Forza viola alè..

Since I was young, I've always been told that I'm fairly intense person. I can be a bit aggressive, a tad loud, and at times too much to handle - to say the least. Add on to this list that I am the most competitive person I know, and we can run into a few problems here and there. However, bring me to Italy and I blend like spots on a cheetah. Even their joking around at times is what Americans might consider violent.Bring me to a Fiorentina soccer game and I look tame...

From the train station, I took a five minute train to the outskirts of the city to the Fiorentina stadium. As usual, having no idea where we were going, Bre, Mackenzie, Maddie, and I walked around and tried to find some food and a drink. Mid search, I pause to take a picture of some architecture that I found interesting, and some snotty, little, Italian boy says to his friends, "What's she taking a picture of?" People like this have a tendency to irk me and since we've already established my confrontational qualities, we can all imagine my attitude towards this boy. Needless to say, the girls all went on about how they were going to have to watch me tonight and make sure I kept my mouth shut. (In truth, I know when to be quiet and when I'm able to run my mouth. The child that made that comment, was just that, a child of about 15. Clearly, I would have no problem taking him in a little verbal sparring.)

Without a scene, we carried on to the vendors parked outside the stadium. As we walk through, this man yells to us in Italian to have some food. While I'm explaining that Bre is a vegetarian, he hands Mackenzie what appears to be a fragment of an Italian version of a hamburger patty. She takes it and proceeds to roll it up to dispose of it. He continues his harassment in a slightly perverse jest telling her in Italian that "she's still a little girl, and when she grows up she'd eat meat." As I'm designated translator, here is when I fall to the ground laughing. Part of my laughing is because this guy is being such a typical Italian with the not-so-appropriate comments, but the major reason I find this so hysterical is because Mackenzie is 20 with the face of a teenager. While she's going to adore this quality in her old age, at the moment, having a "baby face" is not something she enjoys since she gets comments along those lines quite often. Regardless, I explain to the girls what is happening and then tell the vendor that she is 20 and so are the other girls. To which he responds, "No, bambini." I can't help myself, I cackle with laughter and force myself and the girls to walk away before he continues.

We stroll through checking out prices of food and drink, order a couple drinks and sandwiches, and sit down under the shade before the game. As soon as we finish and get up to go into the stadium, it starts to drizzle. Typical. We head into the sea of purple and proceed through the check-in. We show our ticket and our documentation (sidenote: the Italian government is really phenomenal with security and knowing the whereabouts of its country's visitors..), tell the guards we don't have lighters or water bottles, and proceed to go find our seats - not that I was planning on sitting.

We enter the stadium and it looks magnificent. We seemed to be situated in a sea of purple reaching up to the dark, cloudy sky placed on top of bright, green field. We look outside the stadium walls and all you see are massive mountains, cypress trees, and Spanish-tiled villas. All I could think was that this place was the true definition of "purple mountains majesty", American landscape has nothing on the most basic Italian panorama.

We bought the cheapest seats, so we were in the nose bleed section of the visitor's side. As we looked around, we realized that this really didn't matter. The whole side was still donned in purple paraphernalia. To top it off, there was a single section of about 100 people dressed in blue - Lazio's fans. Without exaggeration, they were blockaded into their section by plexiglass and riot guards in neon yellow. The guards clearly had a purpose as a fight almost broke out before the game even started!

I continue to people watch and without a brawl, the game begins. The girls are up in their seats and I stand with the rest of the jazzed up Italians. I really wasn't sure of how this was supposed to go, and never really watching a soccer game before, I chose to observe the crowd for the first half. They were much more entertaining than the actual soccer game. Chanting, singing, screaming, hand-gesturing, jumping, and of course cursing, this crowd was a blast to be a part of. Barely anyone sat and if they were sitting, they were sitting on railings or on top of chairs. In front of each section were a couple instigators who passionately stirred the crowd and got everyone out of their seats. All I could do was laugh, take pictures, and try to listen to the chants so I could join in.

Halftime rolled around and the girls came down to join me. When the second half started I felt comfortable enough in my understanding of the crowd and their customs to join right in. I climbed right on top of the railing and jumped right into the coordinated chaos that is Italian sporting events. Usually having to restrain myself and close my mouth, here my obnoxious, "poor sportsman-like" behavior is encouraged. For this, I couldn't be more appreciative. Every time the Fiorentina fans would antagonize the Lazio fans, I jumped right in with my screaming and singing. I knew a few of the chants and I gladly contributed my vocal chords to the crowd. I jumped right up on the chair for every bad move, and since it's perfectly acceptable and completely the norm, I let the team (that couldn't hear me) have it about their stupidity of not getting the ball in the goal. I feel the need to disclose here that I've never played soccer, nor do I have the capacity to play soccer professionally. But, I am beyond competitive, my team was losing, and they were making me angry. By the end of the game, my throat was sore, my feet ached, and I was smiling uncontrollably despite the disappointing loss.

It was definitely the best 17Euro I could have spent, and there's no way that this game was my last. I already have their schedule bookmarked on my computer. I mean, why would I pass up an opportunity to behave like the endearingly, psychotic sports fan that I am?

Si! Molto Bene! Bicicletta!

After last weekend's fiasco one would think that I'd be a little nervous to travel again. However, I refuse to let one bad travel experience scar my love of exploration so, when my friends Bre and Mackenzie invited me to join in on their day trip to the medieval-walled city of Lucca, I jumped at the chance.

What really sparked my interest wasn't the chance to fail at mastering the train system, but Mackenzie's reason for going. Before leaving the States, Mackenzie's grandmother gave her the name of an extended family member (who owns a bakery) to find while in Florence. Absolutely adoring stories and situations like this, I knew I had to experience this with her. So, yesterday morning I woke up at the crack of dawn and met the girls at the train station. Encountering my usual travel debacles, we jumped on the wrong train, got stuck in Pisa for a little bit (I am so tired of Pisa), and Bre and I got a little bit motion sick.

We arrived in Lucca not knowing the right way to go, without a map, and - to top it off - in the rain with suede ankle boots. Nevertheless, we laughed it off and managed to find a map just as the rain stopped. We entered the old city walls and made our way through the beautifully, quaint town sans SWARMS of tourists. This was a fantastic change from Firenze. About a half hour in, we find our destination and nervously Mackenzie marches right into the bakery with her script in hand.

She approaches the girl behind the register and asks the name of her relative. She's told in Italian that he was in the back and someone went to go get him. While we're waiting, the girl introduced us to his wife, by far the nicest and sweetest little Italian lady we'd ever met. She only spoke Italian and, as we only spoke English, communicating was going to get interesting. She offered us pastries and coffee, so as not to be rude, we stuffed our bellies with the BEST cappuccino any of us have ever had and the most delicious sugary treats. I have never had a pastry like the one I had that morning. It was out-of-this-world phenomenal. We stood at the bar with the rest of the Italian locals and exclaimed (quite loudly) at the delectable pastries. We took pictures, took a bite, screamed "AMAZING!", took a picture, took a bite, screamed "TRY THIS!", and shoved it in one another's face. So it went for about 10 minutes while Mackenzie's long lost cousin/aunt/something-or-other spoke slowly and clearly in Italian to us about school, where we're from, what our names were, and why her husband was taking so long. With my minimal linguistic skills, I was amazingly able to translate for the girls and respond to our hostess - in Italian! While it was only elementary Italian, I was still over-the-moon impressed with how far I've come.

Renata, our hostess, informed us that her husband had to go somewhere but he would be back after noon. She took down Mackenzie's number and our names and offered to call us when he returned. We said thank you over and over and made our way out of the bakery. Ecstatic with the situation, we left all smiling ear-to-ear. Since Mackenzie had actually been to Lucca some years prior, she was dying to go back to the places that gave her such magnificent memories. We pulled out the map, located the piazza she was so very much in love with, and we started off in that direction. We stopped every so often to go into a store, take a picture of something, gawk at a vendor and his/her produce, or just merely appreciate our surroundings. We had an extraordinary time just meandering through the town. We finally found the enclosed piazza, walked around to do a little window shopping and people creeping, and eventually sat down to split a pizza at the pizzeria Mackenzie had eaten at last time in town. After lunch, we headed back out into the rest of the medieval city.

As we started walking, Mackenzie's phone started to ring and we all physically jumped and squealed with delight. Fumbling Mackenzie answers the phone, "Hello!?!... Ciao?!.... Pronto?" Somehow, in our excitement we didn't quite think through the fact that we barely communicate in person - how would we ever communicate by phone? We hung up and power walked back to the bakery.

We reached the bakery, ran inside, and were fed again once more. This time, unbeknownst to me, I picked out a rum baba. When I say rum, I mean the ENTIRE bottle of rum was poured on top of this small handful of pastry dough. This little thing had enough kick to make an elephant intoxicated, but with a cherry on top it doesn't look quite that menacing. Renata took the pastries outside and sat us at a little table under the columns and arches. She had us sit down and eat, and let us know that her husband would be out in a few minutes. After a bite or two of my baba, I decided, for my liver's sake that I would not be finishing the pastry, but I continued to pick at it very, very slowly to be polite. While I pushed the baba around with my fork, Ademaro made his way over to us and sat down to talk.

Communicating with Renata proved to be deceivingly simple once Ademaro began his conversation with us. Even so, I was able to understand and translate most of it for Mackenzie and Bre. Eager to communicate and contribute, they peppered the chat with "Molto bene!", "Si!", and most humorously, in her attempts to prove her Italian skills, at one point Bre points across the street and exclaims "BICICLETTA!"

Despite the evident language barrier, we managed to have a great talk with Ademaro, learning all about Mackenzie's other family members and their locations in Italia. Renata came out and sat with us for a while which made conversing much easier with her patience and use of simple words. We talked for a bit longer and made plans to come back in late October. They left us to finish our pastries and the coffee we were force fed mid-snack. We finished up, I put my wrapped up babas in a few napkins so I could dispose of my cirrhosis-of-the-liver-inducing pastry, and brought our dishes inside. Renata handed us a HEAVY bag of pastries, cookies, and sweet bread for our breakfast the next morning. The only payment we were allowed was to simply remember them! Mackenzie, Bre, and I melted. We said our goodbyes and made our way back to the train station.

We had a delicious day made up of truly the best ingredients: friends, family, and food. We can't wait for the second serving in October.

My Favorite Fiasco

I have never in my life had a day go so horribly wrong, yet go so amazingly magnificent. What started out as a simple wish to relax on the beaches of Cinque Terre, turned into an all day, fantastic fiasco.

Already having horrible luck traveling this weekend, my frustrated housemate, Gina, and I decided Saturday night that we would spend Sunday in the acclaimed Cinque Terre. Like the entirety of my trip thus far, I joined in without a hesitation. To start, I didn't really know how to get there - I probably couldn't have even found it on a map. We found the train time, went to bed, and overslept...

We grabbed the next train out of Firenze to La Spezia at 11 o'clock. But, in order to get up the coast to "The Five Cities", you need to take a connecting train from Pisa to La Spezia. This sounds all well and good, so we head on our way. The train ride to Pisa goes smoothly without a hitch, we get off the train, and we find the board of departures. Next to "Destination: La Spezia", Gina and I read "SOP" under delays. What this means, we have no idea. We meander around trying to find a train official to assist us to no avail. Finally, a fellow traveler informs us that "SOP" translates into "CANCELLED". My only thought at this moment is, "If they did this in New York, someone would lose a limb." We find out that the next train is in an hour, so we decide to venture out into the city to see if we can find the Leaning Tower.

Glancing briefly at a map, we decide that we're going to go across the entire city, take the typical "I'm a tourist!" pictures, and come back to make the next train. Much to our surprise, this small city is a lot harder to travel across than one assumes - especially in the afternoon sun. We cross half the city making a few wrong turns, cross the bridge over the sludge green water, and follow the signs and pictograms the rest of the way. Somewhere in the second half of the city, we decide that we're never going to make the next train, and we're already here, so we might as well enjoy our time.

We find the Duomo next to the Tower long before we find the Tower. Smaller than anticipated, the Tower seems to hide behind the new city buildings for protection from casual tourists. However, we were determined to take our wretchedly stereotypical pictures. After a mini-photoshoot, our pictures truly do come out adorable, and we had a fabulous time trying to get that perfect shot. After confirming everyone else's advice that there is nothing else to see, we head back to the station. I buy my latest postcard for my collection and Gina barters with the pushy African vendor for a bow-topped, wide-brimmed, floppy hat. Despite the bartering, we were still handed back counterfeit coin. Apparently, there are fake coins traveling around Europe being pushed on to foreigners who never look at the coin they are given. Needless to say, we learned that lesson.

We make it back to the train station only to find another cancelled train. The tally so far is two cancelled trains and one missed train. We wait another half hour and finally get an outbound train to our desired destination. We're moving along until our train is halted on the tracks right before the next stop. We're sitting there a few moments, and I glance out my window to see smoke emanating from somewhere on the train or train tracks. Not wanting to believe the faint stench or burning rubber, Gina gets up and tries to go to the next car to see what the problem is. Only issue is that as soon as she opened the door, there was no way we could deny the asphyciation-inducing stench of burning rubber. Laughingly, we sit down and wait about 20 minutes until the train begins to move again. In fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants travel, you often have to just laugh at how horribly comedic the situation is.

Sometime after we begin to move again, we hear these American voices coming into our car. Towing two enormous suitcases and dragging duffle bags, our new friends stumble into the seats across from us. We proceed to talk the entire way to La Spezia without pause. During which, they inform us that the issue with the train delays has been strikes. Yes, I said the "s" word. Unbeknownst to us, Gina and I had been attempting to travel to the beach during the infamous Italian practice of striking. Silly Americans.

We finally reach La Spezia, only to be told upon exiting that the beach is not at La Spezia and it is a six hour walk to Monterosso and the beach. It's already around 4 o'clock, we're exhausted, and there is no way we are walking six hours. Amazingly, Kate and Dan, our American friends, are headed to their hotel at Monterosso. Since we've already become acquainted and enjoyed one another's company immensely, we decide to take a train together. We scurry to the ticket booth, buy four tickets, and promptly head to platform three. With our train leaving soon, we look on the board to confirm the exact departure time only to find our destination blinking. In true Italian fashion, the platform was changed. We have three minutes to get to our train. Kate and Dan head to the elevator, not wanting to lug the suitcases down the stairs full of frantic people changing platforms. I sprint to the train to try and hold it while Gina stays behind to make sure Dan and Kate are able to make it. One door closes on me and the conductor behind the door glances up from his paper and points to the opposite end of the train. I'm full out sprinting down to open car. In my broken Italian I tell the nasty, female conductor that we have three people running to make the train. She starts full out yelling at me in Italian to which I can only yell "THEY'RE RUNNINGGGG! THEY'RE RIGHT THERE! GUARDI!" Eyes rolling and breathing exasperatedly, this wretched woman commands me to scream to "RUN!" One after another, Gina, Kate, and Dan are sprinting down the tracks to make this stupid train. They finally make it, seats are found, and luggage stored. We all collapse into our seats and the train begins to inch away from the station about ten minutes later only to STOP about 20 seconds in to departing. We sit there grumbling that the conductor made us sprint for no reason and then the unthinkable happens. The train moves backwards. We return to the platform without any notification of why, when the next train will be, or even to leave the train. No joke. The tally is now: 2 cancelled, 1 missed, 1 stopped and cancelled after we began, and 1 small issue of burning rubber.

Completely exasperated, exhausted, and just plain DONE, Kate and Dan decide to take a taxi. Beyond generously, they offer to take us along. We take a beautifully scenic car ride through the Italian coast line. Despite the beauty, driving through the Italian coast is akin to being stuck in a tire and rolled down a rocky mountain. Ironically, Gina and I had discussed our horrible motion sickness on our way to Pisa and we end up on the road from "Car Sick Hell".

I rolled down the window, stuck my hand out, and proceeded to force myself to forget the roller coaster in my stomach. I frantically tried to take pictures of the endless, bright blue horizon. I wanted to capture every moment of this picturesque paradise. From La Spezia to Monterosso, our cab ride was about an hour long. We were informed that only authorized cars are permitted to travel within this seaside sanctuary, and were dropped off at the closest point to wait for a taxi from Dan and Kate's hotel. Within a few moments, we were picked up and driven about a third of the way up this mountain to the most amazing view of Monterosso. Draped in elegant hibiscus flowers, swooping ivy, quaint light posts, and warm sunlight, their hotel perched upon the cliff.

As if they hadn't already done enough for us, Dan and Kate got situated in the hotel and then took Gina and I out to dinner. We walked down to the shore and stuck our feet in the water. Gina and I were determined to get to the water! We stood knee deep in warm, crystal clear, beautiful water and were interviewed via Flip Camera for Dan and Kate's children. They were capturing every minute of their trip for their children and gave us the honor of being part of their memories.

We cleaned off the sand and sat down to have a drink before our dinner reservation. We sat on this adorable patio overlooking the beach and sunsetting over the water. As our reservation time neared we made our way to the restaurant past the Bocce Ball Tournament.

We had a fantastic meal and even better company and conversation.As the night neared a close, Gina and I said our goodbyes and made our way to the train station. We walked through town to the train station only to find that there were no ticket machines open or people selling tickets at the booth. We decided to just get on the train; if worse came to worse, we would pay the fine to buy the tickets on the train. Forty minutes later, and our train arrived to take us to La Spezia. We reached La Spezia, bought a ticket to Firenze and sprint once more to the train. We got off at Pisa to reach our connecting train to find that there were no more trains for the evening. We would have to wait in Pisa until 1:12 in the morning to take... a bus. Not only that, but our ticket to Firenze would not get us on the bus because it was now the next day and therefore no longer valid. The tally now rests at: 2 cancelled, 1 missed, 1 stopped and cancelled after we began, 1 small issue of burning rubber, 1 non existent train, and 1... bus. After about two hours in the worst neighborhood possible, with a locked bathroom, and no jackets our train arrived and we boarded as fast as possible. We reached the Firenze train station at 2:49 in the morning and flew the few blocks like Hermes put little wings on our ankles.

Our day could not have been written better or worse. It was heaven in a hell. Nothing went right, yet everything fell together into what I know will be one of my favorite stories and most prominent memories. I can never say thank you enough to Dan and Kate for their kindness in their company - no less their generosity in taking care of us. Dan and Kate are phenomenal people and will always be remembered as being part of of my favorite fiasco. Grazie mile!

People "Creeping"

I am fascinated by people. I can sit and watch random strangers for hours. I love noticing how they carry themselves, their body language, how they interact with one another.

For this reason, every time I leave the house with camera in hand I can always be found trying to "sneakily" take pictures of any random passerby that I come across. As my friend Gina says, "Certain people look like they have a story to tell". The more stories a person looks like they have to share, the more likely I will try to take their picture. As a general rule of thumb, adorable, elderly people intrigue me in remembrance of my grandfather and his many life stories. Gypsies must have at least one story dealing with society's stereotypes and stigmas. There is always a reason behind homelessness and in a city of such wealth, the impoverished and the working class seem to intrigue me the most. Trying not to offend, I can't always get the pictures I'd like, but trying to capture these "life moments" imprint the visual into my memory.

Thankfully, I have made friends here that are also "people creepers" as they so endearingly put it. I say thankfully because by being friends with people like this, it's only a matter of time before you're their subject...

It's the small moments in life that count. It's the story you can share. Capturing moments and stories pieces together the essence of that individual. It's important to always remember that individuals make up the world past, present, and future - regardless of age, class, gender, orientation, or story.

Culture Shock

The universe and I are reflecting one another's temperaments this morning. It's not too hot out, it's not sunny, it's not raining, it's not particularly humid, it's simply mellow. The sky is a slight shade of gray with bits of sun and bits of storm clouds. It describes exactly how I feel about Firenze without saying anything specific.

Since I have arrived in Firenze, I've been lectured on culture shock, its symptoms, its effects, and its stages. Each time, I've been informed that I will go through culture shock by school officials, deans, school counselors, and so forth. For some reason, I haven't believed it. And after walking home this morning, I know I won't go through culture shock. Not because I'm more well adjusted, or because I don't temporarily block out negative, or because I see the city as perfect, but because I feel completely and 100% at ease.

Walking home from Italian Language class this morning, I realized how completely I am comfortable here. I felt myself go from what everyone has been calling the "honeymoon stage" to feeling completely at peace here. I stopped at a vendor and purchased an umbrella in preparation for the purging rain we seem to be receiving this afternoon. I stopped at Sandro's to pick up the recipe for the rabbit I bought yesterday. I followed my usual walk home and greeted the little, old man using his umbrella as a walking stick. And I did this all in my broken and infantile Italian.

I don't feel well-adjusted per se because I don't think I had anything to adjust to. I truly feel completely at home. I don't find anything shocking about this culture. It's not without flaws, but it's perfect for me. At this point in my life I know that THIS is where I belong. This is the perfect setting for this stage of my life. Sitting out my window, journaling on my computer, eating my 1Euro bread, fresh figs, and ricotta cheese. And let's not forget the nutella...

Walking

Since I've arrived in Firenze, I have not stopped walking, climbing stairs, strolling, power walking, half jogging, and dragging my feet. My flip flops have given me blisters on the tops of my feet and my Converse have given me blisters on my heels. The soles of my feet are a permanent shade of gray. From head to toe every muscle aches. I can confidently attest that my calves will be the size of grapefruits within two weeks and I will have (baby) biceps from carrying groceries and liters of water from the market to my home daily. I also know, I desperately need a pedicure.

Despite the unattractive color of my feet at the moment, I could not care less. As far as I'm concerned, the more I walk, the more I can eat. That is what I do here: I walk, I eat, and in between I discover my way around the city. This morning, two of my new friends and I started off our day doing all three simultaneously. We woke up at 8a.m. and I power walked to the Duomo to meet them at their apartment. I use the Duomo as a point of reference because if they lived any closer, they'd live in the sacristy. I had my morning cafe and we made for the mercato centrale. We arrived at the magic tents this morning and I got the pleasure of showing them around.

We ventured through the fruit and I informed them that the grouchy, short woman had the best vegetables while the ponytailed-man had amazing figs. While they didn't take me up on the normal, green fichi, we all discovered fichi di india. I pulled out my mantra, "Come si dice?" and the vendor repeated, "fichi di in-d-yuh" until I exclaimed, "Ohhhh, INDIA!" Once we made it through that exchange, he scurried over to the neighboring vendor and grabbed a knife. He demonstrated how to cut open the "fichi di india" skin, cut it into three pieces, and handed each of us one. Despite the obnoxious size and quantity of the seeds, the juice and flavor of this fruit completely overwhelmed your tastebuds. It is completely unique. By no means is it my favorite fruit, but it is still outstanding. I bought one to show my gratitude and the girls bought three softball size peaches - all for two Euro. I truly love this place.

After our Sub-Asian excursion, we came back to Italy and went inside the meat market. This place can be very abnormal and troublesome for someone who is not used to the nonchalant nature of Italians and their meat products. Take a vegetarian in here and it's a-whole-nother ball game. We took it slow and purchased mezzo kilo di ricotta. Then we jumped right in and my excitement took over. I started pointing out all of the foods you can never find in America: chicken heart, cow tongue, spleen, et cetera (I need to make a memo to myself to remember that what I find fascinating is rarely "fascinating" to anyone else). When my friends were sufficiently grossed out, we made our way over to my butcher friends, Sandro and Michele.

I explained that I wouldn't be purchasing the coniglio this morning since we were all making salmone that evening. Michele assured me that it was perfectly fine and to let him know when I wanted it and he would make sure there were fresh ones in the freezer for me along with two recipes on how to prepare it. Probably eager to change the topic from rabbit meat, my vegetarian friend, Bre, commented on the soccer posters hanging on the wall. Since we've all (clearly) read Eat, Pray, Love before our arrival, we are dying to go to a soccer game. Bre, an avid soccer player herself, led this charge. After asking a few questions about the team and their schedule, Michele told Bre to return Monday morning and he and Sandro would introduce us to Sandro's son. Michele explained that he would be the one to get tickets from since he is a soccer player himself. We agreed and Michele then told us to go eat at a little pizzeria near the market. We were informed that the food is cheap and if we told the waiter Michele sent us, we would be taken care of. Before leaving, I asked one more question, "Where are the midnight bakeries we've heard so much about?" Michele gave us directions that took us on a thirty minute hike across the Ponte Vittoria to this little eatery that apparently is one of the only bakeries open after midnight.

After leaving the market, we dropped off the food at my apartment and decided to find this bakery at 9:30a.m. The girls were on a mission to find a pastry and I'm always eager to explore. It may have been the heatstroke and exhaustion talking, but the pastries were fantastic and well worth the trek. Making our way back to the center of town, we decided to go to lunch at the restaurant Michele recommended. On the way we got slightly lost, took many a picture, and did a little window shopping. By 11:30 we were beyond famished and ordered our aqua naturale e tre pizza margherita. While they were large and inexpensive pizza, I must admit, I already have had tastier and less expensive pizza. Even still, I finished the entire pie and enjoyed it thoroughly. By the time lunch was over, I was ready for my siesta.

I walked the ten minutes back to my apartment, crawled into bed and passed out. There is nothing better than collapsing into bed from exhaustion and falling into a deep sleep with a stomach full of pizza and pastries... in Firenze no less.

Come si dice? In italiano? In inglese?

I firmly believe that in order to learn anything about where you are you must completely submerge yourself within that place and culture. So that is what I'm doing. I continually lose myself amongst the breathtaking buildings that create this city. I have walked so many hours here already that the soles of my feet are an indescribable black and my muscles actually hurt. I've been to the central library, the Uffizi, the Duomo, the train station, Piazza de San Marco, Piazza dei Santa Croce, Teatro Odeon, up and down city streets, places I cannot even remember the name of, places I never bothered to learn the name of, but no place so magical as the mercato centrale.

I heard a few girls saying they were headed there after part one of orientation. I knew a few of them so I figured I would just walk over with their group of friends. As we passed yet another church, we came upon the enormous white tents casting shade on their coveted contents. I have never seen fruit so fresh, vegetables so green, or vendors so protective. Apparently, much to out surprise, at the mercato centrale you are not permitted to bag your own fruit and walk around. There is no central checkout line. There is no standard price. Each stand belongs to each individual vendor and only that vendor may hand you your produce. Only after you hand him or her your euro, of course.

Refusing to be the typical American, I set a goal for myself: I will be a local by December. I will be fluent in the language and well versed in their customs. I will not purchase a thing unless I can say it in Italian. This is not an easy task as the language barrier can be slightly challenging. Thankfully, I come prepared with a few key phrases. However, my new mantra is "Come si dice? In italiano? In inglese?" After three difficult linguistic interactions and purchasing four plump susine (plums), three fresh fichi (figs), one perfect melanzana (eggplant), and a handful of dried fragola (strawberries) I went into the second half of the mercato.

Jaw dropped to the floor, I eagerly went up to each and every stand. This was where I fell head over heals in love with this city. Stuffed to the brim with carne (meat), formaggio (cheese), olive (same word), and pesce (fish), the second part of the market is where I learned more Italian in 3 hours than I have ever. The struggle of communicating and learning is what allowed me to really grasp what I was hearing and what I was saying. I wasn't just chit chatting, I was trying to stay afloat in a brand new world.

While I enjoy the struggle, it is also nice to be able to actually communicate. The young woman who sold me un mezza kilo de pecorino romano (about a pound of grating cheese) taught me the first part of my new phrase, "un mezza kilo". (Side note: While I want to seem like a local, the daunting trial of learning the metric system will have to wait until I can speak the language.) After I purchased my formaggio, I was asked by a group of American students to translate something in Italian for them. This I love. This was the third time in twenty four hours, I have been asked something in Italian. I'm not sure that feeling will ever get old.

Continuing through the mercato I came upon bizzare looking foods at each stand. So of course, I had to ask for each translation. "Como si dici? In italiano? In inglese?" And also very key to the meat market, "Que animale? Que parte?" These are very elementary and probably grammatically incorrect phrases, but they get the job done. About three only Italian-speaking meat vendors into the market, I came upon two butchers - one spoke Italian, and one was clearly not Italian or American, but miraculously spoke both. Here, I learned the most. I spent almost an hour asking for each name, animal, and part of that animal in both languages. My real life tutors made me repeat each word in Italian until I pronounced it correctly. I told the little, old Italian man that I would "Tornero domani" (I will return tomorrow). To which he responded, "A domani".

I spent about another hour in the market buying aceto balsamico (vingear) and salmone (clearly salmon) while learning about all of the other meats and fish at a few more stands. Successfully asking for each translation of everything in the entire market, I left smiling ear to ear and feeling quite accomplished.

Tomorrow, I will return and get the recipe I was promised for the most difficult word I learned to say: coniglio (rabbit). Hopefully, cooking it won't be as hard as saying it.