Arrivederci

The last exams were yesterday. Many students turned in their last paper at 5, headed home to spend a few hours packing, and headed off on the next train. In a whirlwind day I went from the high pressures and anxiety of the middle of exam week to feeling like Stanford students had abandoned the city and were gone, gone for good. It’s amazing how fast the quarter ended. I felt it coming up quickly after Thanksgiving, but yesterday I blinked at the wrong moment and it was over.

My goodbyes are a bit slower, as I have elected to stay for a week to see my friend Miki in Modena, and of course Alii in Genova. Yesterday after the last exam I had lunch with Miki, who had come to meet with a professor at the Stanford Center, his thesis advisor, and we walked slowly back to the train station together as I exulted in my sudden lack of deadlines. We stopped for gelato at Gelateria di Neri, a famous gelateria blocks away from Santa Croce which I had in some unimaginable way never eaten at until Wednesday night.

After saying goodbye to him at the train station, I wandered over to Santa Maria Novella and explored the quiet museum by myself. Small, but pretty. There is something about empty, ancient cloisters that is heavy. Like the figures on the ruined frescoed walls are watching you in their silence. Yet at the same time it is saturated with calm, and the world outside its walls disappears. Meditation is palpable in the air around you. As I left I looked up into the sky of the courtyard to see waves and waves of birds swirling, like the ocean waters in tide pools, retreating into the midst of advances and overlapping in graceful arcs, moving like they were orchestrated high above in the sky. It was mesmerizing. I watched for twenty minutes as the thousands of birds circled around, coming together and breaking apart, one group seemingly flying into the other as the waves crisscrossed. Their spontaneous geometry was graceful and I swear it was coordinated. Then they started descending, the thousands of them all trying to land on the five or six trees in the cloister and by the train station across the street. I have no idea why they went crazy, why they were all gathered there. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Eventually, I tore myself away. I went and watched the beginning of the Phantom of the Opera with Eric while he packed up. I had to stop right at the best part because he had to leave for Rome. Definitely need to get my hands on that movie soon to see how it ends. I ate dinner with my host family, my Italian sister and her friend talking with my host mother about Italian soap operas in the absence of my host father, and my host brother just rolling his eyes.

Afterwards I called Kelly, whose jetlagged mom had already gone to sleep at their hotel, and together we went over to a café my host mom had recommended – Hemmingway’s. It was quite a walk, way over on the other side of town, but oh my god. The place is famous for its hot chocolate, and I think you can order it about fifty different ways. I had no clue what to get, so I went for simple plain hot chocolate. I still had to choose between the four plain hot chocolates they offer of varying intensities of chocolate, so I safely chose one in the middle.

Best hot chocolate of my life! Incredibly rich, but not overly so. Thick, but not heavy. It wasn’t grainy and didn’t form a skin at the top. Piping hot, but never scalding. It was honestly the best I’ve ever had, by quite a bit actually. And of course, I discover it the night before I leave Florence! Too bad it couldn’t be in California. I’m going to have to live knowing that the best hot chocolate in the world is thousands and thousands of miles away. But it was worth it. Kelly and I talked for an hour or two, reliving the quarter. These last few weeks have really been great, and turned a quarter that had its ups and downs into quite a good quarter overall. We’re both ready to go home, and have Christmas with our families, but we bid a friendly arrivederci to the city and our memories here.

A relatively unknown fact about the word “arrivederci” – literally, it doesn’t mean goodbye. It translates to a (until) ri (again, like in redo) veder (see) ci (us, each other). Until we see each other again. Which is what I bid the beautiful, cold, rainy, slightly smelly, art-saturated city of Florence. I don’t know when I’ll come back, and I don’t really ever see myself living here. Too many tourists and Americans. But I will come back. I’ve promised Dad. And I would like to see Florence in spring or early summer. See the early green on the trees or the scarlet poppies blooming on the hills. Come back and visit all my favorite places again. Remember this quarter of mine, spent studying and living in the Tuscan city of Florence.

Gelaterie della Firenze

So, I meant to write about gelaterias as I discovered them. However that hasn’t ended up happening with a few exceptions, so I’ll try to do a quick summary of the best. I’ve come across a few unknown hole-in-the-wall places that I like quite a lot, and I’ve also randomly stumbled into some of the most renowned gelaterias in the city.

First, Gelateria Caffetteria Veneta in Piazza Beccaria. Conveniently located half way between my house and Kelly’s, we met there sometimes when she was especially busy. It’s not open very late or very often, but we went a few times together. The gelato was obviously homemade, and their fruit gelatos were superb. I found one of my favorite pairings with dark chocolate there: pear, the gelato full of small bits of ripe fruit.

On Halloween, after going out to dinner with Kelly, Tristan, and Alii and her friends from Genova at Il Pizzaiolo we were wandering over towards the Duomo and their hostel when we passed Gelateria dei Vivoli. Kelly asked if we wanted to stop, and when I said I’d never been there she declared that it was famous, it was supposed to be the best in the city, and we had to try it. So try it we did. I found it very good, with a slightly overwhelming number of flavors, but honestly not an extraordinary experience. Delicious all around, certainly, but not a particularly remarkable memory or a gelato that made me want to come back again and again.

During the lunch Kelly and I spent with our professor Fosca and the director Campani, we discussed gelaterias, and they strongly recommended a gelateria close to the Duomo called Grom. It’s on the same street as the English book store, and I’d almost walked in during my first week in the city. I was by the Duomo for lunch a few days after our conversation, so I stopped in. They have a few dependable flavors and a menu of seasonal flavors that change every month, and the feeling of gelato artisans with an almost scientific process. My first time there I had dark chocolate with the November flavor of caramel. A very delicious combination. Their dark chocolate gelato isn’t the darkest or most decadent of all the gelaterias I’ve tried, but it was very good and went well with the caramel which was absolutely delicious. I went back this last week as part of a sort of farewell tour to my favorite places around the city. This time dark chocolate with the December flavor of almond. Again, delicious. The almond had little slivers of nut in it and once gain went excellently with the slightly mild dark chocolate.

In mid November I went with a group of students to Spera Pizzeria, the best pizzeria in Florence, and afterwards walked a couple blocks to Gelateria Medici which they said was also famous and practically a requirement if you were studying here as we were. Again, overwhelming choices, and the unusual ability to have three separate flavors in a small size – usually you just get two. I forget all of my flavors, but I remember instead of dark chocolate I went for their spicy cinnamon chocolate. It was good, and kind of reminded me of Mexican hot chocolate, or Chuao’s spicy mayan chocolate, but honestly it wasn’t my favorite. To really rate it fairly I would need to go back and try some flavors I liked better, but it was kind of far away from my house and I never did end up going back.

I think perhaps my favorite of all of them is Gelateria di Neri, by Santa Croce. My host brother mentioned it when I asked him about the best gelaterias early in the quarter, and I suggested we go together sometime, but that somehow never ended up happening. Anyway, this Wednesday night when Kelly and I were haphazardly wandering around the city starting to say goodbye and wrapping up our memories, it was one of the few places open and as we wandered in I said I’d never been. She was stunned, and I realized that once again I’d waited until the very last moment of the quarter to find one of the best parts of Florence. It took forever to get service, as the one person working first filled a to-go container, and then made crepes for a couple who were there before us. But after I had relaxed and gotten out of my American culture of rush-rush and into the Italian culture of taking your time over food and never being in a rush I enjoyed a conversation with Kelly, and actually appreciated the care and attention with which the server was attending each customer. I ordered a dark chocolate with caramella mou – I have no idea exactly what it was, but I think some type of caramel. Very delicious. And the server was, as I said, very nice, which Kelly and I realized this last month was usually the determining factor for whether or not we liked a place – how cheap and good the food was but mostly how friendly the people were. I went back the next afternoon with Miki and tried dark chocolate with a basically strawberry cheesecake type of flavor which was a bit different from any of the combinations I’d tried before and really quite phenomenal.

Overall? My favorites were Grom for pure artistic ability, and Neri for deliciousness and overall character. And, I have to say, La Carriera 2 was consistently good all quarter. They have possibly the most decadent of all the dark chocolates I tried, and we also discovered a larger original La Carriera that is apparently pretty well known. So my advice for anyone coming to Florence and staying in the center – Grom by the Duomo and La Carriera 2 and Neri by Santa Croce. Or, if you are across the Arno and a little bit more westward, more in the vicinity of Santa Trinita, go to the original La Carriera, and do yourself a huge favor and go to Hemminway’s for the world’s best hot chocolate (they also have gelato, which I didn’t get the chance to try) And just enjoy! I have the suspicion that Florence has some of the best gelato in all of Italy, so don’t let the opportunity go to waste.

Night of the Cello: A Rough Prose Poem

Sitting down, the chatter, red velvet seats, many people talking, a relaxed social scene. Hush, slowly, silence grows, waiting. Bursts of applause, they walk on stage. The cello, the piano, sing out, beginning a night of music.

The cellist, Yo-Yo Ma, plays, plays his heart. He plays softly, he plays loud. So impassioned, he practically leaps from his chair, his fingers flying up and down, his arm back and forth, his hair like a bat beating its wings about his head. So much energy and motion he seems to be convulsing. The music tears through the air. One stroke, so intense, vicious as if a sword slices through someone’s throat. The pianist’s fingers fly, blur, sing, whir. So fast, they form their own personal tornado of a whirlwind with the force to seemingly pull her fingers away, flying swirling away. The violence that flees up the ivory piano keys.

The piano and cello play together, at moments in close movement, together, touching, and yet with a tension, not unlike that of the tango. At moments intertwined, strands of a single thread, twisting together. The cello is the sound of the wind blowing through a spider web. The piano is the rain fall, dropping on the fallen leaves. The piano is the weaving of the spider’s web, each strand strung out delicately, connected precisely to the rest of fragility. The cello breaks my heart.

The cello is a kite tail, red, amongst fluffy clouds and penetratingly blue sky, dancing weaving in and out, away. A bird soaring up up and up to simply get away, as the song says, high above the sorrows. Soaring to escape. The need to deny. Just as the New York cabbie told the airplane passenger – from up there you cannot see the misery. The cello flies up high because it can, to leave this world behind, below, for just a moment.

The cello a sigh. It is a waltz, not waltz music, but the dance itself, the man’s strong guiding hands, the woman’s flaring skirt, harmoniously twirling across the dance floor together. The piano is hands gracefully leaping, ballerinas in slow motion, hanging for impossibly ever as they elegantly fall back onto the music, intertwining, caressing, loving. The music is spun glass. The music becomes a couple dancing under the moonlight, the light playing off the waters of a lake, sparkling in points. The moon travels between the clouds, mixing shadows and even deeper shadows. A question is asked, and a pause hangs in the air between them. A low female voice answers. They keep dancing, no more words are spoken.

The cello is the play of the summer sun piercing the leaves, dappling shadows and yellow light on the ground in the warm early evening with the hum of insects. Not the day, nor the insects, but the play of light itself from sun to shade in the warm air. His hands moving are lace along the long neck of the cello.

The music is loved. The cellist and the pianist are loved. And they love what they do. Yo-Yo Ma practically skips and bounces off stage. He eagerly comes back, he plays, one, two, three, yes even four encores. He doesn’t want to leave. This is what he loves, and the world loves him for it. The short pieces contain an elegance, a poetry and the succinct, sweet beauty of a miniature, of candy in its foil wrapper. They are play for him, and he plays with spirit and delicacy, passion and incredible tenderness, and he plays at times for the sheer fun that is running through his hands. He does not need his music. Often his eyes are closed. At times he tilts his head back receiving the benediction of the stage lights. Mostly they cause dramatic shadows on his face. He occasionally glances at the pianist’s music, checking where she is. Twice, in the entire duration of the concert, he turns the page to his own music.

One of the encores, I recognize from first note wavering in the air. So much more powerful than a recording, this time it is the most beautiful piece of music I have ever heard. The note vibrates the air, so soft it is quieter than a whisper, merely a breath of wind. It is a caress, a fingertip’s touch, it delicately grazes the skin. So powerful it vibrates the core of my bones, I can’t breathe. My rib cage is paralyzed with the beauty. My hands tingle from applause. My body tingles from the music. Wow is the only verbal response and so pathetically inadequate it is not really worth saying. But something must expel the paralysis caused by the beautiful cello, the spell I was bound in by the notes that were woven through the air. Wow.

Finals and the German Christmas Market

This morning I woke up apathetic to the world. I’d worked on my final projects all day yesterday, only going out to have lunch and work some more. The plan was to work on them again all day today. And again all day tomorrow. Until Thursday, when the last of them was due. Not my idea of a fun week, especially for my last week here in Florence. But unfortunately there’s not really much to be done about it. I padded in pajamas into the kitchen for a quick breakfast – my usual, cereal with yogurt. My host family doesn’t eat yogurt but always makes sure to have some for me for my breakfast. Then, grab my computer and climb back into bed with it and get to work.

I didn’t make much progress. I really didn’t feel like working. It might help to call a friend, or my parents, or someone, and talk myself out of my funk. Thanks to the fact that my friends and family are on a different continent from me and thus were probably fast asleep, that was impossible. Instead, I squirreled under the covers, using them as a barrier between me and the outside world that I didn’t care for at the moment. Ostrich-style tactics: if you can’t see your problems, then they can’t see you. Didn’t work, but it was worth a try. I indulged my inner toddler in its temper tantrum of “I won’t I won’t I WON’T!” for a few minutes, mentally banging my head against a wall. Then I sighed, moved over to my desk, and got down to work.

After several hours of solid work, I finally finished my Italian power point presentation on the history of Italian food. To celebrate I decided that for lunch I would go to the German Christmas Market in Piazza Santa Croce. Usually, when I’m doing work at home, I just go across the street for a kabob. They serve them on panini bread which was a little weird at first, but I’ve found I like the alteration. Anyway, for lunch today I deserved a break and some fresh air. As it was probably going to be my only trip outside all day, I figured I’d better make it a good one.

I’ve already walked through the market a few times since they put it up a week ago. It’s pretty and festive and full of interesting things. I stopped there yesterday on my way back from my work-date with Kelly to buy some fingerless gloves – my host family turns the heat on in the evenings, but my hands are cold in the mornings too, and I can’t type with my regular gloves on. So, I sort of knew what was there, but I hadn’t paid too much attention to the food options before. On arriving today I was immediately confronted with a booth with a vat of some soupy, yummy, warm looking thing, and signs for bratwurst either in the form of a “German hotdog” it proclaimed in English, or on a plate with potatoes. I walked all around the square, figuring out what my options were. Pretty much more of the same. Some booths had delicious looking roast meat, pork I think. I decided I was in the mood for a simple, satisfying bratwurst. I didn’t want to be bothered with utensils. Unfortunately all the booths had annoying lines since it was lunch time, so I got in back of the nearest one.

The bratwurst was good. Sizzling hot meat is always good on a cold day. And I’d planned ahead and brought water from home, so I didn’t have to shell out an extra 2 euros for a small water. I sat on one of the benches surrounding the Piazza and watched the people go by. Always interesting. Indulged in more of my favorite game, “Italian, or American?” It’s surprisingly easy to pick out the Americans some times. I don’t know whether its style of clothes, or hair, or facial features or what, but a good number of Americans stick out easily. Not all of them, certainly – on occasion I’m startled by a nearby “Italian” breaking out into native English. It’s a fun game.

After I’d finished my bratwurst I decided to get dessert too. I deserved a little indulgence for working so hard. Plus I’ve had a huge craving for sweets all December. I don’t know what it is about Christmas time, but I keep wanting to bake Christmas cookies and eat gelato despite the cold. So I made another circuit of the piazza, this time trying to decide on a dessert. It was a hard choice. There were several strudel stands which looked delicious, and a crepe stand which sounded good but a bit strange coming from a German market in Italy. There was also a hot sweet bread booth, and a stand with chocolate covered fruit and candied apples. I eventually decided on the sweet bread. I’d seen booths for it before in previous markets, but never tried it. It’s not something I’ve ever seen in the States. It looked something like what Raf made at the campfire this summer in camp – a strip of bread wrapped around a stick and heated in a fire. This sweet bread was a little more elaborate than Raf’s campfire version – they had a machine to cook it just right, and rolled it in various toppings for you when it came out sweet and steaming hot. I had no clue which topping I wanted, and instead of choosing between nuts, coconut, vanilla, cinnamon, chocolate, and plain, I took the easy way out and asked the guy for his opinion on which one was best. He looked confused for a second, and then pointed to the nut one saying it was the original version. So, I went for that one, and waited for the next steaming cylinder of bread to be done. I also got a small cup of warm molten nutella to dip it in – I was craving chocolate.

When they handed me the piping hot bag I took my prize to go sit down on another bench. I really like those benches – I’ve spent a lot of time using them as a picnic table this quarter. Anyway, the bread was fantastic. Warm, sweet, nutty, chocolaty. I was full and happy and warm by the time I finished. Except for my butt, which was freezing from sitting so long on the cold cement bench. But it was definitely worth it.

In a much better frame of mind than I had woken up with, I walked back home, contentedly resigned to spend the afternoon and evening glued once again to my computer screen.

A Day in Morocco

I woke up to light coming in the cracks of the cloth tent ceiling above me. Cozy and warm under the three heavy wool blankets on the queen sized bed, I felt like I had just slept in a nice hotel, rather than a campsite in the middle of the sand dunes of the Sahara.

I slipped out of bed onto the carpeted floor that kept out the fine sand and quickly changed out of my pajamas, hoping to catch the sunrise. Ducking out of the tent flap, I saw we were in luck – although the sky was light the sun hadn’t yet peaked up over the large dune to our east. We climbed up out of the small valley of our campsite, and waited for the sun to rise over the quilt of sand dunes surrounding us.

The dawn was beautiful. The sky was light blue and pale yellow, lighting the rusty orange dunes that stretched out as far as we could see in all directions. The sky grew brighter and brighter and the blazing yellow glow of the rising sun slowly crested over the dunes. I went for a walk, my footprints blending with the prints of smaller animals in the soft sand. I made sure not to lose my direction in my circuit of the never-ending dunes. When we got back, the guys having taken their fill of photographs of the dunes in the morning light, we packed up and mounted our camels again, as our Berber guide Mohammed, who'd played cards with us the night before, led us back to civilization.

Showers and a hot breakfast were in order. The showers were warm and soothing, in the traditional mud and straw building of our hotel. Afterwards we piled into the car for our long car ride up to Fes, back through the Atlas Mountains. We were prepared for spending many hours in the car as we crossed the country. We were not prepared to hit a snowstorm. The mountains with their cedar forests were beautiful, but after awhile the rain turned to snow turned into a semi white out in some parts, as our view was reduced to the fifty feet around us. The views continued to be beautiful, snow falling on the cedar forests and dusting the empty fields that surrounded us. We passed the occasional shepherd, standing in the cold dressed in his traditional Moroccan djellaba with his flock of sheep and goats. Thankfully, the craziness of Moroccan driving did not extend into snowy conditions and drivers were unusually cautious through the mountain passes.

We decided to drive straight to Fes and skip the scenic stops, since the trip was taking longer than we thought it would. We arrived in Fes well after dark and found a parking place close to our hotel without getting lost too many times. And, as we stepped through the door of our hotel in a back alley of the medina (old city), we realized we had moved into a palace. An old traditional building, the hotel consisted of several large beautiful rooms surrounding two courtyards of orange trees and fountains.

After settling in for a half hour and filling out the required forms, we went looking for dinner before everything closed. We were too late to eat at the place recommended in the guide book, Clock Cafe, so we ended up eating at a place down the street. A perfectly decent traditional meal of kefta (meatballs), tagine (meat and vegetables slow cooked in an oven for a long time) and couscous, followed by the standard dessert of tangerines and mint tea. Full and exhausted, we returned to our hotel and quickly fell asleep. An amazing day in our travels in Morocco.