BBrreeeaaatthhee

  
     I find myself doing a lot of deep breathing here in Florence.  Sometimes it is when I am trying to talk to someone on the telephone who does not speak english.  My italian, while a work in progress, is still very poor.  Sometimes it is as I wait over 30 minutes at the post office to buy stamps as I look at the long line up of people and only two employees are working the postal section.  Sometimes it is as I make my way through the 10s of thousands of tourists in the streets.  Sometimes it is when I look at the bottoms of my feet at night and they are filthy black from walking around the city in flip flops.  Sometimes it is after realizing that it will take me over an hour to walk to purchase an item and back, when in Canada I would have quickly driven to the store and been back in minutes.           

     In the spring I did a lot of deep breathing as literally hundreds of little red spiders were crawling on my terrace.  No matter how many times I sprayed they would come back in droves in a couple of days.  I have never seen anything like it.  I do not do well with bugs.  When I would come in after laying in the sun, or tending to my plants, the bottoms of my feet would literally be orange because as you step on these little pests they release a dye.  Every night I would scrub the orange off my feet before going to bed.  In frustration, I asked my italian friends about these pests.  I was told, "Do not worry Elizabet, they will go as the heat comes.  They will only last three weeks, be patient".  So every day I just kept telling myself this will pass, breathe deep.  Three weeks later they disappeared.
     As the hot summer temperatures have come I have needed to have my windows open wide at night to catch a breeze.  I love the windows here because they are so big.  They go from hip height all the way up to the ceiling.  One night as I laid in bed, and was enjoying the cool breeze on my face, I came to realize that the mosquitos enjoyed the open windows as much as me.  I wonder if they all gathered outside of my window with one of them yelling, "Here we go boys, we have got a tourist who does not know to keep the windows closed".  In the morning I woke up to 17 (I counted them) mosquito bites on my face.  The mosquitos had enjoyed a buffet on my face and arms.  At first I thought they were spider bites because there were just so many of them, and I had never experienced mosqutio bites like this before.  I took apart my bed and vacuumed it and washed all the sheets.  I went to the store to get insect spray and was told by a very kind woman that they were mosquito bites, not spider bites, and I needed to  buy a little device called "vape".  It looks like a plug-in air freshener.  She told me to buy one for each room.  I wondered how they could possibly work, but I listened to her advise.  I now enjoy my windows open and there is not one mosquito in my apartment.  I have since learned that everyone has vapes in their apartments.  Even hotel rooms have them.  I am left wondering why they do not have them in Canada, especially in cottage country where the mosquitos are so big they could carry you away.  I just breathe deep telling myself that maybe I don't want to know what is in the vapes that make them work so well because if I knew maybe I would not use them, and I certainly do not want to wake up to a face covered in bites again.

     Just as I was enjoying my mosquito free apartment, and spider free terrace, along came these little green flying bugs.  I have never seen a bug like this before.  Every night they would swarm into the apartment, drawn to the light.  As I sat at my computer I would have to shoo them away from the  screen.  Evening after evening I sat and watched my coffee table and dining room table become covered in literally hundreds of these little green flying bugs.  I wondered what I would do as I could not keep my windows closed, but I also dreaded that every morning I had to vacuum up the hundreds of little corpses off of my tables.  While I have been to Italy before, I had never experienced these swarms of green flying bugs.  As I sat looking over at my coffee table covered in bugs I took a deep breathe and hoped that they would be like the little red spiders and suddenly disappear as quickly as they appeared.  Sure enough the past three nights there has not been a bug on my table.  All bad things here in Florence seem to pass, if I just have patience, breathe deep,  and wait it out.

     Yesterday I escaped the heat of the city and went to the little town of Fiesole, which is located in the hills above Florence.  The views of Florence are spectacular.  With a cool breeze blowing in my hair I sat on a bench in awe of what I was looking out at.  On the bus on the way back to Florence two American couples travelling together asked me what I thought they had to absolutely see in the few days that they were in Florence, and where they should go for the very best food.  As I talked about the treasures of Florence there was a moment when I was struck by the excitement in my voice.  While I have been fortunate to travel to many places in the world, never have I so passionately loved a city as I do Florence; although New York is a close second.
     My best friend here in Florence, Laura, thinks that I am a "clean freak" and have a touch of OCD.  Obviously she has come to know me well.    I  tell her that this is the new "relaxed" me.  She jokes that if she knew me before we would have had a friendship divorce.  I don't understand why she does not see the logic in colour co-ordinatting a closet.  She doesn't understand why one has to vacuum every other day.  Lets just say that Laura does not mind a little clutter and doesn't rush to do dishes.  There are also very good reasons why we affectionately call her "late Laura".  Okay I may still be a little OCD, but I now can garden on a terrace ignoring spiders crawling at my feet, I can now sit and watch television on the computer with bugs swarming the screen, I can now deal with filthy black feet from city pollution, I can now leave my dishes for two days without doing them, I now wear wrinkled clothes because I don't have a dryer and walking, lots of walking, has just simply become a way of life for me......all after taking a deep breathe telling my crazy brain that these little things don't matter given how lucky I am to live in such a wonderful city.
     As my friend Marcial was looking out my window today he said, "I love Florence in the summer".  When I first arrived in Florence his advise to me was to let go of my North American way of life and expectations, because it is only when one does that can you come to love life in Florence.  I now realize how right he was.  It has taken a lot of deep breathing, and a lot of conscious letting go, but the end result is a passionate love affair with one of the most magnificent cities in the world.          
  
                            

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The Holy Grail......Sour Cream

     

     When I get together with my friends here in Florence we often end up talking about things that we miss from North America.  With the advent of super centre grocery and home stores whatever we wanted was usually just an aisle or two away.
     When I first arrived here in Florence I had trouble adjusting to actually having to source out what I thought were essential items.  It turns out that what we North Americans think are essential items, and what Italians think are essential items, are two very different things.  I remember a good friend telling me, when I first moved here, that I had to get my head around the spoiled North American way of focusing on convenience.  He then went on to ask me to make him pumpkin soup; something he very much missed from home.  I laughed about the irony of his request given his advice.  Canned pure pumpkin was not something that I would be able to just go pick up at the corner grocery store.  I thought that there was no way that we would find canned pure pumpkin here in Florence.  After a  few days of both he and I going to every shop that we possibly thought would have it, and I had given up, he called to say that he found a store that had it.  A little Asian market that I have come to appreciate for having unusual ethnic items that the typical markets do not carry.  While I have never thought of pumpkin as an ethnic item, I suppose North American (Canadians and Americans) is an ethnicity of sorts.  Certainly Thanksgiving, and all the yummy foods associated with Thanksgiving, is a cultural celebration that is unique to North America.  I guess I think of food associated with an ethnicity as a little more exotic than pumpkin, hence why I never thought to go to a store that specializes in ethnic items,  but there was the pumpkin just down the aisle from the Mexican and Asian items.   Pumpkin found, my good friend was able to enjoy a little bit of North America; homemade pumpkin soup.

     There is one item that I have time and time again heard North Americans literally yearning to find - sour cream.  Get a group of North Americans together here in Florence and inevitably someone will ask, "Where can you buy sour cream?".  The response has always been moans of wishing they knew.  Scores of people have gone out in search of sour cream, as if it were sacred treasure, with no success.  Sour cream is just not something that Italians cook with.  I have always kept a bended ear to these conversations as I have often cooked with sour cream.  While I hadn't needed it yet, I could see the day coming when I would want some.  

     That day came.  With the warm weather has come friends gathering on my terrace.  I can't think of a time when I have hosted friends and I have not made "slop".  Slop being a yummy Mexican dip.  I am not sure how it got the unappetizing name "slop", but for years I have been asked to make it.  I have taken it to just about every party that I have attended.  If I had a dollar for how many times I have made slop for teenagers gathering at my house I would be a very rich woman.  Women often pass down very special recipes from generation to generation. While slop may not be by fine dining standards be seen as a special recipe, it is nevertheless the one recipe that I know my daughter will be making long after I am gone.  While she does not share my love of cooking, she does share a love for slop and as such has mastered this one recipe.    

     Those that know me know that when I set my mind to do something I make it happen.  I was determined to find sour cream and make slop for my friends.  I figured that if there was any hope for finding sour cream it would be in one of the two very large grocery stores that are out of the centre of Florence.  Each is about a 3 km walk.  I headed out to the one store.  When I asked for sour cream I was looked at like I had three heads.  The grocery manager had no idea what I was talking about.  A chef who happened to be in the store overheard my request.  He said that as a chef he occasionally needs sour cream, but because he can never find it he has to make it by hand mixing together lemon and whipping cream.  Well, that was not going to happen.  Disappointed I walked back to the centre and headed in another direction approximately 3 kms.  Now I have walked about 9 kms for a container of sour cream.  Walking I could not help but think to myself that I am either crazy or determined.  Perhaps a little of both.  Calves sore, I entered the grocery store.  I quickly became optimistic as I looked around at the wide selection of food.  I almost jumped for joy when the sour cream was pointed out to me.  I bought 8 small containers so that I would not have to make the trek again in the near future.

     12 kms later I returned home sour cream in hand.  I was able to make my slop, and it was enjoyed by all.  Of course I had to make the salsa topping from scratch as quality jarred salsa is evidently not on the essential item list either here in Florence.  Through what may be said is crazy determination I was able to carry on my tradition of serving slop at a gathering.  I was a happy woman.  I did what many thought I would not be able to do.  Okay I will concede it was not quite as significant as putting man on the moon, but nevertheless I succeeded in what many people before me here in Florence have not been successful in; finding and cooking with sour cream.          

  

               

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Montepulciano....Before The Tourists Came

  
     It seems like a switch was flipped in Florence in the past week and summer is all of a sudden here.  It is hot and humid, much like in July in Canada.  Rather than complaining, I am thinking about how wonderful it is going to be to have several months of hot summer like weather, rather than the few short weeks that Canadians get teased with.  It seems like we just get thawed out in Canada, and then once again we are faced with the cold weather and snow.  I do not miss the cold.  

     I think the heat is here to stay as it is no longer cooling down at night.  The duvet is off my bed and packed away in the closet.  My much loved flannel jammies are officially put away.  The neighbours that see me walking Libby in the morning may be glad of that.

     With the heat has come the tourists.  The streets are full of people from all over the world trying to  find their way with their maps in hand.  When I look at them I am reminded of when I first arrived here in Florence.  It is hard to believe that I have been here six months now. While it was love at first sight, it feels like my love affair with Florence is growing the more time that I spend here.  Maybe this is because I have become more comfortable here.  I equate it to the beginning of a wonderful relationship with a man where you love the initial passion, but you also enjoy easing into when you can just be you and still feel the love.  It is interesting because many tourists stop me and ask for directions, or advice about what to see and where to eat.  Perhaps they are picking up on the ease that I feel in this city.  

     While I am loving the warm weather, I am now understanding what the locals mean when they say that they enjoy when the cooler weather comes and they get their city back.  With the crowds one is not able to see things from the same perspective.  Florence, and the surrounding smaller towns, take on a whole other look and feel when it is so busy that it is difficult to make your way through the streets.  With the crowds you miss some of the hidden treasures.

     I am glad that I was able to visit Montepulciano before the crowds took it over.  I was able to see how the italians truly live day to day when their town is theirs.  I was able to experience just what a treasure this small Tuscan town, which is known for wine and Pecorino cheese, is because the beauty was not blocked by the hoards of people.
     I was first introduced to Pecorino cheese in Montepulciano.  It is one of the finest cheeses that you can find here in Italy.  I choose to be in denial that it comes from a sheep, rather than a cow.  I don't know why, but it bothers me that it is from a sheep.   But in the interest of being more open minded I do not let that fact stop me from enjoying it.  The best Pecorino cheese that I have had has been from Montepulciano.  While one can certainly find it in the markets here, it is just not quite the same.  I am not sure why that it.  Perhaps because it is aged differently.  In Montepulciano the finest of the Pecorino cheeses is covered by the ashes of wood.  Yes OCD me who hates dirt actually loves a cheese that is aged in dirt.  If that isn't growth I don't know what is.

     One of the wonderful things about living in Florence is that you can enjoy all that a city has to offer, but you are just a short distance away from a quieter life.  With a short train ride one can take a day and enjoy just slowing down.    Even a city girl like me enjoys the country every once in a while.  As long as I don't have to smell cow manure.    

          

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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.  

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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.     

          

    

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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

               

     

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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.    

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