The irreverent beeping of my alarm clock came far too early this morning. I was having such a pleasant dream. I can’t remember the details, but it was one of those dreams where nothing ludicrous happens so it seems super ultra real. I never wanted to leave the cozy world my subconscious created for me. That is until I realized where I was waking up. Italy. How easy it is to forget where one is, when one becomes integrated into one’s new world. I’ve even adjusted my eating schedule. Last night I had dinner at nine. Nine o’clock. Eating after Jeopardy? The world’s gone mad.
I feel the arms of the city taking me in and hugging me to its breast. The language is so enticing it’s hard not to “
Ciao” at everyone I pass on the streets. But there is one major difference between the city and I.
I am the elusive “morning person.” Now, you could assume with the world-renowned espressos and cappuccinos Italy collectively is a morning people. Far from it. In fact, you would be hard pressed to find a caffé opened before ten a.m. It’s a simple case of supply and demand. Italians don’t wake up until noon, why would any respectable caffé owner?
When the city sleeps peaceful, I wander and really take it all in. There’s no hustle and bustle of tourist buying knock off designer bags. No Italian man cat-calling American girls. No vespas whizzing by. And while Italy is not known for its subdued nature, there is a tranquility in the hush of the city streets.
My first class this morning was The Holocaust and the Christian Response. The title is very misleading it’s more a history of Jews in Italy and Italy during World War II. My professor took us down to the
Piazza della Repubblica where the old Jewish Ghetto was. In the center of the city there used to be an enclosed community. The idea of the ghetto is a tough one to swallow for anyone, but what I can’t understand is that in a city gleaming with art and culture why it would force a group of people, who had nothing but to add to the cities already booming metropolis, to remain within specific confines. Hitler actually took the idea of the ghetto from the Italians. The first official Jewish ghetto was in Venice, but after the embarrassment of World War II, the Florentines stripped the city of the ghetto history. There’s no trace to be found other than a lone Latin inscription on the wall of the Orsanmichele Church.
For my second class, Current Trends in Italian Cuisine, we also took a small field trip to the heart of town. Not to discuss Anti-Semitism (although that was mentioned), but to explore the best
ristoranti,
caffé, and
gelaterias in the city. Can you believe there are caffé stands over a century and a half old still in operation? My professor, Maria Renata (a beautiful woman with a beautiful name), also informed us the more you use an espresso machine the better the coffee tastes. Which means the youngest caffé in Firenze makes Starbucks look like child’s play. (This coming from a born and bred Washingtonian).
After class came my real lesson of the day: how to line dry bed sheets from windows. I would say it was an overall success; I managed to drop only one clothespin.
At this point I became kind of depressed and paranoid. You see for the last few months every time I spoke of this trip I was met with worried eyes and stern looks. And of course any mention of the movie Taken was unappreciated, but brought up nonetheless. But after a rather abrasive pep talk from my boy back home, I put on my big girl boots, (I literally put on boots, just so you know), and marched my way back down to the
Piazza della Reppublica to buy myself a nice
trippa (tripe) sandwich. I ended up passing on the sandwich, but hey I made it out through the city by myself. We all start somewhere.