The Hills Were Alive....With Three Canadian Women

     Recently two wonderful friends came to visit.  Neither had been to Italy before.  Our days were filled with fun and joy.  The joy of just being together, and the joy of making memories together.  There is nothing like laughing with girlfriends.  I will never forget the night that we were returning home very late and as we walked along the Arno we laughed so hard that, well lets just say I was very glad that I had previously had "that 15 minute operation".  Those of you that have had children know the operation that I mean.  

     As part of our adventure together we bravely rented a car and headed out to the countryside.  Brave because Italian drivers can be a little crazy by North American standards, and even braver because I forgot my glasses at home.  I drove, only being able to see about 10 feet past the nose of the car, Brenda was in charge of reading the signs that I could not see, and Cathy was in charge of following the little blue dot on her IPhone map application.  Blue has become my new favourite colour.  Never have I sung the praises of technology as I did on this trip, especially as we were at times going around in circles in a roundabout not quite sure which exit to take.  That glorious little blue dot saved us from being "officially" lost on more then one occasion.

     First stop on the trip was the beautiful winery Vignamaggio.  While the 400 acre estate is spectacularly beautiful with its manicured gardens and views overlooking the hills of Tuscany, it is also fraught with history.  Leonardo da Vinci grew up just a few miles from the estate, and Monna Lisa was born at Vignamaggio in 1479.  

     I was looking forward to returning to this winery as it produces delicious olive oil.  When we arrived, we were disappointed to find out that it was closed until the beginning of April.  Determined to get my olive oil, Libby and I set out to find someone on the grounds.  I figured that with a winery of this size someone had to be around.  Leaving my friends in the car, I ventured out on a mission to secure olive oil.  Sometimes determination pays off.  I did indeed find an employee who warmly greeted me.  After informing me that the winery and estate was closed, he told me that we were free to wander the grounds if we wanted.  I told him that what I really wanted was some of their magnificent olive oil; of course with a big smile on my face and batting my eyelashes.  A girl has to do what a girl has to do to get her olive oil.  Oh, how Italian men like to please women.  Off to the warehouse he went to get me olive oil.

               

     Mission accomplished, we set out for Cortona for an Under the Tuscan Sun experience.  Driving through the hills of Tuscany was a much different experience for me, compared to my last trip three summers ago.  This time the air was crisp, the sunflowers had not yet broken ground and the grapevines were still laying dormant.  Still with every twist in the road one was greeted with scenery, well that movies are made from.  

  

     Cortona was quiet this time of year.  The outdoor cafes were not yet set up, and the streets felt as though something was missing without the energy of all the tourists.  Many of the shops had not yet opened up for the season, but Snoopy's was open.  Snoopy's was where Liz, the kids and I indulged ourselves once, sometimes twice a day, with scrumptiously creamy gelato when we were last in Cortona.  On the hot summer days we would enjoy our gelato, while sitting on the steps and watching the people go by.  We would call it "our moment".  The "moment" didn't quite feel the same without them.  I was reminded that some moments are special, and forever treasured, not so much because of the place but because of the people that you shared them with.    

Preview

            

     I enjoyed showing my friends the buildings that they had become so familiar with from watching Under The Tuscan Sun.  I don't know a woman that hasn't watched that movie at least three times.  A movie that women have a strong connection with, not because they have delusions of renovating a villa in Tuscany, but because it reminds us that inherent in being a woman is being a survivor, that we are often stronger then we give ourselves credit for, and that we can rebuild our lives after experiencing great turmoil and find happiness again.  Women are drawn to this movie because it celebrates the rebirth of a woman's life, after choosing to not stay broken after experiencing heartache.           

     Our day's journey ended with me driving my friends to Francis Mayes' actual villa.  While her life story is actually quite different from the movie, her villa has nevertheless become a symbol of rebirth and happiness to come for the throngs of women that drive by every year.  I was having trouble finding it.  I knew there was a turn that I had to take, but I just could not remember exactly where it was.  As I was driving slowly I pulled over so that the car behind me could pass.  It turned out to be a police car and it pulled up beside us.  I explained to the very dashing officer that we were three Canadian women lost and looking for the villa of Francis Mayes.  Only in Italy would you get a friendly police escort.  

      

     When we returned to the apartment after our day in the hills of Tuscany, we savoured a glass of red wine just as we had savoured every moment of our day together.  A day that celebrated being a woman, being a survivor, our strength, the power of friendship and the rebuilding of our lives.  While it is unlikely that any of us will be renovating a villa in the future, we are certain that our future will bring happiness because we have been brave enough to dream and even braver to take steps to make our dreams a reality.   

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Laundry Karma????

     I am not sure if there is such a thing as laundry karma, but I am sure feeling like it has bit me in the ass.  

     When I lived in Canada my friends use to sing the praises of hanging their laundry on the line to dry.  I heard all about how it was better for the environment, how the sun naturally brightened their whites and they went on and on about how fresh their clothes smelled.  While they were professing the benefits of hanging their clothes on what I perceived (and verbalized quite openly) was a tacky clothes line, I was professing how the days of "Little House on the Prairie" were gone and how I liked my warm and fluffy clothes out of my $2000 high tech dryer just fine.  Truth be told, I would call my friends in jest a few not so nice names related to them hanging clothes on the line, but at least I did it to their faces.  Subtlety is not one of my strong suits.  On many occasions I have stated that hell would freeze over before I would get a clothes line.  Well, Florence did have the worst snow storm this past winter that it has had in 25 years.  Does that count?

     While I had been taking my clothes to the laundromat, I finally decided to cross over to the dark side and wash my clothes with an Italian washing machine and yes, hang them out to dry on a line.  I am sure a few of my friends back in Canada are picking themselves up off the floor laughing right about now.

     First step was to figure how to use the machine.  Washing machines here tend to be very small, but I am told are more efficient than North American machines.  They also tend to be in the weirdest of spots, like under a stove or beside the dishwasher.  No laundry rooms here.  There is a better chance of finding the washing machine outside, then for a home to have a laundry room like we are use to having in Canada. 

     Clothes loaded in the machine, soap in the dispenser, the only thing left to do was to pick the cycle and then turn it on.  That is where my Italian clothes washing experience went downhill, and downhill fast.  Very quickly I realized that it was not going to be as simple as turning a dial to a cycle.  There were multiple buttons and two dials.  The buttons had words under them so I was able to easily google what they meant.  The one dial I could tell was for water temperature, but the other dial had letters.  How on earth would I figure out what they meant?  I decided to go ask a neighbour that I knew spoke english.  Her washing machine had numbers instead of letters.  She did tell me that it was important to figure it out as there is a cycle that can last 90 minutes, and with the cost of electricity here you would not want that.  Back to my apartment I went, feeling frustrated.  

     I sat down in front of the machine on a chair staring at it, as if it would somehow talk to me and tell me what to do.  While the machine did not talk to me, I did find myself talking to it saying with conviction...."I am a highly educated and intelligent woman, I am going to figure you out".  Okay there might of been a bad word or two in there too.  Then it came to me.  I had an epiphany.  I got my computer and googled Italian washing machines.  Sure enough there was a sight that explained to visitors of Italy how to use a washing machine similar to mine.  On the site, beside each letter, was an explanation in english what the cycle type was.  I did it!  The sound of water filling the machine was music to my ears.  Oh, I almost forgot to share with you that during this process I had to email a friend to ask when you add the liquid fabric softener.  I have never used fabric softener.  I have always been a lover of Bounce.  Such a lover of Bounce that it made the short list of things to bring to Italy, just in case I couldn't find it here.  To make the short list says a lot given that I only brought four suitcases.  Seems I am not going to be needing that Bounce now.  My wonderfully supportive friend said she had to stop laughing long enough to be able to type a response, as you see she was one of those dear friends that I chastised for years for hanging her clothes on a line to dry.  I think she found herself laughing so hard because she knew what was to come.

     Yes, karma got me, and I found myself hanging my underwear on a laundry hanger on the terrace to dry.  There they were, blowing in the breeze for everyone to see.  My sheets, I hung over the rails.  I was worried about my clothes being crunchy and wrinkly, but they weren't.  And here I go, brace yourself as it is coming and you are not going to believe that I am saying this but........when I put my head down on the pillow to sleep, I loved the fresh smell!  I take back every nasty word I ever said about hanging laundry on a line to dry.  My new attitude....Happy Hanging!  Whoever said an old dog can't learn new tricks obviously didn't have to learn to adapt to life in Italy.  

      
      
      

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The Italian Diet.....The Joy Of Being In A Size 7 Skirt Again

  
     One of the biggest adjustments to living in Florence is the fact that I walk everywhere.....and I mean everywhere.  Every day I walk several kilometres, and that is on top of what I have come to call the "run from hell" that I do five mornings a week.  While one can take a bus around the city, I am not sure why anyone does as the traffic in the streets is so congested that I am sure that it is faster to walk than to travel on an overcrowded bus that slowly makes it's way through the streets.  

     I recently had friends stay with me and I warned them prior to coming about the walking and the importance of bringing comfortable shoes.  They had no idea what they were in store for.  Florence is not the place to bring your sexy high heals.  After just 24 hours here my friends' legs ached in ways that I don't think they have ever experienced, judging by the moans.  And it didn't get much better as the days passed.  I must admit that I took sick pleasure in watching them go through the painful adjustment that I did when I first arrived.  The only thing that made them feel better was our ritual glass of Prosecco every afternoon.  I think that this is the only holiday that they have had where they have actually lost weight, despite indulging in the Italian culture and by that I mean the gelato, the wine, the pastries, the hot chocolate, the pasta and I cannot forget the mouth watering pizza.  Not a day went by that my girlfriends did not have a comment or two about all the walking.  Well, actually it was probably more like four or five comments a day.  I would just chuckle and keep on going, and they would follow behind me like little ducklings.  Every once and a while I would hear Brenda utter the words, "Dorothy we are not in Kansas".        

     When my friends arrived they immediately noticed that I have lost weight.  Why is it that when you look at yourself in the mirror each day you don't notice something good like weight loss, but we are sure to notice all of our flaws?  It is funny that when I stopped being so obsessed about my weight, and stopped stepping on the scale each day, that is when I really began to lose weight.  Over the past year I have really tried to consciously shift my thinking from focusing on my weight to focusing on taking care of me and being good to me.  Women are horrible for not taking the time to take care of themselves.  It is like we are programmed to give all of ourselves to others, and if we do anything for ourselves then somehow that is being selfish.  If we do dare to take some time for ourselves oh how the guilt overtakes us, and we quickly get back into our thinking that there is something in the day that just has to get done for someone else, as if the world would come to an end if it didn't.  Taking time for ourselves to be good to ourselves seems to easily become unimportant.  Being a good wife, or partner or mother should not mean not being good to ourselves.  We can and should have both.          

     My friend Cathy commented, shortly after arriving, that I have a sparkle in my eyes that she has not seen before.  As she shared in my life here in Florence she came to understand why.  Living here is just emotionally and physically healthier for me.  While I am sure that this sparkle is in part a result of replacing a life full of stress and chaos with faith, hope and certainty that good things are to come, I  also think that this sparkle in my eyes is as a result of now taking time to take care of me like I never have ever before in my life.  While I still have to live in the "real" world and I wake up each morning with responsibilities to face (Oh, how I wish I would win the lottery), I for the past year have made it a priority to take time each day to be good to me.  Here in Florence this may be as simple as taking the time to walk to the market to buy fresh vegetables and talking to the venders who have come to know my face and insist that it is now time that I only speak Italian to them.  My butcher affectionately refers to me as "Made in Canada", my usual vegetable and fruit venders now throw in a little something extra as a present and my cheese man calls me Miss America.  I use to hate grocery shopping, but now it feels like a visit with friends.  And somehow the food just tastes better because of this experience.  The oranges are juicier, the basil is full of flavour and the chicken is moister.  Perhaps it is because of the food being grown locally, rather than being shipped in from some far off country, but I also think that remembering the smiling face of the vender that you bought it from earlier in the day somehow magically just makes it taste better.  And I deceptively work in exercise as I stroll through the beautiful streets with my backpack full of food on my back.  I am of the belief that the best exercise is when we don't even know we are doing it.  I am the kind of person that when I am conscious that I am doing exercise then I immediately hate every minute of it.  The more distractions from that bad, very bad, "E" word the better.  Walking the kilometre to buy food here just somehow does not seem as painful as when I use to run around and around, like a mouse on a wheel, the same boring blocks back in Canada.  This is especially the case if I see my handsome Giorgio in my travels.    

  
     So while I may not be in Kansas any more,  I could not help but think as slipped on my new size 7 skirt that something about my "Italian Diet" sure is agreeing with me.  And I did take the time to look in the mirror and notice the beautiful woman looking back at me.  That is after I jumped up and down with joy.  I am excited to share my life here with the people that I love as they come to visit me.  Don't forget to bring comfortable shoes, and I promise that you will not put on any weight.          

                        

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It Is Just The Italian Way

     

     Living in Italy has meant adjusting to a whole new way of life.  So much is so very different here.  Of course there is the challenge of dealing with a whole new language.  That is for another blog.  Then there are the people; the wonderful Italians.  They are so warm and friendly.  Whether I am out for a run, or Libby and I are making our way through the city, I am often stopped by a very friendly Italian just for a chat.  At first I was guardedly taken back by being stopped for a chat, but now it is just part of my day.  Can you imagine walking in Toronto and being stopped for a friendly chat?  No!!!  In Toronto we go from point A to point B barely making eye contact with those around us and hoping, really hoping, that no one bothers us.  You would never even think to take a moment to chat with a stranger, and if a stranger tried to stop you the first thought that would come to mind would be how do I get away from this person as quickly as possible without incident.

     While so much about Florence is wonderful, there are times when I shake my head as there just does not seem to be any sense to the way that they do some things here.  Let's just say that clarity and efficiency do not seem to be priorities for Italians.....and I am told that it has been that way for a very long time, so I am thinking it is just one of those things that one has to accept.  I have wanted to work on being better able to "go with the flow", rather than needing everything to go just so.  Let me tell you that Italy is turning out to be the perfect place for me to work on this bit of personal growth.

     Last week I headed out looking for a business.  With the address in hand, and my trusty map, I headed out with confidence.  I was aware that Florence has, lets just call it, a unique address system.  Business addresses have red numbers, private homes have blue numbers and each numbering system is independent of the other.  That means that, for example, there could be a 6 (red) Via Guelfa and a 6 (blue) Via Guelfa and each address could be a 10 minute walk from one another; they most certainly are not side by side.  Because I was going to a business I thought okay I am looking for a red number.  Off I went.  I found the red numbered address no problem, but it was a clothing store, not what I was looking for.  Then I thought, okay maybe for some reason it is a blue number.   Ten minutes later I found the blue numbered address; it was apartments.  Then I thought, well maybe it is above the clothing store, but still the same red numbered address.  So, back I went.  Nope.  While I would not say that I have the mouth of a trucker, I have been known to utter a profane word here and there if frustrated.  This was just such a case.  There I was standing on a street talking to myself, no doubt with a confused look on my face, not able to find an address, but not wanting to call and look like a "stupid" North American.  Yes, I turned into a man and refused to ask directions.  However, after another 15 minutes of wandering up and down the street I was forced to call.  It was then that I learned that I needed to be looking for a black number.  I immediately said to myself, "What the hell, where did black numbers come from.  No one told me about them".  Good thing no one was following me that day because with all the talking to myself I am sure I would have been locked up for a psychiatric evaluation.  Searching for the address drove me so crazy that I almost felt like I needed one.   

     When looking for a business address you also have to keep in mind that businesses do not have signage from the street like they do in Canada.  Unless it is a retail store, or a restaurant, the signage consists of a small half inch by two inch plaque on a door, along with other small plaques.  And I have come to learn that these doors are often just facades, so while you think that there is no way that a business could be located there, indeed it is.  Behind the doors is often a whole other world.  When opened up they can reveal a beautiful courtyard with apartments or businesses above.  Opening a large door can reveal a concealed parking area, with apartments or businesses above.  Although if the buildings are not equipped to vent dryers I am left wondering how all the carbon monoxide is vented out.  Behind the doors could also been a concealed lovely public green space.  You just don't know until the door is opened up. 

     I did find the business that I was looking for, and came away with what I thought was an understanding of the Florence address system - red numbers are for commercial businesses like shops or restaurants, blue numbers for residences and black numbers for non-commercial businesses.  No problem.  I had it down pat.  Never again would I wander up and down a street with a dazed looked on my face, talking to myself, looking for a particular address.  It didn't take long for this sense of understanding to be shattered. 

     This week I once again headed out address in hand.  This time for a gathering that was being hosted at a non-commercial business.  No problem, I thought to myself.  I am looking for a black number.  Well, on that particular street there was no black 21, and red 21 was a retail shop that was closed.  Once again I was left wandering up and down a street uttering not very lady-like words to myself.  Just as I was about to give up and go home I saw several people approaching blue 21.  We all with hesitation looked for a little plaque with the business name and yes, it was there.  But what the hell, now I see that some businesses can in fact be located in what are also residential buildings, hence why the address is a blue number.  But keep in mind that there could be a blue and black address of the same number on another street.  It just happened to not be the case on this particular street.  This address system had to have been invented by a man, because there is no way a woman would have come up with such a confusing system.  We women like simplicity and clarity.     

     As I told my story at the gathering, people laughed as they have all experienced the same frustration.  As I searched for input that would help me to understand the address system here in Florence one man said to me,  "It doesn't make sense, it is just the Italian way".  He then went on to offer me a glass of wine, which is also very much the Italian way.  I don't know, maybe years ago it was after several glasses of good Italian wine that some man came up with this Italian address system.  That would explain why it is so confusing.  We have all had nights where after a bottle of wine something seemed to be totally reasonable, but in the light of the next day we wondered what were we thinking.  And you know how men don't like to admit when they make a mistake or are wrong.
     I accepted the glass of wine, and I have also accepted that when I need to get to a particular address at a particular time I am going to have to leave myself extra time to figure out just what colour address I am really looking for.  While the Italian way often not not make sense to North Americans, clearly they are doing something right as they seem to out live us.  Maybe it is just that they have accepted that after years and years of dealing with things that at times simply don't make sense, they just don't get upset  about things that they cannot control and they carry on with their day.  Perhaps there is something to be said for the Italian way after all.        

                        

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Happy Valentine's Day from Florence

  
     I am going to come out of the closet and admit that I love the show "Glee".  I know, I know, it is a show that is geared towards teenagers, but I love the music; music that sometimes makes me feel so happy that I want to get up and dance, and music that sometimes make me think.  As a parent, I like the show because it tackles complex issues that teens struggle with, but often are not talked about.  While I initially got hooked on Glee watching it with my teenage daughter and her friends, I have continued to watch it because it is like going to a great musical every week.  While I am confessing, I will also admit to owning a Glee CD.  I have to wonder how many other parents watch the show, not because their teenager likes it, but because they secretly enjoy the music.  Surely I am not the only "Over 40 Glee Geek".  Maybe we need to start a new phenomenon where the closeted over 40 Glee lovers write on their Facebook status...."I am over 40 and I love Glee".          

     This week the show centred around Valentine's Day.  A day that many dread because they find themselves without a boyfriend/girlfriend, a lover or a partner.  A day that makes many feel alone in the world.  Mr. Shue challenged the kids to pick a song that best communicated what they felt love was.  That got me thinking about what love is for me.  Love....a four letter word that while often tossed around loosely and without meaning, is at the same time not expressed enough.  

     For me love is about walking through life with someone that you can just be you with; it is about laughter; it is about loyalty; it is about being nurtured when you need it, and nurturing someone when you know they need it; it is about being able to share your dreams, your hopes and your fears with someone who wants to hear them and you wanting to hear theirs; it is about sharing life's passions, and yes sometimes sharing life's tears; it is about celebrating the good times and being there during the difficult times;  it is about taking a stand for someone when it may not be easy to; it is about reminding someone how special they are to you on days when they aren't feeling so special; it is about feeling so safe with someone that you feel like you can face anything as long as you have them beside you; it is about getting a smile on your face when you hear the voice of that special someone, or even just think about them; it is about being able to feel their hug even when their arms are not around you; and it is about knowing with certainty that that person will be there when you call, and being there when you are called.

     Okay, now the "Glee Geek" in me is coming out because I want to stand up and start singing the Carole King song "You've Got A Friend".  When I look back, the best lovers I have had have been great friends, and still are to this day; and my friends are people that I have shared great love with.

     Valentine's Day has been defined as a day that celebrates love and affection between "intimate companions".  Intimacy can be defined in many ways other than sexual.  In fact, you can be sexual with someone and share absolutely no intimacy, and you can share great intimacy with someone who you are not sexual with.  Who says that Valentine's Day has to be a day only for "lovers", other than the chocolate, jewellery, flower and greeting card industries?  In fact, the early links to Valentine's Day were more focused on sacrifice than romantic love; for me a truer meaning of love.  So while I do not have a lover in my life this Valentine's Day (the first time since I have been a teenager), I will take time to think about those that I know truly love me - I am not alone.  I will also take time to think about the people I love; whether it be a past lover, a friend, a family member or someone that is very special to me.  Love, true love, is not lost even if there is an ocean between us.  To all my Valentines - I love you, and thank you for loving me.  

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Chocolate......Better Than Sex.

  

     How many times have I said that one just doesn't know what wonderful surprise you will come across in Florence.  Well, it happened again.  This past week, while out on a long run, I happened to come across the "Fiera del Cioccolato".  Only in Italy would there be a fair dedicated to celebrating chocolate.  Italians do know how to appreciate the finer things in life.

     I could not resist going back and fully experiencing the fair.  People keep telling me that it is important to fully immerse myself in the Italian culture.  After an 8km run, I figured that I could get away with some serious immersion.

     Never have I seen so much chocolate in one place.  For a woman...this was heaven.  I decided to indulge in a cioccolata calda con panna - hot chocolate with cream.  What you need to know is that the Italian version of hot chocolate is nothing like the watery North American version.  Here cioccolata calda can only be described as silky, warm, runny chocolate pudding, that is so rich and so thick that when it hits your mouth and tongue you feel as though you have just been passionately kissed by a wonderful lover.  Yes, I had my Meg Ryan moment as I slowly savoured each drop.  While I thought that I was just thinking the words, somehow they slipped out - "This is better than sex".  I didn't realize that I actually said the words out loud until a woman beside me, who was devouring the same delicious treat, smiled at me in such a way that it was clear to me that not only did she understand every word that I said, but she also agreed.  She was not offended by my words, but instead seemed to understand that is what good chocolate does; it causes you to lose control and you just immerse yourself in the pleasure of experiencing it - and it is an experience if the chocolate is really good.  For a lot of women, a sinful sensual experience that can only be equated to great sex.  

     As I wandered around the fair I got to thinking that there isn't a woman alive who has not said at one time or another that good chocolate is better than sex.  What exactly is with women's love affair with this sweet treat?  Why does chocolate have such an impact on us, and in many cases a hold over us?  I know I crave chocolate like I imagine someone does a cigarette.  If I go more then three days without a small piece of chocolate I think about it numerous times throughout the day, my brain conjures up the taste in my mouth, and my mouth salivates with just the thought of satisfying my craving.

     It turns out that there is merit to women often equating the pleasure of eating chocolate to the pleasure they feel when having great sex.  Chocolate contains the chemical phenylethylamine, which causes the brain to release mesolimbic dopamine in the pleasure centres of the brain - which is found at its peak during an orgasm.  Phenylethylamine has also been shown to bring on the same feelings of happiness and joy associated with being in love.  The sweetness from chocolate also triggers the release of endophins - which are responsible for the heavenly happy feeling that one feels after amazing sex.  The melting point of chocolate is just above body temperature, causing chocolate to perfectly melt in your mouth resulting in that sensual pleasure that we all know.  There is actually a study that found that chocolate melting in your mouth results in increased brain activity and an increased heart rate, and that these increases are stronger than what a passionate kiss gives you and lasts up to four times longer.  Passion and stamina - a perfect combination.    

   

     Men don't appreciate women's love affair with chocolate, but if they knew that an Italian researcher found that women who eat chocolate regularly have a better sex life,  I am sure that they would be flocking to the finest chocolate store several times a week to buy chocolate for the woman in their life.  It seems that chocolate has the same impact on a woman as great foreplay.  So to all the men out there ..... instead of making fun of a woman's love of chocolate, you should embrace it as it seems that just as a great lover can have a profound effect on a woman, so can great chocolate - and if you happen to be there to share in the experience, well lucky you.  

      

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I Did It!!!!

     

     Three summers ago when my best friend Liz, her two sons Jacob and Liam, my daughter Emilie, her friend Niki and I travelled to Italy, I was not able to climb to the top of the Duomo because I was recovering from a fractured ankle.  Instead of being able to enjoy the breathtaking views of Florence from the top of the cupola, I laid down beside the Duomo and had a nap resting my head on a backpack.  It took so much energy just to hobble about the city that I didn't care what I looked like as I fell fast asleep.  To be honest, I was quite happy to not be able to climb the 463 steps to the top, as I am claustrophobic and have such a fear of heights that I do not even step up onto a chair.  I don't know how long it took them all to climb to the top, but lets just say that I was well rested when I was awoken by my daughter saying, "Mom, there is no way you could have done that!".  They proceeded to each take a turn telling me about their airless quest up very narrow, steep and winding steps.  Something that I was glad to have had an excuse to have missed.  Just listening to them recounting their claustrophobic journey gave me chest pains.  

     When I decided to come back to Florence, one of the things that I have been determined to do is to see Florence from above.  I have been stewing about it for weeks.  Just the thought of the climb triggers this feeling in my chest as if someone is standing on it, and my stomach is overtaken with butterflies.  Crazy, I know, but that is what tight spaces and height does to me.  I was going to wait until friends arrived to make the climb, as I thought if I went into a panic attack they could talk me back to sanity, but this week I decided this was a journey that I needed to do right now and on my own.  I needed to prove to myself that  I could do it.  After all, this trip is all about growing and coming to feel comfortable with what normally is uncomfortable for me.  I replayed time and time again throughout the week the wise words spoken to me by Liz when I was planning my trip.  I had called her in a panic because my departure date was approaching fast, and it felt like there was so much to do and many things were out of my control.  When I said to her, "I think I am in a panic because there is so much to do that it feels out of control and I like to feel in control",  she chuckled and said, "No, not you".  She then went on to say, "That is one of the points of this trip isn't it.  To come to feel comfortable with not always having to be in control, and to trust that things will just work out".  She was right.  My life had been so chaotic for so many years that the only way that I felt that I could in any way protect myself, and to feel safe, was to feel in control.  I need to come to trust again, and to feel safe, with just being in the moment and not worrying about everything bad that could potentially happen.  Liz, the one person in the world who always knows instinctually exactly what I need to hear, reminded me that my trip was about living life one moment at a time, and just trusting that I would be okay.    

     So with her words in mind, I set out.  While I didn't take an anti-anxiety pill on the way, I do think it was divine intervention that I passed the chocolate festival that is here in Florence this weekend.  As I walked through the festival I was offered a shot of pistachio chocolate liqueur.  While it was only noon I thought that I could use a little bit of assistance to calm the anxiety that was trying its best to take hold of me.  Then I was offered a shot of lemon chocolate liqueur.  I thought one shot for my chest pains, and one for my nervous stomach. 

     Even with the calming effect of the chocolate liqueurs, the closer I got to the Duomo the tighter my chest felt.  And the butterflies in my stomach felt like they had turned into  birds.  I stopped just outside the entrance, took several take deep breathes, looked up and said to myself,  "I CAN DO THIS!!!!!".   

     As I entered into the claustrophobic airless staircase I began the winding ascent.  As my heart pounded I focused less on the walls, with the hope of avoiding feeling that everything was closing in on me, and more on the narrow steep steps.  As I looked at the steps I began to think, this step is for the devastation of finding out that the man that I had married and shared a life with since the age of seventeen lived a whole secret life for our entire marriage, this step was for the lies of the past several years, this step was for the betrayals, this step was for all that frightened me during the past 10 years, this step was for all the sleepless nights, this step was for not being able to give my children the childhood that I dreamed for them, this step was for the years of turmoil and abuse, this step was for all the tears shed, this step was for all the stress that I had to endure........Winding around and around, I took one step at a time until finally I took the last step for letting go of a life that for the past 10 years has been full of so much heartache and conflict.

     Finally, I saw the bright light of the sun.  While I have often joked with my friends that if they ever see the light don't go to it, this time I figured it was okay to go to the light.  As I stepped onto the circular terrace I realized that I no longer felt the weight on my chest, or the butterflies in my stomach.  What I felt was peace.  Despite climbing 463 steps, and passing many people that had stopped to catch their breathe, I did not feel worn out.  I felt invigorated.  I looked out with a smile at Florence from above.  I stood proud of myself for not letting my fears stop me from experiencing this moment.  After sitting for a while and just enjoying the beauty of Florence and the hills of Tuscany in the distance, I started back down the steps no longer feeling like I had the weight of the world standing on my chest and having come to terms with that sometimes to experience happiness one has to trust in letting go.  As I made my way down the steps, I thought of the words of another very dear friend.  He recently said to me, "Have faith".  I responded to him that I do pray every day.  He said, "You pray, but with what you have been through you struggle with truly having faith.  You need to let go and have faith".  

     My daughter, Emilie, was right when she told me 3 years ago that I could not have climbed the steps to the top of the Duomo.  Even if I did not have a fractured ankle, I am sure that my fear of the unknown ahead of me would have caused me to turn back, but I am stronger now.  And I am ready for happiness to return to my life.  As I let go of my fears and anxieties, I make room for faith that happiness will find its way back into my life. 

      

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