by Kelly Laffey, Wake Forest University/New York University
Walk on to any American college campus between the months of August and November and you’re likely to see students out and about, sporting school apparel, the sound of their amicable chatter punctuated by the whiz of a Frisbee floating by. Drop by campus in early December, during finals week: although the students, if you can find them, may be decked out in school colors, it’s because they haven’t taken their sweatshirts off in the past 72 hours.
Despite suspicions to the contrary, a study abroad experience does actually involve studying, and NYU’s finals week is fast approaching, signaling the end of my Italian adventure. Yet, instead of cutting off all social ties during this seven-day period, as is my custom, I have been forced out of my self-imposed seclusion by the arrival of my parents.
Never having been to Italy, they have put me in charge of the itinerary for a long weekend and I find myself lucky enough to have been given an opportunity to reflect on the entirety of my Florentine experience. Where should they go? What should they see? Most importantly, what advice might I give them to guarantee that they appreciate Florence?
My first thought was that four days is too short of a time to get a feel for the city. Fortunately, I can think of one custom in particular that truly gives an accurate perception of Italian culture-aperitivo. I love the tradition of people coming together before they embark on their respective nightly plans. They take the time to recount daily events and to share a drink or to indulge in the freshly prepared buffet. Unlike its closest American relative, the happy hour, aperitivo seems to be more about relaxing after a day at work than about taking advantage of the drink specials. People come to unwind, to catch up with friends, to fervently discuss contentious issues and to simply enjoy living life in the moment.
What I hope my parents will experience is what I’ve come to realize are among my most memorable Florentine moments: random encounters with locals. Conversations conducted in broken Italian have stimulated my appreciation for Italy and Italian culture. At Santa Maria Novella last weekend, an older man approached my friends and me as we stared at the frescos, offering to explain the history and architecture of the church and surrounding piazza. Wanting so much to overcome the communication barrier, he suggested we read Alessandro Manzoni, whose beautiful Italian would surely help us better understand the language. A priest at the Duomo who was so excited to have American students in his congregation that he gave us the honor of taking up the collection. An older proprietor at a bar near campus tenderly creates perfect sandwiches for each customer. And my downstairs neighbor has taken us out to experience the local nightlife which, contrary to popular belief, does not end at 2am.
All of these people epitomize Italian culture for me and this is the Florence that I have come to know. People are patient and passionate. They value their culture and their customs. They honor their traditions but are willing to incorporate change into their lives. And, clearly, they don’t all have a negative perception of the temporary student residents.
So, for now, arrivederci Firenze e grazie per tutto!
by Heather Baysa, Wake Forest University/New York University
I’ve concluded that it’s the walk. Speeding down my street each morning as if I’m 15 minutes late for something, even when I have nowhere in particular to be, I stand out among the Florentines, whose measured steps and leisurely strolls belie any stress or pressing engagements. The urgency with which I cut through city streets never fails to reveal my identity as a New Yorker.
Once I forced myself to slow down, however, I began to take note of everything Florence has to offer beyond its museums and churches. I noticed all the small wonders invisible to most tourists, like the grocery store regulars who would give me a smile or nod when we recognized each other in the aisles, or the man who chases the pigeons every day in Piazza Santissima Annunziata. I was filled with an immense sense of pride when Italians began asking me questions about the bus routes and I was actually able to answer them confidently.
I also became friends with Silvia, the woman who runs the café beneath my apartment. The first Italian to reach out to my roommates and me, she would always say hello to us when we left the apartment. It was nice to have a neighbor with whom we could talk, and, thanks to her, we felt like we were home.
One weekend Silvia invited us to come out for drinks with her and some friends. As they were stylish 20something Italians, and I am socially awkward in English, I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to keep up with conversation in a foreign language. But to my surprise the atmosphere was as relaxed as with my oldest friends back home. Everyone seemed pleased and enthused to meet us, greeting us with handshakes and hugs before even learning our names. There was none of the harsh, cold appraisal one might find in an American social setting. We were friends with Silvia, so therefore we were part of the group.
We all walked over to the Santa Croce district, where on the weekends the church steps usually resemble a house party moved outdoors, filled from top to bottom with dozens of Italian university students chatting, drinking, playing music and having a good time. We went to a couple of bars and lounges in the area that Silvia and her friends frequent-places with a European crowd around the same age group as at the American clubs, but noticeably more mature (e.g., no one dancing on top of the bar or vomiting within close proximity to the entrance)-and we talked about all of our reasons for coming to Florence and shared jokes about American and Italian politics. We ordered rounds of Silvia’s favorite drink, the B-52, and the house special, the Caipiroska. The guys there would not allow the girls to pay for anything, which I’m fast learning is Italian custom, and while I prefer self-sufficiency as much as the next feminist, the whole situation was charmingly nostalgic. To end the night, our new friends took my roommates and me past the Porcellino statue and taught us how to drop a coin into the fountain to ensure a return trip to Florence.
It was then that I finally realized what it means to live in this city with the personality and charm of a tightly knit small town. In a place where tradition is so honored, newcomers must prove themselves worthy of becoming a part of it. Now, as I prepare to return to the United States, I am seeing that the true Florence was there all along, buried just beneath the tourist kitsch. It was in the chaos of searching for produce in the Mercato Centrale, in encounters with locals waiting in long lines at the post office and in conversations with my new Italian friends. The spirit of Florence is far from lost; it just needs to be found.
by Chiara Morabito, University of Melbourne/Istituto Europeo
I have always been a rather indecisive person. Since arriving in Florence, however, this somewhat unfavourable and frustrating aspect of my character has afflicted my day-to-day life much more. The tough decisions begin as I sleepily hit the ‘snooze’ button for the 3rd time on my alarm and wonder what on earth I am going to wear. I am never quite sure what the weather is going to be like in Florence. I blame this uncertainty on the very serious military man who presents the weather on the telegiornale - it is all very well to show me a pretty little map with suns and clouds and snowflakes, but how cold is it going to be if it’s cloudy? How rainy is it going to be when the little water drop images appear above Firenze? Is it cardigan weather or do I need to pull out the maglione?
I also struggle in the wardrobe department because of the two conflicting concepts I have of myself in this country. There is Australian Chiara who wears comfortable, mismatched clothes and almost manages to make them look cool, not really caring what anyone else thinks of her sense of fashion, or lack thereof. Then there is Chiara who is trying to be much more Italian in her manner, who wants to look just like the real Italian girls (elegant and stylish, even when swathed in infinite layers of cold-weather attire) and who is constantly plagued by the unpleasant feeling that she is being looked down upon by locals because her clothes just don’t cut it. The other day when I finally chose to be Australian Chiara for a day (perhaps my enormous laundry pile actually decided this for me), an Italian friend asked me whether I had been ‘inciampata nell’armadio‘ - something along the lines of had I tripped into my wardrobe and dressed myself totally by accident. Perhaps I need to thank him, because I am decidedly more Italian in my approach after that question!
In the kitchen I am always undecided. Should I feel guilty and eat delicious biscuits and coffee for breakfast just like the Italians do or stick to my boring toast and cereals for the sake of my conscience (and possibly my dress size)? Is it really ok to eat pasta, bread and potatoes all in one meal? What in the world should I cook for a bunch of Italian friends coming to my house for dinner - do I risk disaster and choose Tuscan recipes because I want to impress them with my gastronomic worldliness or do I construct a much more lacklustre menu and avoid ruining age-old dishes that their families have surely perfected?
Out in the streets of Florence, it is literally a playground for the indecisive person. I can never decide which route to take when I set off from my apartment. So many little streets lead to the same places, and I always feel like I’m missing out on something when I finally choose a percorso to follow. Should I stop and impulsively buy some overpriced chestnuts on the street or keep heading home when I am freezing and rather damp? Should I duck into the shops for some quick retail therapy or totally avoid the temptation to spend half my life savings in an effort to look more Italian? Should I give the poor beggar a couple of coins when she pleads with me to help her and her family or is it better to put on my stoniest face, look dead ahead and march on?
Decisions, decisions…..
by Michael DeMarco, St. Joseph’s University / Fairfield University in Florence
I stood on one of the few sidewalks in Florence across the street from Bar 16 on Corso, between two windows of the clothing store against the stone wall so he, hopefully, wouldn’t be able to see me bathed in the lights shining on the manikins.
I took out two Euros from my jacket pocket. Both looked up at me completely aligned next to each other with the number 1 and the word ‘Euro’ over a dozen or so countries. Then I looked back at him.
He held a cup out and gently stretched out his arm with a smile towards the pedestrians walking by. He was in the middle of the street and moved with a limp over to us but kept his distance.
I looked down at my hand again and the two coins. I wish I knew if he really needed you two, I said. I really wish it were easy to distinguish between who needed them and who didn’t or who was faking it and ruining it for those who did.
It’s cold and damp out some part of me said. I had seen him before in the same spot a few weeks ago and I think he didn’t have that bag and jacket some other part of me said, so he must have some place to go, some home.
But its really cold out, dark and shouldn’t I just give freely, isn’t that what the carpenter on nearly every painting in this city says.
Lo and behold I see a priest walking down the street between the man with a limp and me. The priest must have walked by him too said some part of me. I see him at every five o’clock English mass on Saturday at the Duomo. He begs college students to get involved with some programs he is part of and always makes this awkward joke about the pens available to sign up.
I looked to my right at Via Proconsolo and prayed an angel would come around the corner and tell me if this guy really was hungry.
But the priest walked past him too, some part of me kept saying. The man with a limp must be doing all right if the Priest walked past him like me. I looked to my right at Via Proconsolo again and prayed my angel was there. He wasn’t.
I’ve walked past a lot of people here in Florence who have asked me for help, said some part of me. But I don’t know if he really needs it the worse part of me said.
I brought a gelato, Croccantino and Nutella, with my two Euro because I decided he was fine and didn’t need my money. I walked from Corso, crossed Proconsolo to Borgo degli Albizi to Piazza San Maggiore. From there I turned right down Palmieri, down Isola delle Stinche, straight to Via dei Neri and bought my gelato. Then I sat on my couch and my stomach hurt. You always know who needs help the better part of me said.
As soon as I made it out of my door my right leg began to ache and I realized I was limping exactly like him, with the same leg. The worse part of me said it hurt because I ate my gelato with my legs elevated on a chair and because I was hurrying to see if her was still there. The better part of me leaned against the Palazzo Vecchio, on Via dei Leoni, and didn’t turn back to #6 Castello d’Altafronte. I made it to Corso and walked past Bar 16 again and there I saw the priest walking past me with a bunch of students. I couldn’t believe it: my leg then the Priest again…
When I first reached the man with a limp he was facing away from me. When he turned around and looked at me hi wasn’t smiling anymore; he just looked down and I couldn’t read him.
“Hai fame,” I said as clearly as I could.
He answered floored me.
“Ho mangiato già stasera.” Neither part of me could believe that. He told me the honest truth. Why did he say that?
“Lavori?” knowing I wouldn’t be able to understand, I hoped anyway. But from his gestures I understood he doesn’t, and I didn’t want to embarrass him.
The better part of me slipped some coins into his cup and I heard God bless you, Thank you, and have a great night. The better part of me translated. As I turned around I saw his cane against the wall about a dozen feet away from him.
The worse part of me, for a split second, looked at the Priest in front of a trattoria on Proconsolo waiting for his students with judgmental eyes. The better part said I was the first to walk by him first that cold night.
by Michael DeMarco, St. Joseph’s University / Fairfield University in Florence
Even though I can count with one hand how many girls I have asked out during my 20 years, I want to talk to an Italian girl. I know I have the guts, but my friends don’t agree. Anyway, let me tell you a story.
It’s painfully obvious for American guys that trying to spend time with an Italian girl isn’t like the movies where the smooth talking New Yorker says Ciao Bella, and they fall madly in love. You might get a coy smile, but unless a friend of hers introduces you you’ve got the plague my friend. And if you happen to be with a bunch of American guy friends you might as well spontaneously combust if you want her attention.
So, back to my story. I was standing near a bike-rack that wraps a little around the corner.
Someone could squeeze between the rack and me or just take a few extra steps and walk around me. Suddenly I saw a quite fashionable Italian girl walking on my left coming towards me. She had those boots, suede boots, that come up to the calf and a dazzling white overcoat blanketed with that silky black hair. How could I not crack a smile?
It wasn’t creepy smile. I know because this she smiled back. She let me see her entire face as she gracefully tossed her hair a little to let a strand covering her face fall away.
I tried to say something, but stupid me could only watch this girl pulled her bag close as she prepared to squeeze past the bike-rack and me. She didn’t walk past me to get on the sidewalk. But she did make eye contact. Just as she was closest to me I was about to say something she looked away. I couldn’t say a damn word and she never looked back to look at me again. I guess American students like me have nothing to say to Italian goddesses.
by Kelly Laffey, New York University
Every city needs a department store, a convenient place where residents can efficiently check off all the items on their shopping lists, find specialty goods and practical items. London has Harrods. New York has Macy’s and Paris has the Galeries Lafayette. While Florence is by no means as populous as these cities, Florentines do have such a place for one-stop shopping: the Cascine Market. Open only on Tuesday mornings, it remains off many tourists’ radars but local Florentines revel in its existence.
The open-air market serves the same purpose as any typical department store. People come to buy kitchen supplies, clothes, rugs, curtains, food, cosmetics, indoor decor accents and toys. Yet the Cascine Market is undeniably Italian. Individual vendors set up shop on the banks of the Arno and display their goods alongside eye-catching signs advertising deals that are appealing to even the thriftiest of shoppers. However, if the price doesn’t strike your fancy, you’re more than welcome to bargain. Whether or not your proffered price will be honored is a an open question, but one thing is certain: the more time you spend bargaining, the less time you’ll have to compete with your fellow shoppers for the best products.
And compete they do. Some stands resemble the rush of Black Friday in the U.S. as people search for their preferred size and color among the boxes and boxes of products.
As I strolled under cover of my umbrella, the Italian conversation floated around me. Local vendors were more than happy to chat with me, although one was particularly upset when I explained that I was not interested in purchasing a rather large piece of fabric. I may have regained her favor, however, when I offered my umbrella for her journey to her brother’s stand.
My favorite part about the Cascine Market may be its location. Forget your complaints about lack of green space in the city center once you enter Cascine. Called the Central Park of Florence by one of my professors, Cascine is well worth the 15-minute bus ride from the Duomo. That short ride transports you to a world outside of the city center, sans narrow streets and without a tour group in sight. Come to jog, to walk, to enjoy the sunset along the Arno, or, if necessary, to buy a broccoli steamer from the popular weekly market.
by Heather Baysa, New York University
When I was approached by the third American tourist in two days (this one asking me which way to ‘Cavour Street’), I decided it was time to venture over to the other, supposedly more residential, side of the Arno.
While I am not complaining about living within blocks of some of the world’s most celebrated sculptures and architectural triumphs, Florence’s historic center has lately seemed to me to fit New York writer Ann Marlowe’s description: ‘a theme park for art history students.’ I began to wonder if the reason I could not seem to feel at home here was simply that with more hotels and souvenir stands than grocery stores, nobody felt at home here in this part of town, not even Italians.
Although I cross over to the Oltrarno twice every week for a class, and I have explored the area on foot many times, I could not say that I had witnessed much ‘everyday’ Italian life there. So, one Friday, rather than attending gummy-bear-shot-night or whatever the latest gimmick was at the student clubs, one of my roommates and I decided to go to Dolce Vita in the San Frediano district for aperitivo; the lounge had been recommended to us by our Italian neighbors.
We found the place easily enough, but at 8:00 pm we were two of the five people there. Hesitating awkwardly in the foyer, I realized that neither of us knew how the aperitivo works nor the etiquette involved. I offered out a general ciao to the waitresses standing nearby, hoping that they would give us some indication as to whether we were supposed to order our drinks at the bar, sit at a table, or who knows, just continue to stand around awkwardly. We finally decided to grab a table and see if a server would come by. Many did, though they all threw us bewildered glances, as though we had just casually commenced to have a picnic in the middle of the floor. When we realized no one was going to approach us, we went to the bar and asked for two glasses of wine. The bartender returned with them promptly, informing us to wait for a server at the table next time.
Our drinks secured, I walked up to the small buffet with a smile on my face-I was in fact happy in all this confusion. Coming to Europe, I was anticipating a fair amount of daily disorientation. However, living in a tourist area that makes all aspects of life painfully convenient for Americans eliminates much of that precious culture shock. I believe the study abroad students here would benefit from being confused more often.
The lounge offered a small dinner of pasta, risotto, pizza and a couple unidentifiable seafood dishes. It was reasonably filling and probably worth the cost of the drink. After our first plates we returned to the bar saw that in 15 minutes the place had suddenly come to life and was packed with what had to be close to 100 people, a chic business crowd all sporting painstakingly up-to-date fashions. Soon the tables around us were filled with Italians chatting, laughing, and yelling over the music. If there was another American there, we could not tell.
We began to talk with some people at a nearby table and they invited us to come over and sit with them. We carried on a pleasantly bilingual conversation for a few hours, covering such topics as the best places to travel in Italy, and the difference between Italians and Americans when they dress to go out (for Italians, it is essential to dress elegantly; Americans tend to dress casually). At first I was worried and slightly embarrassed about my marginal Italian language skills, but one our new friends, Mario, assured me that Italians will notice and appreciate the effort, even if the grammar isn’t perfect.
We chatted some more before I had to call it an early night because of plans the next day. We were reluctant to leave, but my roommate exchanged phone numbers with our acquaintances and there was talk about meeting up again some time. As we left, I felt that I had finally found my way into Florentine culture-even if only for a night out.
by Michael DeMarco, St. Joseph’s University / Fairfield University in Florence
I loved being around the Fiorentina football fans at last Sunday’s game. They scored two goals early in the game and every uproar rocked me out of my seat. This isn’t new to a young American like me who has been around screaming baseball, and basketball fans when the home team hits a homerun or shoots a perfect swish at the buzzer. However, some things were very, very different.
We found our seats in a section very close to the plexi-glass walls surrounding the field. I have only seen this glass at hockey games and wondered what it was for. Would someone really run on the field and hurt someone? I’ve heard of the occasional streaker, both home and here, but harm enough for the installation of a wall with spikes on the top? Then I saw a glass box, or cage, holding a crowd of people with different colors and different flags. “Those are the Atalanta fans,” my friend said after noticing my puzzled face. I laughed. Yankee and Red-sox fans have had fights, even Rangers and Islanders, but they always sat amongst each other.
The Fiorentina fans were vivace in every sense of the word. They were awesome and I suppose anyone of them would actually die a horrible death for their team. Heck, they would even kill for it. One fan had an enormous flag about three stories high and it covered the whole section behind him.
At one point I thought they were going to lynch the referee/blasphemer after he screwed up a few fouls; he really made some stupid calls, but Fiorentina was still winning! Every edge counts. But I must thank an old Tuscan man for my favorite memory of the day.
Someone from Fiorentina fouled an Atalanta forward and he went down hard. The old man didn’t mind, in fact I distinctly remember him cheering above the others yelling at the referee. But there’s more, oh there’s more! Two Atalanta forwards had the ball in front of them trying to either confuse the Fiorentina defense or decide who should take the free kick. Honestly, about 3 seconds went by and the man stood up and screamed, “VAI!” I was sure they couldn’t hear him but then they waited for another 30-40 seconds just standing there and with every second that passed the rest of the Fiorentina fans started to shriek. Finally it reached a crescendo and the Old man stood up, threw his arms out and screamed, “ALLORA!!!!” It took my breath away because I was laughing so hard.
Most of my friends started laughing at me—because they make no effort to understand Italian—and I had to translate it for them. Eventually I caught my breath and told them what he said, and then they laughed with me.
Calcio is religion in Italy; it replaced the Church. On Sunday the mass was held at the Stadio. They will even have mass a few times a week and hold prayer services around the T.V. at a bar or enoteca. Somehow, back home Italians have this sterotype of being lazy, but the amount of energy they put into their hometown team, almost every day of the week, is amazing.
by Heather Baysa, New York University
There is nothing that can create a sense of community quite like sports, and this made me think that if I wanted to really get to know Florence, sport might be an ideal place to start.
It didn’t take long to realize that calcio is king throughout Italy and Europe. As I was passing the Accademia one afternoon and wondering when the next match was, a throng of purple-clad men came parading down the street, booming Fiorentina chants, startling the members of an American tour group, who gripped their fanny packs extra tight. Sure enough, when Kelly and I looked it up, the Florence team was set to play Munich that evening.
We decided to watch the game in a social setting. We found a small pub half hidden in a side street behind Piazza della Repubblica. It was Irish-themed, as I am learning is not unusual in Florence, but not an English speaker was in earshot.
The place was packed. People were perched on every available seat, stool, table and windowsill, all leaning forward to watch as Fiorentina and Bayern Monaco passed up and down the field on the three little ceiling television screens in the corners of the room.
The place was surprisingly quiet considering the fact that we could count at least two empty pint glasses per person and a major sporting event was being broadcast. We heard only subdued, whispered comments instead of the constant shouts we’d be hearing in any American sports bar. We asked the bartender why everyone was so silent and he explained to us that this was an important match for Florence against a skilled team so it warranted the full attention of all.
When shouts were warranted, they were more meaningful. Whenever either team approached the goal posts, a roar of excitement or dread would swell. When Fiorentina finally scored the room erupted in a frenzy: people were cheering, clapping, jumping out of their seats and rolling on the floor in celebration.
When, pulled into the atmosphere, I proclaimed ‘Forza Viola!’ a few times, some of the Italian fans moved over to make room for us to sit down at a table. It was small gesture, but meaningful to me: I felt accepted.
The match ended in a tie, but people seemed reasonably content with this outcome as they shuffled out of the pub, warmly parting with friends and finishing off the last of their drinks. Fiorentina may not have won, but Kelly and I had achieved a small victory: an assurance in this brief glimpse that there is indeed an Italian Florence, and, perhaps with more effort, we can find it.
by Kelly Laffey, New York University
It’s long been known that soccer, appreciated all over the world for its display of agility and athleticism, does not enjoy a high status in U.S. sports. Someone once explained this phenomenon to me in a very simple manner. Unlike the rest of the world, Americans are perturbed by the fact that games can end in a tie; we want a decisive victory. Still, as an avid sports fan and as an avid fan of immersing myself in Italian culture, I knew that I had to view the sport in all of its European glory.
Walking into Old Stove pub on Wednesday night to watch the Viola battle Bayern Monaco, I noticed the quietness as the Fiorentina fans, only a few of whom were wearing team colors, sat deep in concentration, eyes fixed on the screen. I cautiously picked my way through the labyrinth of seats, afraid to disturb anyone’s meditative state. As I approached the bar, seriously contemplating whether the word ‘pub’ is akin to ‘football’ in that both enjoy a different meaning on either side of the Atlantic, I quietly asked the bartender why everyone was so quiet. Apparently, Italian fans are afraid that any outbursts will destroy the aura of the event, and no one wants to be responsible for causing a Fiorentina loss.
I grabbed a seat, the bright purple color of my shirt a beacon of foreignness in the sea of black and brown leather. In time, I understood that the attentiveness (and occasional chorus of cheers and boos), indicates deep team loyalty. As I began to sense the energy and excitement, I found myself intensely focusing on the television, too.
It may be part of the game-watching ritual to praise and curse the players under one’s breath. At least that’s what the guy sitting behind me was doing. I kept turning back to ask him what certain words meant and, ever courteous, he answered my questions.
After the game, he asked me in Italian what I thought about the U.S. election and I was amazed, as always, about how much of an influence American politics has on the rest of the world. Everyone has an opinion to contribute. Yet unlike every other European with whom I’d had this discussion, my new friend supported John McCain. We had an entire conversation, in a mix of Italian and hand gestures, about why he thought Obama would not lead the United States in the direction that it needs to go, and this political discussion with an Italian ‘Republican’ showed me another facet of modern Italian life.
By the way, my theory on soccer’s unpopularity in the U.S, was proved wrong. As the Fiorentina fans left the bar, shaking their heads and mumbling in frustration I realized that no one likes a game to end in a draw.
