Sometimes One Just Can't Find The Right Words......

     Now, as I go about my day, I am warmly greeted by shopkeepers and restaurant owners who have become accustomed to seeing Libby and I make our way through the streets of Florence.  At first I was taken back by the italian way.  My experience is that italians exude warmth and I didn't quite know what to make of it when I first arrived.  In Canada I was accustomed to getting from point A to point B as quick as possible with really very little interaction with those that I met along the way.  Can you imagine going into a big chain grocery store in Canada and greeting your vegetable man with a hug and a kiss and taking the time to talk about your week?  Before you even got to the kiss security would be called.  In Canada you get your coffee at the local drive through Tim Hortons.  Here you stop and take the time to enjoy your expresso while you visit with the local cafe owner.  There is no drive through anything here, and I am thinking that is a good thing because it forces social interaction.  Yes it takes twice as long to do errands, but after getting through your list you have a smile on your face and feel happy, rather than aggravated.  Somehow every shopkeeper, or cafe owner, just has a way of making you feel special and always manages to put a smile on your face.  In a world that is full of so much anger and fear it is a shame that more people don't take the time to put a smile on someone's face.  It truly is a gift.  

     I now have my favourite restaurants that I love to go to.  I love these restaurants not so much because of the food, although the food is always amazing, but because of the experience.  Lunch with a friend can take hours because of the social atmosphere that the owner of the restaurant creates.  Some of those owners have now become my friends.  What is not to love about being greeted with a glass of Prosecco and a hug and a kiss.  Oh, how italians love to kiss.  Often we are presented with some treats from the kitchen as gifts.  These are always delightfully yummy.
     My visits to my favourite shops and restaurants are becoming more challenging though.  I am hearing more and more, "Elisabetta, you have been here a long time now.  You must now only speak italian".  Learning italian continues to be a challenge.  I am convinced that as one gets older your brain just does not soak up knowledge like it use to.  I read that middle aged women actually go through what was referred to as "menopausal fog", because of the chemical changes in one's body, and this fog affects your memory.  The good news is I was starting to worry about having early Alzheimer's so I took comfort in learning this; the bad news is I can't believe that I am old enough to be experiencing this menopausal fog.  I think my menopausal fog has taken over the language part of my brain and it is thicker than the fog in San Francisco.  I try though, and my italian friends are  patiently trying to teach me their beautiful language.  I don't think my tongue will ever be able to do that sexy rolling of the letter "R" that italians do with ease, but trying has been the source of much laughter.  It is a good thing that I have good self- esteem and don't mind being the source of this laughter.    

     My italian friends and I try not to let the difference in our language come between us.  I try hard to find the right italian words and they try hard to find the right english words, both trying to adequately to express our thoughts or feelings......sometimes desperately trying.  Of course sometimes neither of us can find the right words; which often leads to laughter.  I am doing a lot of laughing here in Florence.  
     I received a little love note from a friend the other night who owns a restaurant.  Libby was out for dinner with a friend and I and my very handsome restaurant owner friend sent over a gift of a little turkey for Libby to snack on.  I was touched by this little gift, but could not help but break out into laughter when I saw the note.  I was reminded of when a friend of mine in Canada, who was studying french, thought that she would be brave and practice her french.  What happened though is instead of ordering what she intended to order she mistakenly asked for a hooker.  In the case of my love note actions spoke much louder than the words....the very wrong, but terribly funny words.  I was reminded that words are just that....words.....no matter what the language.  Sometimes it is more important to focus on actions, rather than words, because actions are a clearer window to what is really in one's heart.  

Read more

Milano.....Just As I Remembered It.....An Ugly City

     In my early twenties I had the life changing experience of hitchhiking through Europe with a friend.  Before this trip I had only been outside of Canada once, to the Caribbean.  It was during this trip that my dream of continuing to explore the world was born.  I knew then that I needed to see and experience more of what the world has to offer.  For me it was like opening up a bag of potato chips; there is no way you can stop at just eating one.  

     During this trip we stopped over one night in Milan.  My memory of Milan is that it is an ugly city that lacks the charm and character of the many other european cities that I have seen.  I thought that perhaps my memory of Milan could be wrong as a lot of time has passed causing memories to get foggy, so I decided to go back.  And given that when Liz and I took the kids to Pisa my recollection going into that trip was that the Leaning Tower was outside of the city turned out to be drastically wrong, it seemed more then possible that I was wrong about Milan.    

Milano Centrale

     So with an open mind Libby and I set out on the train for Milan.  I arrived at the train station excited about my little adventure.  It began with me checking in Libby's dog bag.  I anticipated that I would be carrying shopping bags, and therefore I would not want to be lugging this bag around.  While my italian is still very poor, I understood enough to get that the gentleman at the baggage check-in was teasing me about checking in a bag that is smaller than my purse (which Libby rides in).  He laughed out loud.  Keep in mind that people before and after me were checking in suitcases that weighed up 20 kilograms.  The gentleman then in jest tossed the bag into the arms of another employee that looked at him and laughing said something to the effect of what is he to do with it, something so small.  We all had a good laugh together.

     Arriving at the Duomo I was immediately struck by the architectural detail.  While the Duomo is massive, it at the same time has this fragile look to it because of all the ornate detail.  As I looked around the piazza I wondered if I had misjudged this city as in that moment I was surrounded by architectural genius.  I had not been to this area of Milan during my previous trip.  This I would have remembered.  

                     

     In the same piazza as the Duomo is the Galleria Vittoria Emanuele II.  It is Milan's version of a shopping mall.  The Eaton Centre it is not.  The Galleria can only be described as a beautiful marriage of glass and iron.  The ceiling vaults are adorned with incredible mosaics.  I could not help but stand there looking up in ah.  It is even more flabbergasting when one takes into account that the Galleria was opened up in 1867.  I constantly find myself shaking my head wondering how so many wonderful structures were created in Italy without the assistance of present day construction equipment.  In present day Canada it is a rarity to have a home built with square corners and even floors, yet hundreds of years ago many magnificent, and architecturally sound, structures were made.  They still stand today in honour of the geniuses who expressed their creativity through what really are works of art.  At the centre of the Galleria are the designer powerhouses Prada and Louis Vuitton.  From there radiates out stores from every designer that one can possibly think of, as well as small chic boutiques.  While I was starving because I headed out so early in the morning, I went hungry because I refused to pay the ridiculously exuberant restaurant prices.  Given the prices of food, lets just say there was no food court as Canadians and Americans know them, I didn't even dare to go into the shops.  I did find a restaurant that served a glass of prosecco for 4 euros; cheaper than a bottle of water.  I had to make sure that I didn't dehydrate in the heat.      

      

     After the Galleria I went into Italy's version of Macy's - la Rinascente.  There is a la Rinascente in every major italian city, including Florence, only what made this one different is that it had some american designers.  When I saw the Jimmy Choo section, and right next door Michael Kors, my heart pitter pattered.  I felt the excitement that I do when I stroll 5th Avenue in New York.  While I looked, I did not buy.  For years I dreamed about owning a pair of Jimmy Choos, but I mourned the loss of this dream long ago when I travelled to New York after breaking my ankle to at last buy myself a pair of shoes for my birthday.  I was devastated to see that two years after breaking my ankle it still swelled up too much to be able to wear a pair of Jimmy Choos.  My birthday dream was shattered as I realized that Jimmy Choo and I were just not meant to be.  As I drooled over the shoes in la Rinascente, the practical side of me thought that with the cobblestone streets of Florence if I dared to put on a pair of Jimmy Choos I would be certain to break an ankle again.  So while I slowly walked around admiring the very stylish shoes, I didn't buy any. Besides now living on a frugal budget I would need to experience more than my heart going pitter patter.  Now I would have to go into heart arrhythmia over a luxury item to be persuaded to purchase it.  

     While I strolled the Corso Vittorio Emanuele shopping district, that extends over several blocks, I was left thinking that really other than the american stores, the shopping in Florence is just as good.  Every designer label that is in Milan is in Florence, from high end to more modestly priced.  Nothing screamed, "Buy me!", so I walked away empty handed.
     Exhausted, and feet sore, Libby and I then took the bus tour of the city.  I always like to take a bus tour when I go into an unknown city because it gives you a great overview of the city.  

     Libby has become much braver since living in Florence.  She decided to jump over a woman's lap and ride on another woman's lap for much of the tour.  More people were taking pictures of Libby than of the surroundings outside of the bus.  Being a protective mother my first instinct was that I wanted to take her back, but then I remembered how important it is to encourage our babies to bravely face the world, so I let her be.  In time she made her way back to me.  My friend Al thinks that I baby Libby too much, hence why I try to not be so neurotic when it comes to her, but part of me thinks so what if I baby her. That day, however, Al's voice in my head won out.   

     As I looked around and listened to the audio tape about the beautiful neighbourhoods that we were driving through I thought to myself, "Are you kidding me?".  I realized that my memory of Milan was indeed correct.  With the exception of the area surrounding the Duomo, Milan is ugly.  Yes there is the Castello Sforzesco, a grand castle that is fortresslike, but other than that there really is nothing special about the city.  At least in my opinion.  It just seems to lack the charm and character that many other cities have in Italy. Even Rome, as big as it is, has many areas that leave you walking away with your eyes wide and your mouth open because of the splendour.  Many times as I listened to the audio tape and the narrator characterized an area as beautiful, and a well sought after section to live in, I looked around wondering if I was looking at the same thing as what was being described.  At one point I leaned over to the woman sitting next to me and I said, "Am I missing something".  She laughed and quickly replied, "No".  I was so bored with what I was looking at I almost fell asleep on the tour.  Being a travel junky, and a history geek, I get excited to learn about a city, its people and its culture.  I have never almost fallen asleep on a tour.  For the first time in a long time, rather than being struck by what I was seeing, I was struck by what I was not seeing; what Milan seemed to lack.  I don't have many pictures of Milan, as frankly there was not a lot that I thought was worthy of capturing in a photo.  I got back on the train to head home thinking that Milan was just as I remembered it, an ugly city.   I left Milan feeling grateful that I picked Florence to live in and was reminded what a special city Florence is. 

Castello Sforzesco

     The next day I shared my trip to Milan with the owner of my favourite little coffee café. While sipping the most delicious expresso in all of Florence, I dared to express that I thought that Milan was ugly.  His reply was, "Firenze e tu e questo caffé sono belle. Milano é brutta".  He agreed with my observation that other than the area around the Duomo, which is unquestionably beautiful, there is just nothing special about Milan.  I don't regret my day trip though.  If you dare to venture out into the world some places you are going to love, and some places you are not.  The not so wonderful places make you cherish the special places all the more.  And I took comfort in seeing that not all my memories of my trip through Europe decades ago are warped.     

          

    

Read more

I Never Would Have Thought......

    

     Today after my run I came home and prepared a salad for my lunch.  After cutting up the flavourful tomatoes I walked out onto my terrace and snipped off a few sprigs of fresh basil.  The produce here in Florence is so full of flavour that I find myself eating vegetables and fruit more than I ever have.  This is even more so the case now that the warm weather has arrived and the markets are overflowing with selection.  This past weekend I went to the market with a friend and we actually stopped and took the time to smell the tomatoes and the grapes.  We couldn't help it as we were so drawn to the aromas.  After we were drawn to the most handsome chicken butcher, and he was actually over 6ft tall.  While it is not hard to find a handsome italian, it is hard to find a handsome italian over 6ft tall.  From a distance we enjoyed the tall, dark and incredibly handsome butcher, as Alessandro my favourite vegetable man laughed at us telling us that we would have to go speak to him as he is very shy.  Oh to feel like a girl in high school again giggling over a handsome boy.  Okay, back to the terrace Elizabeth...... focus.             

     I took my lunch out onto the terrace and enjoyed the warm sun as I ate.  Then I began the task of sweeping and mopping my terrace.  Although one can't really consider it a task as I enjoyed the hot sun beating down on me, the birds were chirping and all around me I could hear the sounds of this beautiful city.  I love to hear the sounds of a city that is so alive.  

Sunflowers on the left

     As I was mopping the pigeon poop off the terrace I found myself thinking that if someone had told me twenty years ago that I would be living in a 800 square foot apartment in Florence, and mopping pigeon poop off a terrace, I would have thought they were crazy.  For years I lived in an estate home, complete with magnificent gardens and a large pool, and thought that I was living a blessed life.  Really, every moment of every day for years was a lie.  Virtually everything in my life was a lie from the day I shared my wedding vows.  I was married to a man that has lived his whole life deceitfully, and indeed I was living a life that was not real.  So while I was scrubbing the pigeon poop I thought to myself that while my life is simpler now, with no extravagances, at least it is real.  I am happy to be sweeping and mopping my terrace with Libby running around at my feet because now I don't care about the lies, now I have moved forward from betrayals, and now I am no longer wasting precious time fighting deceit.

     Finding an apartment with a terrace in a large city like Florence is almost unheard of because once someone gets one they don't give it up.  I didn't even dare to dream of finding an apartment with a terrace.  Given my budget, all I cared about was it being clean.  For almost three months I hunted on the internet for five hours a day for an apartment, and the remainder of the day was spent going and looking at apartments that well lets just say.....had filthy baseboards.  Those that know me well know that baseboards are my cleanliness barometer.  I cannot help it; when I go into someone's home the first thing I look at are the baseboards.  I know a little crazy, but I am who I am.  I had gone with a agent to one apartment and as soon as I walked in the front door I turned around and walked out.  I walked backed to where I was staying in despair almost ready to give up and take an apartment that I was not really happy with, but it was clean.  Then after being sick in bed for several days I received a call from the agent that showed me the last filthy apartment.  She, with excitement, told me that I had to get out of bed and come see an apartment immediately as she was sure it was what I was looking for, and it had a terrace.  While I had trouble getting excited with a fever, and I am sure that I must have looked as if I was on my death bed as I sure felt like I was, off I went kleenex in hand.  This time as soon as I walked into the apartment I knew this would be my home; for a little while anyways.  As soon as I saw the terrace I asked how soon could I move in.  

     To make the terrace feel like home I had to have flowers; lots and lots of flowers.  I have always loved the beauty of flowers.  Flowers just somehow make me feel happy.  I also find it therapeutic to nurture the plants and watch them grow until they come into full bloom.  Flowers are a reminder of the joy that is in life if you nurture it.  We often forget the importance of taking care of ourselves and nurturing our dreams, and then feel shrivelled up like an unwatered plant.  I wanted my terrace to be full of life; full of joy.  This I knew would not be an easy task in a city centre.  There would be no getting into a car and loading up the trunk with plants.  Instead I had to make multiple trips, walking kilometres, to the store that sells the planters and soil.  Soil in a suitcase on wheels, and planters in an Ikea bag, back and forth I went through the busy streets.  I don't even know how many trips I made getting all the soil and planters that I needed.  That part of the terrace project I am trying to repress.  It was definitely a test of my perseverance.  But if I want something badly enough I always make it happen.  Many times in my life I have been faced with challenges....way too many times....but rather than saying something is too hard, or impossible, to accomplish I more often than not have come up with a plan to tackle the challenge.  While many people have told me as I have faced head on what at times has felt like insurmountable challenges that I would grow with each challenge, let me tell you that after over 10 years of facing daunting challenges the only growth I want to now experience is watching plants grow on my terrace.  With this in mind off to the flower market I went with my backpack and Ikea bag.  

     When it came time to pack for Italy I laid four suitcases on the floor and said if it doesn't fit in them it isn't going.  At the time I had no idea how I was going to prioritize a huge walk in closet full of clothes, plus household items, thinking that each and every one I could not live without.  Items went in the suitcases....and items came out.  Yes my Michael Kors purse and shoes made the "must bring" list, but little did I know that the accessory that would become most important to me would be my $25 Wal-Mart backpack.  That is the item that now I truly cannot live without. 

     My backpack and I made multiple trips to the flower market.  This part of the terrace project I looked forward to each week.  Row after row, as far as the eye can see, there are flowers and plants.  At first it felt overwhelming just trying to take everything in as I meandered my way through the crowd of people.  One trip at a time my terrace began to come to life.  Now when I feel that I want a break from the hustle and bustle of city life, and I just want to take some time to be still, I go out onto my terrace - my little oasis.  An oasis that took walking several kilometres, on multiple days, while lugging stuff on my back through the streets to make happen. Now that it is all done, as I mop away the pigeon poop, I enjoy every moment because while my life may now be faced with pigeon poop I no longer have to on a daily basis deal with lies and betrayals.  I never would have thought that I would feel happy mopping pigeon poop, but I am learning on my journey that with simplicity comes happiness....a truer form of happiness.      

Baby tomatoes (that need to be separated) and rosemary

               

     

Read more

Size Counted Even In The 11th Century

     

     San Gimignano is often referred to as the Manhattan of Tuscany because of its 14 medieval towers that can be seen from several kilometres away.  It is said that there were originally 72 towers, some as high as 50 meters, built between the 11th and 13th centuries by competitive Tuscan families to show off their wealth and power.  As I walked through this historic town, and looked at the impressive towers of varying heights, I could not help but chuckle by the fact that really what I was looking at was evidence that for centuries men have been wrapped up with demonstrating their "manliness".  While today men buy huge televisions and expensive cars to demonstrate that they have money and power, indeed there was a time when it was all about the height of the tower.  And we all know that whether it be the size of the television, or the size of the tower, what it is really about is the size of their penis.  The poor man that built the tallest tower, because we all know what that really means.    

Read more

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.   

Read more

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.  

      
      
      

Read more

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.          

                        

Read more