It was another beautiful day in the city! I'm home alone (again). Everyone left for their whirlwind vacations yesterday which means that I get to walk around in my underwear until Sunday. Freedom!
Let's face it, I need money. But who doesn't? My travel plans will have to be cut a little short- Ireland is (fortunately) already booked, so I can't talk myself out of that one. But for the remainder of my time it looks like I'll be sticking around Tuscany! If I had to be stuck somewhere because I'm completely destitute, I think I chose a pretty good place to do it.
I went for a run today- actually kind of a run/walk/jog (not necessarily in that order) and I went back to the "oasis" I discovered a few days ago. Running past the embassy on Monday gave me an extra boost of energy (there's definitely something to be said about hot soldiers in uniform) and I went further than I have before, only to discover a little slice of nature right in the middle of Florence. The setting definitely makes me feel like I've stepped back in time- there's neatly trimmed hedges lining the dirt road, and antique streetlamps surrounded by flowers and grass and trees. Plus, the Arno's dam breaks off at a certain point which makes the river look something like a waterfall. People lay around sketching and reading by the river, and Italian women take their dogs for a walk while Italian men walk their mothers. (Yes, that stereotype is entirely correct).
I found peace in my solitude, and laid for a while on the grass listening to a brilliantly crafted playlist on my Ipod. Until an Italian man (mid 40's at least) stopped by on his bike and poked me with his foot so I would wake up and we could "chat." I gave him "yes" and "no" answers to his questions for a while, but after a few minutes I couldn't contain my creeped-out-ness and told him that I was tired and was going home. What is it with these Italians??? First I get followed by a man on a bike (the first day I started running again) and now another one is under the impression that it's ok to stop and strike up a conversation by poking me with his foot? I'm certain these men aren't drawn to me by my looks- I have a hard time fathoming that a sweaty, red, round face is a sign of attractiveness even in Italy. Maybe I should keep my newly acquired tummy, it seems to be driving these Italian men crazy. On second thought...
On a lighter note, my class is going extremely well! Teaching the one hour a week that I do is the best, most rewarding thing that I'm doing/ will do while I'm here. I'm learning my way around my kids just as they're learning their way around me. We tried to play Bingo the other day (they're learning colors in English) and half the class ended up sobbing when they didn't win. There's something to be said for competition in this country- it's obviously instilled at a very early age! So I'm hoping that if there's no more bingo there won't be anymore crying, screaming 6 year olds to handle. Actually, the walk to and from the elementary school is one of my favorite parts; it gives me a chance to move around a little before I have to get back to class. Luckily in this semester's schedule I have the same time slot open which means that I get to keep my same class.
On Thursdays I go to Mythology (this semester it'll be 20th Century Italian Authors) from 8:30-9:50 and sprint out of Aula 2 as I have to make it to the elementary school by 10:30. First it's past Sister's Bar, then I walk to the train station. Once I'm over the bridge that crosses the tracks, I pass by the soccer stadium, then the REAL men's soccer stadium where the professionals play. All I have left to look for is the carousel right next to the outdoor market. Left at the Carousel, Right onto Via Cento Stelle (Street of 100 Stars) and a straight walk until the school. I love passing by the fisherman's store on the way, the old men who work there remind me somewhat of the Italy that I expected when I first moved here. They're always fighting with each other (a battle of hand gestures) while they're smoking outside. Old women are always out walking their dogs in their finest furs, and I pass by the same Security Guard standing outside of the local bank every Thursday. I think he's even starting to recognize me- the girl who always rushes by, listening to her ipod, with a silly grin plastered on her face. Sheesh, she must be weird. The same African Immigrants offer me the same umbrellas and lighters and hats every Thursday, and the same man passes me on his vespa.
Who says I don't have roots here?
Anyway, I'm going to get back to my book. Edith Wharton really knows her stuff.
