Vivere non e difficile ... hmmm... some more words ... cambierei molte cose un po' di leggerezza e di
stupidita...some words here and there ... l'animale che mi porto dentro non mi fa vivere
felice mai ... si prende tutto anche il caffè mi rende schiavo delle mie passioni ..." My God. Uncle. Ya got me.
I like that he sings slowly, clearly - I can understand the words (and yay!) - but still trying to fully digest the translation. I hit replay a couple more times - thinking, "What the hell? Such a beautiful song! Is he singing about ... an animal that takes everything including his coffee?" Wait - a slave to his passions. Got it. So, no animal is drinking his coffee. Phew. That's a lot of passion for a mooch pooch. Check. I hit replay again. He's singing about, I think, his internal "animal" that consumes him (fueled by coffee - like the rest of us, I suppose) - and because of this, one will never be fully happy, even if you are next to him thinking things could be different...something like that.
I doubled my distance today just to stay with him outside of the city, in the sun, as long as I could. You see why I'm determined to understand this beautiful language, the music, the literature? I can sing along (apologies if you were in the vicinity), know the "words" but the way he sings this? I want to fully grasp what he's putting out there. Maybe I never will. Maybe I'll always feel like I'm outside the window, nose pressed against the glass, looking in, but I'm at least seeing it - feeling ... something ... whatever ... including the blisters.
Being that yesterday was a self-proclaimed day of sloth, ambivalence (read: weather sucked donkey balls), and much nappage, the weather this morning returned to its previous state of fabulous and dragged me outside by my ponytail. Two and 1/2 hours later, I noticed the old running shoes are protesting my attempt to make them last just one more month. C'mon, Asics, man up, you can do it!
You know where I went - out of ca**o central's crush of humanity, across the river, and above the city. Breathing space. Quiet. Nothing but runners, walkers, older people, dogs, and the most beautiful views of this gorgeous city. One would never guess, looking at the mother ship (Duomo, aka my back yard) from San Mineato that the streets were a cesspool of tourism on steroids. I linger longer and longer these days, loving Florence, but not wanting to return to the center ... and the hordes.
NOTE: Living central is fantastic the first time you live here - getting your bearings, vicinity to the station, shops, schools, etc. Honestly, the whole time I've lived here I believed I had the best location, especially for going out at night - all and all - pretty safe. Lesson learned, however, for next time. Next time? Hell yes, I said next time! There's going to be a next time! I absolutely adore it here in the fall, winter, and, well, like I said before, spring is bullshit everywhere you go - so might as well be here. What will I do? Study the language, read, write, travel around the rest of Italy ... experience ... stuff.
I returned to that park, that bench, that sunny spot, and actually laid in the sun for little while listening to my latest obsession, Franco Battiato. You know the drill - I stumble (sometimes literally) across something new to me, explore it, exploit it to pieces until the next addiction. Same as Nutella. Same as the cheese. Same as all things Sicilian (food, wine, literature, history, landscape). Oh, and guess what? Signor Battiato is Sicilian. I didn't know this when I posted a link to La Stagione Dell'Amore to my facebook page the other night. I had fallen asleep on the sofa watching an old Italian film and woke up to a beautiful "unplugged" version on some TV show. My Palermitana friend informed me that he was Sicilian; the next day, he was in my iPod.
Today I was the stupidina ragazza Americana, fully blissed out, face to the sun, 1/2 dancing my way down the steps of Piazzale Michelangelo singing along with a beautiful version of L'Animale, "Vivere non e difficile ... hmmm... some more words ... cambierei molte cose un po' di leggerezza e di
stupidita...some words here and there ... l'animale che mi porto dentro non mi fa vivere
felice mai ... si prende tutto anche il caffè mi rende schiavo delle mie passioni ..." My God. Uncle. Ya got me.
I like that he sings slowly, clearly - I can understand the words (and yay!) - but still trying to fully digest the translation. I hit replay a couple more times - thinking, "What the hell? Such a beautiful song! Is he singing about ... an animal that takes everything including his coffee?" Wait - a slave to his passions. Got it. So, no animal is drinking his coffee. Phew. That's a lot of passion for a mooch pooch. Check. I hit replay again. He's singing about, I think, his internal "animal" that consumes him (fueled by coffee - like the rest of us, I suppose) - and because of this, one will never be fully happy, even if you are next to him thinking things could be different...something like that.
I doubled my distance today just to stay with him outside of the city, in the sun, as long as I could. You see why I'm determined to understand this beautiful language, the music, the literature? I can sing along (apologies if you were in the vicinity), know the "words" but the way he sings this? I want to fully grasp what he's putting out there. Maybe I never will. Maybe I'll always feel like I'm outside the window, nose pressed against the glass, looking in, but I'm at least seeing it - feeling ... something ... whatever ... including the blisters.
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All entries are strictly observations from my point of view. This blog is not intended as professional commentary on travel, wine, food, or any other subjects I discuss - it is for entertainment, an online journal, for my friends, family, and anyone interested in my stories or journey in general.
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