Laughter Transcends All Languages

     

     Many people come to Florence on a pilgrimage of sorts to see the architecturally magnificent churches.  Within many of these churches are world famous frescoes, such as The Last Judgment by Vasari that covers the interior of Brunelleschi's Dome of the Duomo.  While I can appreciate the beauty of the churches and the frescoes, when I came to Florence I went on my own pilgrimage......to find the best pizza.  Me being me, which some would with affection describe as a little obsessive compulsive, I opened up my MAC and began my quest (I prefer to be think of myself as well organized, attentive to details and meticulously researches anything that I undertake).  Choosing "the best" of anything in Florence, whether it be a pizzeria, or a gelateria or a trattoria, can be overwhelmingly difficult because no other country in the world celebrates great food and wine like Italy.  After hours of careful research, I made my decision and I set out starving for yummy sauce, cheese that melts in my mouth and a crust that is warm and soft.

     After walking 3 or 4 kms I, with great anticipation, walked into a little pizzeria that was small, but warm.  There was not an empty seat to be found.  This, I immediately thought, was a good sign and my stomach got excited.  I was greeted by the owner, who has the most welcoming smile.  I ordered my pizza and joined a young American couple in their twenties as there was no other seat.  I have come to learn that sharing tables is quite commonplace here in Florence.  When my pizza came I could not help but notice that it was in the shape of a heart.  The young American woman sitting at my table said to me and her male friend, "Hey, how come I did not get mine in the shape of a heart".  We laughed and I said, "Judging my the age of the owner you probably have to be at least 30 for that".  The pizza was well worth the walk and the anticipation.  I have never tasted a pizza like it.  The crust was so airy that you hardly had to chew it and the cheese, instead of being rubbery, melted in my mouth.  

     The owner joined me to chat after the couple left.  I use the term "chat" loosely as he speaks very little english and I speak almost no italian, other than what few words I have learned from my "Italian for Dummies" book.
     I have been in Florence for three weeks now.  Once a week I set out for mouth watering pizza and a visit with my new Italian friend.  Together we enjoy pizza, a nice glass of wine and then an expresso.  While we struggle with the language we always mange to share a few laughs together.  He practices his english with me, and I practice my italian with him.  Our conversations usually are a mixture of words, charades and drawings with the help of my trusty electronic translator.  Despite the language barrier we have become friends; amici.

     This week after a wonderful visit together, with lots of laughs as we tried to navigate our way through each other's languages, my new amico gave me a warm hug and kiss good-bye and then said, "Elizabet (Italians do not pronouce the "th") take a t-shirt (one of the restaurant t-shirts)".  I could not help but start laughing.  He said, "Elizabet, why do you laugh at me?".  I replied, still laughing, "Lesson to learn - Canadian women like diamonds, not t-shirts".  Despite our language barrier we laughed so hard and when we stopped laughing and looked at each other we started laughing again.  

     As I walked back to my apartment, still laughing to myself,  I was grateful that friendship and laughter has no language.  I will look forward to a delicious heart shaped pizza, and more laughs, next week with my new amico.      

               

   

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The Person Behind Great Art Is Sometimes An Even Greater Treasure

     

     I recently had the pleasure of spending the afternoon with a world renowned artist that was introduced to me through a friend.  When I called her to arrange our first meeting she warned me that I had to climb 92 stairs to her apartment.  I think I must have unwittingly let out a groan of shock because she quickly pointed out that they were palace stairs, and therefore less strenuous then normal stairs.  She went on to say that she was 86 years old and had just had a pacemaker put in, and if she could manage the stairs then so could I.  I knew then by the feistiness in her tone that I was in for a treat spending the afternoon with her.

     When I arrived at her apartment we engaged in conversation as if I had known her for years.  Every once in a while you come across someone that you just instantaneously feel comfortable with.  While I could not immediately put my finger on to why, I was drawn to her.  Later I would understand why.
     While I knew she was an artist before I met her, to me that meant that she had a little place in her home where she liked to paint as a hobby.  I had no idea that she was a world renowned artist until I Googled her when I returned to my apartment.  It was only after I met her that I realized that I had met a very special person, and thus was curious about her work.  Despite her stature in the world of art, there is nothing pretentious about her.  In many ways she reminded me of my grandmother.  She clearly has a zest for life, has an air of strength about her and calls it as she sees it.  I could not help but laugh with affection inside when she told me that she thought that I should wear my hair shorter as it would be less work to take care of.    

     Her apartment was magnificent.  Well worth the 92 stair climb.  I have never seen anything like it.  It was enormous and had the feel of a New York loft complete with the original palace doors and windows, but it was like a gallery in that the walls were adorned with works of art; some by her and some by other well known artists.  As she shared some of the artists names with me she saw the fog in my eyes and said, without judgement, "You don't know much about art do you?".  I had to confess that the world of art is a stranger to me.  In school I preferred to dissect animals, and mix together chemical concoctions, to taking art classes.  Despite this, spending time listening to my new friend about her life was one of the most fascinating afternoons that I have had in a long time.  Going up into her studio was a real treat.  Every wall was comprised of windows that looked out onto Florence.  On her workbench was a piece that she is currently work on.   I could see why she instantaneously fell in love with the apartment decades ago, overlooking all those stairs, as even I who does not know a thing about art could appreciate that this studio was a dream for an artist.  

     Our visit had to come to an end because she tired.  I was glad to hear that she wanted Libby and I to come back for another visit as I was left feeling that she is like a great book in that I think that there is much more to learn as we turn the pages of our friendship.  Seeing the historical apartment was an experience.  If only the walls could talk.  And it was obvious to even my eye that the artwork that adorned the walls were treasures.  But as I walked away I could not help but feel that the greatest treasure before my eyes that day was the remarkable woman that I had the pleasure to meet.    

             

    

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The Italian Diet

     

     Today I put on my size 10 jeans and could not help but notice that the fit is looser.  Even my skinny jeans, which were a little snug when I left Canada, are now comfortably loose.  Like so many women I have tried many diets over the years.  There has been Weight Watchers, the Atkins Diet, the South Beach Diet......I could go on and on and on.  Ladies I think I have found the best diet.....The Italian Diet.

     I am not sure if my morning expresso helps kick my metabolism into third gear.  It sure feels that way as I buzz around Florence.  Or maybe it is the 53 (yes I counted each and every one) stairs that I have to climb up to the apartment that I am staying in.  I climb those stairs at least 4 times a day.  At first it felt like torture, and my thighs and bottom hurt for days, but now I do them without thought.  It could be the shopping at the market, as there is virtually no processed food.  Every other day I buy fresh chicken, fruit and vegetables.  There are no candy or chip aisles at the market.  

     I have noticed that while the food in the trattorias is delicious, the portions are much smaller then in Canada.  Canadians tend to gravitate to the restaurants that give the biggest portions for the dollar, and it doesn't really matter about quality or taste.  We usually gorge it down so fast, often while we are driving, that we don't even really have time to notice if we actually enjoyed it.  The portions here in Florence would by Canadian standards be considered a "diet" portion, but it is loaded in flavour like you have never experienced.  You can't help but want to savour each and every bite, as like kissing a man that is a fabulous kisser, you just don't want the experience to end.    

     And then, of course, there is the walking.  Here, in the city of Florence, I walk everywhere.  There is no need for a car.  Even if you had one, it would take you longer to navigate the busy streets by car then by foot.  I set out in the morning and by the time that I make it back to my apartment I will have walked anywhere between 5 and 10 kms.  Most days I do that twice a day.

     Yesterday I headed out just before lunch.  I stopped at my favourite pizza restaurant for sustenance as I planned on making my way past the Ponte Vecchio to Piazza Michelangelo.  It is about a 40 minute walk.  I enjoyed a wonderful meal while visiting with a couple who were from Brazil, and were making their way to Amsterdam to live.  Before I knew it we had spent an hour together, complete strangers, talking about each other's lives.  This is not unusual here in Florence.  Often the restaurants that have particularly wonderful food are so busy that strangers will share a table.  Instead of looking at this as an inconvenience, many welcome it as an enjoyable part of the meal.

     Italians view meals much differently then North Americans.  It has been my experience here in Italy that the social experience of the meal is just as important as the meal itself.  I have to wonder if it is because of this that one enjoys their meal much more, resulting in not being as hungry throughout the day.  After an Italian meal you really feel like you have nourished yourself in many ways.
     As I wandered, undeterred by clouds and drizzle, along the Arno River, past the Ponte Vecchio, through the maze like streets and up the hill to the Piazza Michelangelo, I was so taken by what was around each corner that  I didn't give thought to how far I had walked.  It was hours before I trekked back up the 53 steps to my apartment, and not once did I think about food.  I think because I felt so full from such a wonderful day.          

     It could also be the lack of stress here that has contributed to the "Italian Diet".  I am beginning to think that the national mantra for Italians is, "It is not a problem, don't worry", as I have heard it so many times.  There is something to be said for a simpler stress free life.  With no worries one has no reason to run to the fridge to stuff those worries back down with food, or to use food as a diversion from what you are really thinking and feeling.    
     Italy just may be the place for my dreams to come true......to get back into a size 8 pair of jeans.     

              

    

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A Tall, Dark and Handsome Man Wouldn't Hurt

     

     A friend of mine, who just moved back to Canada after living in Florence for several years, told me about a small ancient church not far from the Duomo.  She came across it by accident one day.  As I was in the area I decided to visit the church.  

     Santa Margherita de' Cerchi is said to be the location of Dante's marriage to Gemma Donati.  To the left of the alter is the tomb of Beatrice Portinari; Dante's great love.  While Dante is said to have only met Beatrice twice, once when they were children and once in passing on the street when they were young adults, their encounters had such an impact on him that Beatrice inspired many of his writings.  Even though Beatrice married another man, and died at the young age of 24, Dante is said to have kept an abiding love for her long after she died.  

     To the left of Beatrice's tomb is a basket overflowing with letters in many different languages.  Beatrice's tomb has become a popular place for women to leave notes asking for divine intervention in finding love.  In a world that has become so materialistic, I was struck by the universality of the desire for love. 

     As I sat in the church I prayed for a safe adventure.  Oh, and I added that meeting a tall, dark and handsome man wouldn't hurt.  Who am I to interfere with divine intervention?  

     

         

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Falling In Love With Florence

  
     As I wandered the streets of Florence the day after arriving I quickly fell in love with the city.  Really, it was love at first site.  The city has an energy much like New York, but has a beauty like no other.  Initially it felt like I was trying to make my way through a maze lined with architectural beauty.  Often I heard, "Bella you look lost", as I tried to navigate my way using my trusty map.
     I think we all remember the moment that we fall in love and for me, with Florence, it was when I walked around a corner and was greeted by the magnificent Uffizi Gallery.  The beauty of the building was reason alone, but my experience was also coupled with hearing music being played by local musicians and human statues that in and of themselves were works of art.  While I would never profess to be a connoisseur of art, the experience of great art on so many levels brought a warmth to my heart and tears to my eyes.  It was at that moment that I realized that I had the privilege of living in a city that was full of so much beauty.  While in school I was always a lover of science and math, and I avoided art classes as if they were the plague, it was at that moment that I got it for the first time in my life;  great art evokes emotion deep within one's self.  

       

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Ripping Off the Band Aid

     While I know with every bone in my body that the decision to start the next chapter of my life in Italy is right for me, it is not to say that it was not hard leaving the people that I love.  While I am for the first time in a very long time excited about the future, rather than being afraid and plagued with worry, I still shed many tears saying good-bye to the people that I am so blessed to have love me.  

     As I wept in the arms of my son he comforted me telling me to go live out my dreams and find happiness.  I could not help but be struck by the role reversal of him pushing me out of the nest.  When being a good mother has been such a significant part of my life for so many years it is hard to imagine waking up with my focus solely being on what will make me happy in the day, but that day has come.  

     What I was dreading most was having my best friend of over 25 years drive me to the airport.  The last time I was in Italy was two years ago with her to celebrate our 25th anniversary of being friends.  We shared so many amazing moments together on our "great grape adventure" through Tuscany.  While some may have found it odd that we were celebrating the anniversary of our friendship like many would a wedding anniversary, for us it did not seem odd at all.  Why don't we celebrate the anniversary of our wonderful friendships?  After all, often the marriages end while our friendships remain everlasting.

  

     While so many people go through life in search of their soul mate I do not have that need as I have found that in Elizabeth.  The very definition of a soul mate is a person that you share a deep and natural affinity, love, intimacy and compatibility with - our twin soul.  While such a term is usually reserved for a lover or a spouse, why can't it be the one that has walked through life with you?  No one knows me and loves me like Elizabeth.

     When we first met we were young and naive women entering into university.  Since then we have shared both great happiness and tears together.  We have in many ways grown up together in every way that counts.  We stood beside each other through our relationships with men, through marriages, through the birth of our children and through our divorces.  While we may not have always agreed with each other's life choices what has made our friendship everlasting is that no matter what we have supported each other without judgement.  Our motto: Eyes wide open.  Just as it should be with a soul mate, we know what each other is feeling without the need for words, and often we know what the other is thinking before we have even finished our thought.  I don't know if our special bond is grounded in that we happen to share the same first name, or if it is that Elizabeth's birthday is the same as my grandmother's.  Both women have truly unconditionally loved me, as I have loved them, and both are women of understated strength. 

     On the drive to the airport Elizabeth and I tried as long as possible to deny the impending reality of me getting on a plane.  During the weeks leading up to me leaving Elizabeth often uttered, "I can't believe that you are leaving me", but just as often she said that she knew that this was something that I needed to do for me.  Again, her unwavering support.  I decided that it was best that when we got to the airport that the good-bye be fast like ripping off a band aid - deeply painful for a few moments, but better that then lingering pain.  So just outside the airport entrance we sobbed in each other's arms, even though we knew in our hearts that this was not really good-bye as with a friendship like ours their is never really a good-bye; it is everlasting.  

        As my plane approached Italy and I looked out the window to see the beautiful coastline a sense of peace came over me.  It just felt so right.  I have not left behind those whom I love and who love me.  I know with certainty that they will always be in my life.  I smile when I think about how they have already with excitement made plans to come and see me and share in my new life.                       

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The Day I Decided to Walk Away.....Really Walk Away

  
     In mid October, as I laid in my bed crying myself to sleep some ten years after separating from the man that I married, I realized that in order to be free of him and the pain associated with him I had to walk away; walk as far away as possible.   I thought I did that ten years ago, but evidently not living in the same house anymore was not far enough away.  Previously that day I had been in Court for what seemed like a never ending battle, despite being divorced for 8 years.  As I sat there I could not believe that ten years after separating from my ex-husband I was still being faced with the lies and the vengeance of a man that struggles with mental illness.  I played over and over in my head the words that he spewed at me over ten years ago, "My mom rejected me, my dad rejected me, if you ever think I will let you reject me.  I will ruin you".  He has tried with great effort and deceit to do just that; ruin me.      

     When I first entered into the Court system I had faith that justice would be served, and that it would recognize that this divorce was much more then the typical "ugly" split up.  I had no idea that the Court was ignorant to the signs of mental illness.  At the time it seemed so obvious to me, and it was obvious to the many doctors that were involved with our family.  Maybe I expected too much as after all that while mental illness may be the face of the homeless person that wanders the streets, it can also be the not so obvious face of the charming, intelligent and seemingly successful person that you fell in love with.   As a person who struggles with mental illness can often present well for a short period of time, unless you live with mental illness, it can be a face that you do not recognize.  Part of me understood the Court's ignorance as time and time again I asked myself how could I not have seen the signs earlier, but mental illness can lay dormant for years waiting to rear it's ugly head and with effort it can be covered up.  Like a tiger, when it decides to pounce it shreds your life as you knew it and if you are unable to get away you can be destroyed by it.

     While at the time I felt like I was alone in trying to survive breaking free from the wrath of mental illness, I have come to over the years meet many others who have walked in my shoes.  While many talk about their battles to survive physical illness, mental illness is still very much a disease that is not commonly talked about.  Perhaps out of fear of being judged, for those that struggle with it.  Perhaps out of fear of not being believed and understood, for those that have lived with someone that is plagued with it.  
     While I was blessed to have many people who loved and supported me through what has turned out to be a battle for my life, I think that unless you live it you don't truly understand it.  This battle leaves you feeling broken.  Like Elizabeth Gilbert I had my moment on the bathroom floor sobbing, but I also found myself sobbing on the couch, cleaning the house, driving and as I recall most nights for two years as I tried to fall asleep.  In order to survive the anguish at some point you have to decide that you are no longer going to be a broken person.  The Elizabeth Gilbert moments have to stop.  Luckily that day came for me.  The day that I looked at myself in the mirror and said, "I am going to reclaim my life.  I am going to start living again.  I deserve peace and happiness in my life again.  I am no longer going to allow someone else, or their actions, to control my life".  While tragically I am sure that not everyone experiences this moment, and many remain broken for the rest of their lives, for me that decision was made the night of October 20, 2010.  Some may ask why it took so long for me to decide to break free from the insanity, but when you have children breaking free from their father is not an easy task.   In many ways your children bind you together.  It is only when they get older, and they live their own lives and make their own decisions, that you can start living your own life again.  While I could recount all the pain that I went through,  I am leaving that behind.  I refuse to be broken for even one more day.  Instead, this is the story of me taking back my life and choosing to truly live again.

     The world is a big place if one is faced with deciding where to begin living again.  I toyed back and forth between Italy and Africa.  Italy is a beautiful country that I have travelled to before.  It is a country where I have very much felt as home in and a country where I have experienced great joy.  I also contemplated Africa as I have had a desire to for many years work with the children there.  I also considered Africa because I want to sit on the peak of Mt. Kilimanjaro and look out at all that the world has to offer.  While it has felt like I have climbed many mountains in life, to actually climb one and look out at the vast beautiful land below would for me be symbolic of all the beauty that life has still to offer and the perseverance that it sometimes takes to experience this beauty.

     I have chosen Italy to begin the rest of my life as I have spent most of my life giving to others personally and professionally, and I am feeling that before I am able to truly give to the children of Africa I have to take time to give to myself.  What better place to do that then in Italy?  A country that offers beauty, wonderful people and delicious food and wine.  It is a country that you can easy indulge in so many things, and frankly I need a little indulging.  After I give to myself I will have more to offer the children of Africa.  Better that I embark upon them with joy in my heart and on my face, as they have fought so many of their own battles that they do not need to look at the scars of mine on my face.  

     So, I did it with greater ease then expected.  I booked my flight to Italy.  While some were taken back with great surprise by this decision, those that have held my hand through my journey celebrated this decision with me.  They understood that this was not running away from life, but instead running to life.

        

      

         

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