I'm Back. Kinda.

Hello there!

I've been gone a long time. I know some people who have been disappointed that I stopped writing for a while. Others probably didn't even notice. I'm a little of both, to be honest. I'm disappointed in myself for letting my writing go away, but my time has been filled up with other stuff so at times I just really didn't notice that I wasn't writing.

The beginning of the slow down can be placed squarely at the feet of my aborted attempt at a job here. While it was exhilerating,  it was also exhausting. It filled my mind even when I wasn't working. It was a great experience, but it is equally great to be finished with it. More on that when I have absolutely nothing else to share.

It's easy once a thing has slowed down or stopped to simply refuse to pick it up again, and I guess I found myself in that frame of mind about writing here. Not lazy per se, but definitely also not brimming with enthusiasm for writing.

I have found that since moving to the countryside I feel less compelled to write. I know that sounds weird, but writing for me has often been a way to get my fears, anxieties, and questions out of my head and onto paper where I can make some sense of them. It's a stress reliever of sorts. Now that we live in the country I'm no longer suffocating in the energy of thousands of strangers. There are no bars on our windows. We have privacy. I have completely buried myself for this year and a half in my solitude. My batteries are recharged. It's time for me to reach out again.

I had also found myself writing through a few extra filters at the end, worried that I would offend my dear friends who just happen to be Italian when I write about the insanity of beaurocracy here, or the male dominated culture of cycling, or the regular snubbing I used to receive everywhere. To be clear, all of those things still exist....I'm not writing again because the Italian government has streamlined, women are respected and plentiful on the roads, and everyone wants to be my friend.

I still have a story to tell. Even if there's only one person (you know who you are) reading, it's worth writing down. Because truthfully my stories are less about others and more about the often ridiculous situations I manage to get myself into. I can laugh at myself and that helps me to move forward. Expect to hear about the pounds of blackberries I'll be picking and my inability to find jars right now, the joys of having a pool in the front yard, the bike rides and the friends I ride with.

It's good to be back.

Buying an Apple

As happens eventually with all things modern, for the last year my technology has faltered, aged, and eventually in some cases just quit working. In a move of complete brilliance I decided to replace my computer (which had died, or to be more precise, had been strangled by it's power cable) and my cell phone (the one with aspirations to be smart but, being Windows-based, couldn't summon up the will to actually be smart) at the same time.

I maintain that I need constant and careful supervision especially when things are going tough. I'd been in turns frustrated, angry or ballistic about my technology. It never worked when I wanted it to, much less when I actually needed it to. The phone took crappy pictures and I couldn't read an entire news article without being booted out to the start screen. I could only use the Beta version of Instagram and by the time I stopped using the phone, Facebook no longer let me see entire comments or post any myself. Phone calls required precise locations....and only those precise locations or I had no reception. My computer was slower than my phone (!) and the cord only worked in one position, one probably not recommended by the manufacturer, and was one step away from me holding the cord at a 30° angle from my body while sitting on the second cushion on the couch and holding my other hand towards the window (effectively stripping me of the power to type), unless it was raining in which case touching the cord at all was disaster regardless of where I was sitting or how many hands I waved in the air.

First we ordered my cell phone online from a big box store because they were clearancing out cell phones. I do love a great deal and we could go to the store to pick it up saving us even more money and the need to sit at home waiting for the delivery. (For those unfamiliar with the Italian post, if they can't deliver to you on the first day you have to go to the office specified on the ticket [not necessarily the one closest to your house] on the day and hour specified [not necessarily the next day nor when the office opens] and wait in line to get your package. It's not something you want to do on purpose.)

The next day we (my darling husband came for moral support and potential translation) took ourselves to the local Apple store to buy me an iPad. I'd done my research, knew exactly what I wanted so I couldn't get talked into random weird stuff and was ready to spend the money. Well, mostly ready to spend the money. It's a lot of money.

The staff were helpful and excited to get me into my first Apple product. I pointed to the things I wanted, the guy typed on his phone and ecco! my desired items were hand delivered to us by silently efficient gofers. And that wasn't even the most exciting part...now they sat me down to help me set up my new computer. All I'll say at this point is "THANK GOD". Me and easy apparently never, like ever, go together.

All went well with the first part: fingerprints, passwords, preferred language. My  computer worked! Next (and to judge from their attitudes not even something they needed to help me with because it really does the work itself) the pairing of my English keyboard to my iPad. And due to all the magnety things going on, attaching the keyboard is child's play. With a flourish the techie guy invited me to type things into my new computer with my snazzy new keyboard. Perhaps because I approached it with less flourish than it had been presented, the keyboard refused to work.

And this is where the simple purchase of a computer turns into something of a farce involving multiple associates and experts sporting serious looks (and often serious moustaches) under the curious gaze of other customers.

"It doesn't work?" Techie #1 asked, clearly surprised that I wasn't euphorically typing nonsense words into my new device. He frowned (overly dramatically it seemed to me) and pulled it toward him, madly searching for something in "settings"  that could explain why things weren't working smoothly. Thus began the long process of searching for answers and attempting a fix that always resulted in one minute of success to be quickly followed by failure and requiring me to re-enter my password.

The next hour+ found me entering my password over twenty times as they tried various hardware (trying keyboard with demo iPads to make sure it worked, and when it did swapping out iPads, which meant repeating the whole setup process) and software (updating it, which was really confusing as it came straight out of the box....how is it even possible to need an update before it leaves the store??!) Techies #2 & #3 were brought in to consult as the Spanish family across the table from us tried to cheer me up by asking about where I was from. Unfortunately they couldn't drown out the rather desperate, whispered consultation happening around my iPad. The floor manager had joined the three tech guys and anyone wearing an Apple shirt and not currently helping someone had gathered at a respectful distance to check out what was happening (while appearing to straighten cords or clean screens). A sigh in four parts brought me out of a daydream in which technology actually liked me, and Techie #1 slid the iPad towards me. "Try it now," he encouraged me with an aprehensive smile.

As I typed I could feel the tension slide off the Apple contingent surrounding my table. "It works!" was all I could say. Bystanders trickled off to their various posts and the Spanish family gave me a thumbs ups. After presenting me with a small gift for sticking with them through the difficulties the original salesman escorted me to the door and assured me that should I need any more help (and surely, his look implied, I wouldn't be back as all my problems had been solved) they were there for me. I hefted my backpack of Apple products and boxes over my shoulder and we left for home.

At home later that night I took out the iPad, hands shaking only slightly, and turned it on. That part worked perfectly. I wanted to quit there, you know, while I was ahead....but no. I went ahead and tried the keyboard. Holy cow! It worked! It was a Sunday evening miracle! I closed the cover, opened it up and tried the keyboard again. Holy cow! It didn't work!

Wait, what? I fiddled with it for another ten minutes, unable to get the keyboard to work again. I muttered to myself about the lunacy of an Apple product not being able to interface with another Apple product (that being the whole point of Apple....it works with it's own shit and not so much with anyone else's) while listlessly poking at the keyboard with one finger. Leif watched from a distance, oozing sympathy while being smart enough to stay silent. I calmly (at least in my head it was calmly) said "We WILL be going to the Apple store first thing tomorrow morning." Leif poured me a shot of whiskey. I accepted it.

The next day we walked into the Apple store as they opened. The floor manager recognized me and with a tentative smile asked how things were going. "It doesn't..." was as far as I got before his smile melted off his face and he exclaimed "But no! How is this possible? Come..." and led me to the same table I'd spent so much time at the day before. He tugged at the arm of an associate as we walked by, unleashing a stream of Italian I couldn't follow but was obviously the equivelant of "All hands on deck!" as he dropped what he was doing and followed us to the table, smiling bravely as he asked to see my iPad.

"Show me," he said. I set it up and showed him. He started with a thoughtful look. Asked permission to touch my computer and did whatever it is computer dudes do in "settings" and tried it. Looking a bit self-satisfied he typed some more. He started to spin it in my direction but stopped halfway around. With a frown he typed some more, then started to wiggle the keyboard around a bit. Typed. Wiggled. Typed. Frowned some more. Asked if he could try a few things....kind of a strange question as I came there specifically for them to try things....anythings.

He walked away with just the keyboard, an only slightly contained "Incredibile!" bursting from him. The manager slid next to him, reminding him that this is my first Apple product and it was their sworn duty to make me happy (said in Italian possibly in the hopes that I wouldn't understand what he was saying...) The techie returned quickly, assuring me that the keyboard seemed to work with the other iPads so perhaps it was the iPad itself. The manager, who had been hovering nearby, quickly told him that we'd already tried replacing the iPad so perhaps instead we should try a new keyboard. An English keyboard.

At this point Leif left to do some work as I had no idea how long it would take and I didn't care if my meltdown had to happen in English and rudimentary Italian. I felt up to the task if the occasion called for it. Tears transcend language.

The new keyboard fared no better than the original one. A brief moment of success before failure. New techies were recruited, I believe these would be the big guns, brought out only when something truly unusual were to happen. The words incredibile (incredible)and mai (never) were repeated often and by everyone. The Trenitalia guy setting up his new phone across the table from me sent me sympathetic looks and the occasional sardonic eyebrow lift. He wanted me to know we were kindred souls even if his set up was going smoothly. We had reached the point where highly trained techies who love a good problem were tethering (note the Computer Savvy Vocabulary) my iPad to various phones and computers while interfacing (again note the CSV) with help desks halfway around the world in a last ditch effort to make things work.

The Trenitalia guy took out a package of crackers and I cursed my short-sighted planning. I must have looked hungry because he offered me a cracker, not enthusiastically but possibly with the thought it could prevent me from going postal while he was still in the store. I refused. In hindsight, I probably should have taken the cracker. I don't function well when hungry and this was turning into a situation requiring me to be more functional than usual.

While I sat waiting and watching the techies doing their respective things, business as usual was happening all around us. People bought, set up and left with their new Apple products never knowing the drama unfolding around my iPad.

At one point the techie (number unknown) leaned over and with a small smile said "Look over there, we have a priest in the store. Should we ask him to bless your computer?" And then he immediately looked horrified and said "Oh no! I was only joking!" I'm not gonna lie.....it sounded like a great idea. It had as good a chance of working as any of the other things they were attempting. I bit back a snort/laugh and said that maybe, no, we shouldn't bother him on his day off. The techie (number unknown) looked confused and then concentrated on the computer again.

Not long after I refused divine intervention the manager came to me with a sad expression on his face. "We are unable to find a solution to make the English keyboard work with the iPad. Can you be happy with an Italian keyboard?" He waited expectantly while I thought. I had to think. Leif's old computer had an Italian keyboard and I spent an inordinate amount of time searching desparately for punctuation and shouting "Dammit!" as I pounded on the delete key. Some keys have three symbols and the one I want is nearly always used in tandem with something other than the shift key and there are extra vowels sporting fancy accents where my puctuation by rights ought to be. But I really, really didn't want to spend my life typing with two fingers on the screen of the iPad either. Hunger may have also been a factor. So I agreed. Reluctantly. And for my reluctance they gave me the keyboard for free.

Many people would call that a win-win situation. I got my iPad and a free if confusing keyboard. But I want a little bit more. I want to know how a product developed and made in the US can't interface with an English keyboard made by the same company even if it's sold in Italy. How is it even possible for something Apple to be incompatable with another something that is also Apple? I didn't buy some aftermarket off-brand keyboard off the sidewalk from an unlicensed vendor. I didn't download some third party app that would magically turn my keyboard English and plant some virus inside my computer. I bought products who are the very essence of compatability, in a city teeming with young Americans who don't buy anything that isn't Apple. How has this never occurred before?

I suppose I could binge watch Downton Abbey, Monty Python and Fawlty Towers, maybe even a little rugby on the iPad while eating fish and chips, possibly scones? and drinking Guiness and tea by the gallon in the hopes that the keyboard will begin to think it's English. But in my dream world, Apple learns of this fiasco and, horrified, sends me an English keyboard that works. And like $20 in the itunes store to blow on whatever strikes my fancy. Dream big I say.

Also, Apple should give those guys at the Florence store a bonus. They did everything they could to make me happy. It's not their fault I'm only mostly content rather than ecstatic.

PS: If you're wondering about my phone, it went much better than the iPad. My initial freak out when I discovered my sim card was too big to fit into the slot on the iPhone was eased when the lady at the phone store we use (I just didn't have the balls to go to the Apple store for help. I mean, damn, they'd totally recognize me and know I didn't buy it there) showed me how to make it smaller and set everything up so I could use it. There was a tense moment when she couldn't get the phone to connect to the wifi and I very nearly had a panic attack right there in the store because it wouldn't surprise me if I got the one bad phone out of the 5,000 shipped to that outlet. Luckily, she had a cooler head than me and went to plan B immediately, which worked and I walked out the door with a working phone in a language I could function in. It's a giant leap forward in technology so my learning curve still involves a lot of swearing and confusion but the phone itself works.

It's Questura time again

It’s been five years since Leif and I got married and the endless work of fulfilling the Italian lust for bureaucracy began winding down to its logical (but not necessarily logical, because you just never know with the Italian gov’t) conclusion. At the end of May the paperwork we spent months working for expires.

Well, that’s not technically true. If you’ll recall, when last we met over the topic of bureaucracy, the Questura, and my permission to stay in Italy I was ecstatic because instead of being granted a one or two year permission to stay I got a piece of paper that was good for five years. Five years! A giant weight lifted off my shoulders at that thought, because the Questura is hands down my least favorite Italian place to visit. It’s a soul sucking and mind bending experience that is only worth it because at the end you get the thing you most desire….permission to stay in Italy.

I dreaded 2017’s arrival because it meant going back to the paperwork of applying for my Permesso di Soggiorno. I remembered five years ago I was given a single piece of paper and was completely astounded that permission to stay with a spouse required less paperwork than the ½” stack for a one year study. I was fooled, of course, because they asked for more (see post from that experience here, I won’t bore you with recapping the whole thing) and we scrambled to get those papers from one government entity to another in a timely manner. I was legitimately freaking out over re-applying because even with all their schedules and footnoted directions it’s always difficult filling out paperwork in Italian. I’m not always sure about what they’re asking or if I’m answering correctly and so many of the questions sound very ambiguous till I ask an Italian and they tell me what they think it means and I’m seriously surprised that I didn’t even consider their answer a possibility.

It’s also important to start the paperwork early, like waaaay before the expiration date, several months at least in order to give the government time to do whatever it is they do to make sure you’re legit before printing your piece of paper, stapling your picture onto it and hermetically sealing it together with clear mailing tape. I had further motivation to get things done quickly and properly as we’re hoping to travel outside the EU this year and I need my Permesso to get back in.

I did a little research online about renewing my Permesso. It seems that many rules changed in 2016 and I wasn’t sure what the consequences would be for me. I even read blogs about those with work or just the funds to stay in Italy and it seemed that it would be more difficult with more paper and that didn’t ease my mind one bit. Which only freaked me out more. I was practically hyperventilating for days thinking about how to get the paperwork needed to get my new Permesso. I can’t even remember what prompted me to take out my Permesso and really read it but when I did I was both astonished and embarrassed.

Good Lord. For five years I’ve worried on and off about the prospect of renewing my Permesso. Sweated over the myriad ways I might find all the right pieces of paper that said all the right things so I could get the magical stamp of approval from Italy. Had myself convinced that at any moment Italy might decide it didn’t want me anymore and I’d be summarily escorted to the border, kissed on both cheeks and sent into a land more foreign to me than Italy to try and find shelter. Like France or Switzerland. Possibly Austria. Or Croatia, where I could drown my sorrows in slivovitz. I mean I really really worried about this.

All this time I thought I had this temporary permission to stay, something that I had to prove over and over again, always with the possibility that I’d say the exact wrong thing or present the wrong piece of paper to an Italian official having a bad day and the above scenario would unfold before I had time to pack.

The truth is I have a Carta di Soggiorno, which is a whole different animal from the Permesso. How is it different? Well, the Permesso, as I’ve said, has to be renewed and reviewed on a frequent basis and is always vulnerable to refusal. A Carta di Soggiorno has no expiration date. But every five years, whether to keep track of foreigners or to ensure a healthy income from fees, I have to update my photo. How did I miss this subtle yet important difference? Well, when I finally got my paperwork at the Questura five years ago I was so stunned and thrilled and afraid of losing it or something equally disastrous that I ran home with it, read it through once (thereby discovering I could pack it in mothballs for five years) and tucked it into a plastic sheet protector which I filed away in the place I put everything I don’t want to lose. I never thought to sit down and actually read it, even when my Italian reached a point where I might actually comprehend some of what it said. But when I was reading all the horror stories of others trying to renew their Permesso, I decided to read it again. Right at the top, in giant how-the-hell-did-I-miss-that letters it clearly reads Carta di Soggiorno. Five years of anticipatory stress for nothing. Argh.

Oh, I still have to fill out the stressfully worded paperwork and pay those fees at the Poste Italiane to a postal worker who really doesn’t want to answer any questions about why the fees are suddenly twice as much as I thought they should be. I’ll still stress about whether or not they’ll actually renew what is essentially permission to stay permanently without the need for review because I’ll still have to visit the Questura where uncertainty and hopelessness have permeated the walls. No one leaves happy, even when they get exactly what they came for.

I did get the first part done: paperwork filled out, the correct Marco di Bollo (tax stamp) affixed in the correct place, and the short but sweet conversation with the postal worker who shoved my paperwork back at me and said if I had questions get them answered by someone else to which I thought “Oh hell no” and paid the damn fees. She then handed me my appointment slip for the Questura.

Now I did all this quite early, I thought. We aren’t traveling until August and my picture on the paperwork with no expiration date is good till the end of May. Imagine our surprise (you didn’t think I went through this alone, did you? Of course, I brought Leif along) when we realized my appointment is for August, more than week after we fly out of Italy. Apparently the timeline has changed in the last five years. Instead of a couple of months lead time we should have planned on six months lead time. The only good news is that I can reenter Europe with my receipt and if past experience is any indicator my paperwork won’t be ready on time. In fact, it might not be ready when I come back six weeks later. Then again, because the universe loves to play with me, this time everything will work perfectly and my paperwork will be ready and waiting for me at 9:29am on 7 August. I just hope it'll still be there when I do finally get back into Italy.

Life goes on...

The elections are over....thank the universe for that. What happens now will be important to everyone and while we fight the good fight (whichever side you may align yourself with) life still goes on. Stomachs must be filled, bills paid, decisions big and small made, etc. With that in mind (and the fact that I've neglected writing here for far too long) it's time to share the utterly mundane story of changing apartments here in Florence.

After five lease-less years in an apartment that was large at 75 sq meters and boasted an actual space to store things, we decided to move. This wasn't a decision taken lightly or quickly. We watched our former apartment disintegrate around us. A leak in the roof, unacknowledged and in fact denied by our landlord, caused the ceiling to begin to fall in the kitchen and hallway. The few electrical outlets that worked became tenuous in their connections. We flushed our toilet with a bucket because the inner workings had become so old that the water ran constantly so we just turned it off. The boiler for the radiator was declared too old at its last inspection and would have to be replaced. No window or door except for the door into the apartment latched properly certainly putting pressure on the already old boiler as it struggled to heat the constant flow of outside air. In fact, we had to pile everything heavy we owned in front of the terrace doors to keep them closed when the wind was strong because the latch was broken. Right before we left the water heater started dripping....I couldn't imagine a winter without heat or hot water.

So we started looking for a new place to live. Still in Florence because our work requires access to transportation and tourists but closer to the south side where most of our riding and working happens. I'd look around in English language sites for adverts, call or email and discover that as soon as the ad was placed it was rented. Argh! Finally I called early enough to get a chance to actually view an apartment. We were one of the first to see  it and because he had a week filled with appointments to see the apartment we decided to take it that same night. And because I'm certifiably insane at times we placed our move in date a week later.

We had to give notice at our old place (don't laugh and say why...we're built that way) so we had a month to move between the two places. A month while I was still working full time at the apprenticeship to decide what to throw and what to keep and how to move it all. The new place is smaller by 20 sq meters so everything couldn't come with us.

Our rather fabulous new landlord helped us with his van a couple of times to move the big stuff. Everything else we moved by bike. Every day during the month of May both Leif and I made multiple trips across town filling bags and banana boxes, the do-it-yourself-movers box of choice.

That's right. Several times each day we would ride across town to the old apartment to pack up the next load. I would fill my 33 liter back pack with more than 33 liters of probably breakable stuff as my body cushioned the potholes. Depending on what we were moving I'd strap a banana box down to the rear rack on my bike and toss something usually too big into my rapidly disintegrating front basket. Sometimes I'd use a giant blue IKEA bag instead of a banana box because I could get more clothes into it. Leif would fill both panniers and balance a banana box on top of those while carrying his backpack too. Then we would start, slowly, across town. Half the trip happened on city streets, the other half on a disconnected series of bike lanes dodging pedestrians and cross traffic to arrive home. We rode along the Arno and bounced past the Uffizzi and Ponte Vecchio (cobblestones, wow) before crossing the river into the San Frediano section of town. I went head to head with taxis, other cyclists, scooter drivers, horse-drawn carriages and tourists who refused to allow an obviously overloaded, precariously balanced middle-aged woman on a POS bike to pass.

Repeat until your butt hurts, your back hurts, your knees hurt and the bike starts rattling too loudly to ignore. Then do it some more. And Leif did this twice as much as I did because he had some full days off that all he did was ride between the two places loaded down with stuff. He's the true hero of this story.

If you're going to ask my why, and that is what I answer with this blog as much as possible, my answer is that we have made the conscious choice to live as much as possible without a car. While friends and family shook their heads and laughed at us for taking, in their opinions, the hard way to move, we were taking the only option available to us. And face it, if we moved like everyone else there'd be no story to tell, would there?

Taking my life back

A couple of days ago I quit my apprenticeship. It was hard; I had poured so much of myself into it in the last seven months. Too much, in fact. Instead of enhancing our lives by providing a steady income it obliterated every other facet of my life. No rides with Leif, no painting, no writing (you probably noticed that) and no contact with friends.

For the first months I accepted this as normal. Basically giving my life over to another person or corporation and accepting their value of my time and talents is the very bedrock of the “steady job” as I experienced it in Minnesota. In exchange for X amount of dollars I willingly chained myself to a desk, accepted someone else's evaluation of my skills and personality and took time off only when it was approved. I wasn't surprised by it or bothered so much because, as I understood it, this was just the way things worked. This apprenticeship started the same way, which six years ago wouldn't have made me blink.

The difference is that I'm not in Minnesota anymore. I moved 4755 miles to create and experience a different kind of lifestyle. It was happening: I was training to be a cycle tour guide and learning how to help Leif manage the business better so we could live life on our own terms. I was seduced by the money and didn't anticipate the total destruction of the life I'd worked so hard to create.

No. I'm not being dramatic. I ate, drank and slept cake. For a time my sense of self was centered around this job and the unfortunate part is that I did it for free. I bought into someone else's dream for potential income and security. And then I began to accept someone else's valuation of my skills and personality. (that's right, my personality apparently needed work too) I think you can guess how things went. We can never live up to the expectations of someone else and that ate at me so much that I started losing weight, losing my hair and losing sleep.

At first I thought it was my fault, which only made matters worse. Then one day I sat myself down and thought hard...not about how I could do the job better, be a different person, whatever....but if what the job was expecting was realistic. If it fit into the lifestyle I had been working towards pre-cake making. The answer was no, and the relief that I felt when I recognized that was physical.

I didn't move 4755 miles from everything I knew and everyone I loved to have the same life I had in Minnesota. I moved here not just to live differently, but to be different. I don't want to live my life at top speed desperately trying to fulfill some one else's expectations at rock bottom prices. If I must work for a dream then by all means it should be my own. And so I'll go back to my bike riding, painting, writing, nap taking (I did miss those...), spending time with Leif and friends kind of life.

And so next week I start working for myself again. It feels good.

Workin' for a livin'

Anyone who has followed my life over the last five years has probably wondered "And just what the heck does she do all day?" Some days I wonder the same thing.

My stock answer, until a week ago, was "As little as possible," usually said in a half wistful, half boastful kind of way. Because yes, it's great to have all kinds of free time to pursue any idea that sparks your mind. I've had the chance to learn to ride a road bike. I've wallowed in my art. I've babysat. I've dogsat (is that a word?). I've taught English (a real English teacher would know if dogsat was a word).  I've attempted yoga.

I learned some valuable lessons. I learned that as cute and loveable as kids and dogs are, they are expert at pushing my buttons. Buttons I prefer to leave unpushed at this time. Being able to speak English like a native does not make me a passionate teacher of language. Yoga, well...let's just not go there. I'm incapable of attaining, much less holding, the pretzel position for any length of time. Which leaves the two things I really, really do feel passionate about. Cycling and art. Two jobs that only the extremely talented can really make a living at. So for the longest time I've been content to pursue the things I enjoy and practiced patience in waiting for that thing to come along.

Being able to contribute  to the household is important to me, and while all the stuff I do isn't exactly nothing, I still have always felt a little like I'm taking advantage. Like I'm making Leif do all the work while I lollygag around the apartment eating bonbons and reading trashy magazines. (By the way that's not true. I seem to have lost my craving for chocolate, and the last time I picked up a People Magazine I didn't recognize a single name or face. I'm rather proud of that.) So I do always keep my eyes open for opportunities.

I found one such opportunity on the Facebook page of a creative group I belong to. A group I wouldn't have belonged to three years ago because I hadn't really embraced my artistry yet. After several email exchanges, one phone call, one face to face interview and one full day interview/audition I have exciting news. I have a job! Well, let me rephrase that a little.

I'm participating in the centuries old, time honored tradition of apprenticeship. Appropriate, I think, to be doing this in Italy, where hand craft and hand made are still respected skills. The great masters have always had apprentices. I am so excited that I was one of two people chosen to begin training with one of the top wedding cake designers in Italy, Melanie Secciani of Tuscan Wedding Cakes. Like the great masters, she's pretty much going to share everything that she knows about her business with us, teach us the basic skills, then turn around and ask us "Now what will you do with all this information? What's your interpretation of the things I taught you?"

This job (because one day I will cease to be an apprentice and become an employee) is the perfect blend of art and food. Making something beautiful that pleases not just the eye, but also the mouth. Creating something that takes the breath away even as it fills the heart with memories. I've waited a long time for this thing to come along. This thing that I can throw myself into fully and probably become slightly obsessed with. I'm so ready for this.

My least favorite topic in the world: Politics

4 years ago

I cringe every time I sit down with one of my Italian friend because lately the one question they always ask me is what I think about the political situation in the US. Then they go on to cite a European newspaper or news program that has reported on some aspect of the election or the latest stupidity to come out of someone's mouth.

They want to know what I think. They believe so easily what they hear from what they view as reputable sources and want to use me as a kind of fact checking resource for their next conversation with their friends. They know what politics is here in Italy. They want to hear that it's different in the US. That our choices are broader and less mired in back-room negotiations. They don't want to believe most of what they are hearing about the presidential candidates. I don't want to believe that they say and do the things they say and do. Most days to me the political news sounds like a poorly written soap opera, and badly acted as well.

I don't have the words in Italian, I practically don't have them in English, to explain how to view the political landscape in the United States. Because as much as we'd like to believe that we are different, that our struggles for democracy have somehow made us immune to the problems that other countries experience, the truth is that we aren't.

We throw democracy around us like a magic cloak and pretend that the things that are happening can't be seen and certainly can't be felt because they are part of the democratic process. During an election year we say and do things that we would consider the height of poor taste and crude behavior in any other year and chalk it up to political fervor as if that should excuse everything and anything.

The truth is, there is no truth in politics. Every word that we hear and read, every word that we speak ourselves is delivered with a political, commercial, corporate or personal agenda. The truth is there is no one neutral enough to deliver a fair estimation of the candidates in this election.

Today, 4 years later. Nothing has changed, except that the players are even more outrageous, the non-partisan reporting even more partisan, and the public even more confused than in the previous election. World events have muddied the political waters even more by throwing fear into the equation. My heart aches for everyone.

How simple stuff becomes complex

I recently discovered that to use a notary here in Florence isn't as easy as back in Minnesota; land where you can walk into your bank, many state or county offices and lots of businesses and ask if they have a notary and they'll say "Sure! Come on in and sit down. Show me your license, sign here." Then a flurry of activity as they stamp, date, sign and stamp again with a flourish. You put your license away and ask how much it costs. They quote you anywhere from "It's free if you have an account," to "Two bucks", which you happily pay and leave having spent less than 15 minutes from start to finish and with enough money left in your pocket for lunch.

At least this is what it was like when I got married 3 years ago and had to change nearly every piece of identifying paper I owned.

Fast forward to last week, when I discovered that my Power of Attorney wasn't specific enough for the state of Minnesota. Even though the definition of durable PoA is pretty clear, Minnesota has decided in the last five years that the definition is a little too loose. So no problem, I write a more specific PoA. This requires a notary to witness my signature. That's it. They don't check my document for content or correctness, just watch me sign and check my face against my passport photo.

Well, in Italy being a Notary is a full time job, not one small portion of the total job description, and they share offices with lawyers. I'm certain it involves an armada of stamps in varying sizes, colors and degrees of importance in addition to the stamp I'll still probably have to buy at a tobacco shop (not the PO). It requires an appointment and the cost is 100euro. Yikes. I mean, maybe there's more to this notary business than I understand, but mostly I see them verify my identity by looking at me and my passport (repeat twice,maybe that's where the cost comes in?) and stamp the document without caring what the document is.

In a true brain storm I checked online with the US Consulate. I still have to make an appointment but they only charge $50....with the caveat that Italian banks only accept bills in good condition so if you bring the equivalent in euros make sure they're pretty. I haven't been home long enough to attempt making an appointment....chances are even if it is the American Consulate it's in Italy and therefore fraught with danger and inexplicable rules, the first of which is probably that the appointment you make online isn't a slave to your schedule but to the Consulate's. You get what you get (it's all online and I'm afraid to go too far into the process and end up with an appointment I can't keep) and rearrange your schedule around it. So I'm waiting till after I get home next week to even attempt to make an appointment.

I'd like to think walking into the Consulate here is like walking into any American government office. In other words, not exactly a visit to Disney World, but a place that follows understandable rules and works pretty straightforwardly. But I've heard rumors that it's staffed by Italians and therefore I shouldn't be surprised by strange requests and unwritten rules and generally feeling like I should feel comfortable but somehow just don't.

I'll be sure to take excellent notes in case anything truly exciting or note worthy happens. For me, of course, the truly exciting thing would be for everything to go smoothly....they verify that I am in fact me, I sign my document, stamp stamp stamp, pay my $50 and head home for a well deserved and stiff drink.

A girl can dream. Right?

How to handle sorrow

I'm struggling today. Actually, for a few days. For the second time since I moved here I'm trying to deal with death from 7, 650 kilometers away.

Initially there's the dilemma of how to convey my sympathy to someone so very far away. My grief doesn't have words that haven't been rendered meaningless by eons of use and repetition. There are no new words to say that my heart is crying with yours, and I don't know when it will stop.

The fact that I can only communicate in the written word makes it even more difficult. I hope that they hear my voice as they read words that seem stripped of their emotion by the fact that they're framed by something as mundane as an email platform.

I'm also reminded that life begins and ends without warning and without mercy, and that I will have to do this many times. Sometimes, as with this moment, death will only brush the edges of my existence, but one day it will strike at the center of my world. While I can't  possibly prepare for it I must at least acknowledge that those 7,650 kilometers will both magnify and dull my responses.

And so now I'll sit down and have a good cry for a life ended too soon, a family surely broken and lost at least for now, and a community left wondering what if.

Visiting Milan

Big news! For years we've been going to Milan, but only to catch a plane. Because that's where Europe's cheapest carrier flies out of regularly. So I've seen the central train station (a lot) and Bergamo (a suburb, again, a lot) I've never seen Milan. This week we fixed that.

On Tuesday we took a new train service called Italo, which by the way arrives at a small station (which is near the historic center) instead of the big central one (which is not even close to the center), and walked into the historic center to see the sights and look at bikes. In fact, the bikes were the focus of the trip and we took the extra time in town to look around.

Striking curved glass building outside the center.

Milan is different from Florence in a lot of ways. It's modern sections are incredibly modern and big parts of the historic center are about a century younger than Florence's center. The people are more likely to talk to a stranger. The pizza put me into a dairy coma.....seriously like an American pizza which I'm not used to anymore.

Our story begins as we get off the train and try to find our way out of the station. It reminded me of Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. No signs (that I could see anyway) and too many options to take. Luckily Leif has been there before and managed to get us to the street. If I were in charge we'd probably still be wandering around the station; starved, dehydrated and slightly insane. I thought once we left the station the hard part was over. I was wrong.

We brought a map along. It's large (Milan is a large city) and on the cover is a picture of a labyrinth. I should have known it wouldn't be easy after seeing that. We walked to a bench and sat down to look at the map and a very nice older woman stopped and asked us (in English) if we needed some help. I kind of gasped and looked at her with my jaw at about knee level. I'm not used to this kind of thing. She noticed my surprise and took it for confusion. "Should we use English, or perhaps French?" she asked with a bright smile. I kind of stuttered out "Parliammo l'Italiano," and she looked confused, then smiled again and started in (at about a hundred miles an hour) in Italian. She gave us very complete and precise instructions, said "Va bene!" and left us with a spring in her step, confident that she had saved us from wandering aimlessly.

We looked at each other and shrugged because her directions were useless; she directed us to the tram line and we wanted to walk. But it was so lovely to have someone offer help without having to ask for it and having language options was almost unbelievable. We took our bearings from the map, folded it up and walked a few blocks in the direction we were certain we were supposed to go and realized we had no idea where we were. We unfolded the map, found that where we thought we were wasn't at all where we actually were, even though we took the street the map told us to. We got our bearings once more, folded up the map and walked confidently in our chosen direction. After a few blocks we weren't finding the cross street that we were supposed to turn at.

Hmmm, this was starting to be difficult. And before you all start rolling your eyes and thinking that we just had an old map I want to say one thing. These streets have been here for centuries. An Italian city may grow outwards (like any large city) but the streets that exist, especially in any historic center, are set in stone...pun intended.

During our wandering we found lots of cool things like these
rental bikes....stations like this all over the center.

Back to our wandering, which continued in much the same way for about the next hour. We would locate our destination, find our current location, and decide on the most direct route possible. 20 steps into our next leg of the journey always found us scratching our heads and wondering how we could be on the same road we started on, yet headed in a direction that seemed to lead somewhere else. We nearly circled our destination, the Bianchi Cafe & Cycles shop, without actually seeing it. I found myself yearning for the tried and true grid system that much of Minnesota is laid out into.

At the risk of offending certain friends, it was like someone from Minneapolis trying to find an address in St. Paul. (or any of the bedroom suburbs that have hundreds of cul de sacs and no actual downtown) Streets in Italy wander, they change names frequently, the signs are difficult to find and more often more difficult to read and every town is dotted with Piazzas that everyone uses for landmarks (but when you really need to find one it's not clearly marked).

If I hadn't started getting hungry it might have been quite an adventure, but hunger made me a little testy. Leif might revise that to mighty testy, but I'm sticking with just a little. After that long wandering around I began to understand why the woman was kind enough to try and help us earlier. She's probably seen people sitting on the curb weeping in frustration, never knowing that the place they've been searching for is right around the corner. They've been circling it because the street isn't marked. I also understand why she seemed so intent on getting us to the tram. We would have gotten most of the way there without getting lost. Well, in an ideal world perhaps, but we stood a better chance with the tram.

Finally Leif said "Take the next left, it's on this street." I hate to say this, but I doubted. Seriously doubted. I was in the grip of a low blood sugar, sun stroked doubt of epic proportions. But there is was. The mecca of our trip. His one goal for the day. Looking at new bikes. We walked in and stopped. But where were the bikes? ! ? All I could see were tables and chairs and a few (precious few) bikes firmly attached to the walls. But Wait! A sign....coffee floor 1, cafe floor -1, bikes floor -2. That's right. The bikes were in the sub-basement. Interesting.

Once in the basement shop we ate a few almonds and raisins to hold us through to lunch and got down to the serious business of looking at bikes. I'm not gonna lie to you, I was seriously disappointed to see a single woman's bike among all the other bikes. Then again I was already disappointed because this shop was tiny compared to the one in Stockholm. AND they don't let you try the bikes. Which is weird because I understood that part of the purpose of these kind of shops was to show off and try out the new bikes. I will probably always have these languages difficulties.

We spent a good hour touching all (I do mean all) the bikes and asking maybe a million questions and generally making ourselves kind of a nuisance. But in our defense we will someday be buying one (or more) of these bad boys, so our questions are a small investment in a later sale.

All good things must come to an end. We ran out of bikes to touch and questions to ask and I distinctly heard lunch calling my name, so we said good bye to the guys in the shop and headed out to find lunch and to see the sights, in that order.

Fortified by my pizza, which had a ton of cheese on it (hence the dairy coma), we headed towards the dome. This was easy to find because 1. it's ginormous, and 2. we passed it about 5 times in our trek to find the store. The Duomo in Florence is a huge solid block of colorful stones held in place by the large dome. The Duomo in Milan is more like Notre Dam, still large but appearing lighter because it's capped by dozens of thin spires pointing to heaven while the walls are covered in intricately worked, irregularly colored stone. The only jarring point for me was the billboard tacked to the side of the building. Basically a giant TV screen with rotating adds for things people don't need and have no place in or on a place of worship. But that's just my opinion.

We walked through the Galleria Vittorio Emmanuelle, a tunnel shaped, glass covered street with a lot of fancy shops. We walked by Teatro alla Scala opera house. Then, (my favorite part) we went to the Castello Sforzesco. We wandered through the castle walls and courtyards, reading every sign and learning a little of the history of the castle and Milan. Then we walked through to the other side, which is a large public park. We sat for awhile just enjoying the day and being off our feet.

Seriously cool.

I do have to say that finding our way out was far easier than finding our way into the center. We found the station with no problem. Finding our track proved to be difficult because the station remained as like the Paris airport as before, the sign for our track was at the bottom of escalator. So you have to get  where you're going before you can see the sign to where you need to go. Did that make sense?

Once on the train we could relax, laugh a little bit about the day and look forward to getting home. It was fun, but I'm glad I live in a city that no longer confuses the hell out of me every time I step out the door. I suppose if I lived in Milan, someday I'd be better at finding my way around, but I don't think I would like living there. Yes, it's more international because so many businesses are based out of Milan, but with that international exposure and resulting openness to strangers and strange things also comes a more cosmopolitan attitude about everything. Things cost more. People are dressed more outrageously. Street vendors are downright aggressive in their quest to put a selfie stick into the hands of every tourist. Manners are less elegant. More modern doesn't always translate into more beautiful or more desirable. I think I'll just put this in the column of "a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there."

Totally cool buildings I read about that have full size trees on the terraces
and a lot of other energy saving and producing details.
read about it here

Revolution of a cyclist: best pick up line EVER

It's been a good week for me in the cycling department. I've ridden four times. Two of the rides were long and included climbs that I would have avoided like the plague last year. I just don't think I can pull off this "I'm new to cycling" thing much longer. People are catching on.

Today I rode with friends Barbara and Rossano. A nice easy ride to the most beautiful pastry I've had in a while. Seriously. Just out of the oven sfogliatina with cream inside. Warm, gooey cream. Flaky pastry. Cinnamon sugar on top. I nearly swooned.

I thought the pastry was going to be the most memorable part of the ride. I was wrong.

After saying goodbye to Barbara I headed across town to my home. This route takes me on a large street which has three painted lanes but since all the drivers are Italians (or lost tourists) the reality is that there are anywhere from three to five lanes and that number is always changing. The traffic here doesn't march along in single file like ants carrying food back to the anthill. It's more like a buffalo stampede. If your car fits, shove it in. If you can intimidate the driver next to you, do so. You can signal your turn if you want to, but who has the time? More efficient to use the horn. Don't even get me started on how to drive those hypothetical three lanes when one lane is strewn with randomly double parked cars who will only be there for a minute.

This is the gauntlet I run every time I come home from the park. Just to make it even more fun there are two underpasses that descend and ascend quickly and sharply. I have around two feet between a concrete barrier and the moving cars. In an effort to get it over with as quickly as possible I tend to treat this section of road like a sprint however I'm always pretty tired so I'm never sure if the speed I feel like I've reached is really there or only in my mind.

Today I can say with confidence that I had some actual speed going. How do I know? Someone told me.

After sprinting uphill through my 2-3 foot wide lane I stopped at the unfortunately red light and sort of wheezed for a bit. (it's hot, I wheeze when it's hot) Suddenly, from over my shoulder I heard a voice.

"Fai il Giro d'Italia?" (Are you doing the Giro d'Italia?) Funny man.

I should have trusted my instincts and kept looking straight ahead, but he kept repeating it as he slowly inched forward (sorry my metric friends but centimetered forward just sounds wrong). Slowly the driver, a  man with longish greying hair, aviator shades and a killer tan got the car, a smallish Ford convertible, far enough forward to make eye contact. Because I couldn't ignore him anymore. The scooter drivers around me were starting to look at me like I was being sort of a bitch for not acknowledging the guy. So I looked over and he asked me yet again if I was doing the Giro d'Italia, confident he had chosen the perfect pick up line for this situation.

Instead of doing what I think he expected me to do, which would be to flutter my  eyelashes, wave my hands around, blush (like that would be possible when my face was likely already a gorgeous shade of magenta), say "Who...me?" and possibly giggle, I just said no.

Obviously not one to take a little bump in the road seriously, he tried to joke with me about my riding. Thankfully the light changed and I started to roll forward.

"Di dove sei?" he shouted after me. "Germania?" (Where are you from? Germany?)

"No! Stati Uniti!" I shouted as I took off, thinking this ended the conversation.

I seemed to have forgotten just how relentless the Italian male is when in the grip of the delusion that every woman wants him.

He pulled up next to me, matched my speed (much to the chagrin of the drivers in that hypothetical lane) and shouted "Parla Italiano! Bene!" and then entered into the negotiation phase. As the horns started honking behind him and I started riding slower to encourage him to move on he peppered me with questions.

Can we have a coffee? Perhaps a drink? But of course you want to clean up, how about after you get home? Why not? How long are you here? (gasp) You live here?!? Just a coffee. Or perhaps a drink? No? Insert a no after every question and you have my contribution to the conversation.

Finally he gave up. With shrug and a smile he slowly pulled away from me, leaving me to endure the angry looks of all the drivers who had been stuck behind his car as he tried to woo me into a date.

On one hand, even though it was a pretty cheesy line, I must have been riding hard enough to kind of impress him. On the other hand, I looked good enough while stinky, sweaty and covered in that cottonwood fluff stuck to my sunscreen to be worth the significant time he spent trying to persuade me to have a drink with him. Or perhaps a coffee.

Is it bad that I feel complimented by a cheesy come on line?

How I ended up in Italy

It occurs to me that not everyone knows the story of how I got from small town Minnesota (Ronneby pop.16) to Italy (Florence pop ~320,000) so here it is in gruesome detail.

2008 was the year that everything changed in my life. My husband of 18 years left...left me bankrupt, left me homeless...left. I got laid off in the collapse of the construction industry. I was starting from zero but with the love and support of my family and friends.

It's important to know what happened that year because those are the things that made me strong, fearless and open to every possibility that presented itself to me. Granted I wasn't all these things at first, but eventually I became these and so much more.

While all this was happening I was also finishing college, something I had put off when I had my children. I went to a small liberal arts college and it's not an exaggeration to say that being there at that time saved my life. In the interest of keeping this sort of short (I'll try!) I'll just say that I found some of the best friends I didn't know I needed there and through their love and butt kicking I never got to wallow in despair very long. For that I am eternally grateful.

And through the college (here's where the story really starts) I decided to participate in a three week study abroad program combining spirituality and art in Italy. My two favorite topics. Part of the course included a four day hike through the Tuscan hills following a pilgrimage trail.We had a guide for this part of the trip; a Swedish man named Leif.

Leif and me during the hike in the mountains.

Our group was small, only fifteen people, and we all became pretty close. When Leif joined us he became friendly with everyone (we are Minnesotans after all, everyone's our best friend) and as time went by he and I naturally gravitated toward each other because we were close in age. Naturally because except for one other student and the instructors everyone was under thirty years old, most under twenty-five. I had the teeniest crush on him. But after four days his time with us was over and we continued on to Asissi.

My instructors, both good friends, spent the days asking me questions. Sometimes really hard questions. They knew that this was the perfect opportunity for me to sort things out in my mind free from the routine and familiarity of life in Minnesota. As the days went by I found myself relaxing more and more fully into the rhythm of Italian life and discovered that this life felt right. I learned to live in the moment, something that absolutely flies in the face of my upbringing which focused on the need for planning and living for the future.

When I got back to Minnesota I felt strange. Sad. Blue. Lost. The first day I attributed it to jet lag.

The very next day I had lunch with a friend and his family and of all the places to go they chose The Rain Forest Cafe at the Mall of America. I spent the entire meal hugging my plate (the waitress kept trying to take it away from me. I don't know why) and jumping every time the weird mechanical monkeys started their thing or the fake thunderstorm started shaking the floor beneath my feet. I was practically crying from the stress of eating a simple meal.

Now I'll grant you that the restaurant choice was completely wrong for me, but it wasn't my choice and I'd never been there before and had no idea what I was in for. Take my advice and never eat there. I couldn't tell you a single thing about the food, I was so distracted by my environment. I don't think I even tasted what I was swallowing.

That's the event that triggered my decision to move to Italy.

The next day (once I'd recovered somewhat) I told a friend what had happened and said "I'm moving to Italy." This is a true friend. She didn't question my motivation or my decision she just said "That's a great idea!" At that moment I started planning my move here. I had about a year and a half to finish college and downsize my already severely shrunk life in preparation for moving.

I'll admit I went into this whole project rather blindly and without planning everything perfectly. I was immersed in enthusiasm but had a drought in the knowledge area. One thing I knew for sure was that I needed to know somebody. I mean know in the Italian network sense. You don't do anything here without a network. My network started with Leif.

We started emailing back and forth. The attraction we felt during our trip wasn't diminished by time or distance and in a short amount of time we graduated to regular Skype sessions too. He was a fountain of information as he moved here 6 years earlier and understood what I was trying to do. I also fell madly in love with him. I don't want to diminish the role that our romance played in all this. I may have given up at some point if it weren't for the fact that I had someone here I couldn't live without.

I know you're wondering what my friends and family thought about this. Look at the title of my blog. "Why?" was a question I was asked constantly, as if I was saying that life in Minnesota wasn't good and I was escaping to something better. That wasn't it at all. My life in Minnesota was good but I knew exactly what it would  be. Life in Italy would be a mystery and I was ready for a little less planning and a little more living by the seat of my pants.

I came to Italy first as a tourist....a three month try-on if you will. Those three months only confirmed for me that this is where I should be so I went back to Minnesota to do the paperwork for a study visa (a friend of Leif's has a language school).

Italians invented bureaucracy so I had a million hoops to jump through. My favorite one is when getting a visa you must purchase your ticket before you send your request for a visa to the consulate. Yes you have to buy a ticket not knowing for sure if they''ll even grant you the visa to live here. You must also provide documents showing you have a program you're enrolled in (already paid for), a place to live (already paid for), insurance (already paid for) and what assets you intend to live on while here because they don't hand out work permits often.

My first year here was wonderful. I learned so much. Some Italian, some Swedish, about wine and food and their place in daily life, about Italians. It wasn't always easy but I never thought about moving back to the States. I knew that this is where I wanted to be.

Now you have to understand something. Italy isn't thrilled to have a lot of foreigners living here. Their bureaucracy was built on the premise that if you make something hard enough most everyone will throw up their hands in exasperation and quit. Student visas are only issued for a year at a time. I couldn't afford another year of lessons and by the end of my year I was getting pretty stressed about how to stay. My hair was falling out. I lost my appetite. Because I'm not independently wealthy and simply didn't have the resources to live without working and without those the Italian gov't didn't want me. I had no idea what to do.

At Cinque Terre before I knew he was going to propose.

One month before I as scheduled to leave Leif and I took a trip to Cinque Terre to hike the coast and there on the Via dell Amore he asked me to marry him. I said yes. All that was left was to go back to the States (because my visa was up) and plan a wedding in two short months that included the Christmas holidays.

And that's how I got here. A semi-abbreviated but thorough telling of the story. We live in Italy, we visit Sweden for several months during the year and I Skype with Minnesota as often as I can. We are slowly building the kind of life we both dreamed about when we moved here. It's not always easy but it's always worth the effort.

Life is good. A cliche that works because it's true.

Hi, my name is Michele. I'm an artist.

So a few months ago my mind was officially blown. For those of you who think that is a task too easily done....hush and read on. You'd feel the same way.

I'm guessing very few of you reading this know that I'm a painter with watercolors. It's not something I've ever really announced out loud or in fact even whispered softly. Too often it's been something I've almost apologized for; as if being creative is some sort of character defect to be ashamed of. I cringe when friends who know or my loving husband tells complete strangers "Yes, she's a watercolor painter!" I used to look around and wonder who they could be talking about (not ever for a moment thinking it could be me) and now I've learned to stand there and say "Why yes, I do paint," and hide the fact that I wish a hole would open up under my feet and swallow me whole.

This is ridiculous really because I graduated from college four years ago with a degree in, you guessed it, studio art. Ever since I can remember  I've drawn, colored or painted my experiences. I was just brought up to think that it wasn't a responsible or sensible thing to do as a vocation. It's a nice little hobby but don't put all  your eggs in the art basket; it's sure to break your heart and certainly won't feed you.

Then, as I said, a few months ago there was some kind of shift in the universe and some lovely things happened that still make my head spin and my heart sing.

First I shared a painting with an online art group and the response was phenomenal. To the point that people were asking if I'd consider making prints of some of my work. So that was revelation number one. People would actually be willing to pay for things that I had painted. Doesn't even matter if it would be $50.00 or $500.00, just the fact that someone was moved enough by a picture to want to see it every day simply boggles my mind.

The second moment came during an "art crawl" with a friend here in Florence. She's a textile designer and several of the studios we visited were textile designers or clothing designers and each time we talked to one of them she would introduce herself, then introduce me as her friend, the amazing water colorist. And this incredibly talented woman would then talk about how the three of us could find some way to collaborate. How she thought to lump me in with a bunch of professionals is beyond me, but it did help me to realize that the thing I tend to play down as a hobby many people view as a marketable skill.

The third amazing thing that happened was when a woman who is running an artists workshop online asked me to be a guest artist. This just shocked me because, without any previous friendship connection that might force her to include me and without really knowing anything more than what she saw of my work and my writing from another online group, she felt I had artistic skills to share and the verbal/written skills to share it.

She recognized me as an artist.

I wish I had the words to explain just what it means when complete strangers (ie people with no emotional ties or obligations to you) think of you first and foremost as an artist. I've been many things in my life...student, teacher, drafter, committee chair, the list is long. What I've never been until now is an artist. I was, for instance, a mother who liked to draw. Or a wife who painted sometimes. Or a co-worker whose cubicle was less cubicle-like.

I should have been thinking as I do now. I'm an artist who is also a wife. I'm an artist who cycles. I'm an artist who paints. I am an artist.

Has anyone ever died from menopause?

This is a completely serious question. I can't ask my family because keeping the uterus is new to my generation, and I'm the oldest. I didn't watch anyone go through it and there are no stories handed down (ie horror stories) for me to reference.

For those wondering why I don't just go online and look it up well I have a good reason. I know people so suggestive that just reading about symptoms inspires the body to have those symptoms. I don't want to be one of those people who asks WebMD what I might have and instead of menopause I have some rare cancer or jungle virus with no cure.

But I think it's entirely possible that my uterus is trying to kill me. For real.

There was the first flush of excitement when "that time of the month" skipped a few months. I thought the absence of hot flashes and wild emotional ups and downs meant I'd simply skipped over the nasty stuff and headed right into the last gasping moments of my fertility. I was wrong.

After the blissful quiet of those first months everything kind of exploded around me. First in the short span of eight weeks I had my period five times. It sounds physically impossible but it happened, thankfully without the PMS or physical discomfort that typically comes along for the ride. Apparently my ovaries started popping out eggs like a Pez dispenser (after years of a very casual attitude in that regard) and the rest of the process struggled to keep up. I was confused and so very grateful when that stopped.

This next phase I'm currently in (if indeed it's a phase of menopause and not some terrible disease) is where my cycle crushes me like a fly under a flyswatter. I'm perfectly fine, better than perfect in fact, when suddenly I have crushing headaches, impossible nausea and mind-numbing inertia and exhaustion for about a day and the next day my period shows up and all is fine again. Since this follows the rigid schedule that a normal woman's cycle would have I'm probably correct in attributing it to this. Also I would say that three months in a row can be considered a pattern and not a general OMG panic.

Oddly enough all the symptoms I've come to expect from this blessed time of life haven't occurred. No hot flashes. Well, unless they happen on the bike. I suppose that's possible. I do have problems at night. I don't feel hot, but the sheets practically burn the skin off my body. (Maybe the linens are going through menopause.) No crazy emotional roller coaster. I'm going to blame the slight roundness I've accumulated over the winter to overeating and less cycling instead of to a change in metabolism. I do like to eat.

So what do you think people? Am I in the grip of menopause or am I just lumping a group of symptoms together that in reality should stand separate and alone? And the original question....can menopause kill you, or only make you incredibly uncomfortable for what feels like forever?

And, I'm almost afraid to ask, is this as bad as it gets or is there more to come? On second thought, maybe I don't want to know.

Swedes vs Italians

OK. I know my husband hates when I compare Swedes with Italians. I think he feels that I'm harsh on the Swedes, and being a Swede he takes that rather personally. Can't argue with that. But still, after spending another three weeks in Sweden, living in Italy and most importantly, being an American and so not defensive about either position (and not claiming a preference either way) I try to give a neutral view and just report the facts as I see them. It's not my fault if it's funny too. So my apologies to him...I'm not mocking his culture. I'm mocking them both. I hope that helps.

Two Swedes discussing a soccer game:

Per: (hands in pockets) How about that game? Vad sägs om det spelet? Wow. Oj.

(5 second pause as his friend considers the question first)

(another 5 second pause to form a response that is clearly his own opinion but not confrontational or too enthusiastic)

Magnus:  (hands in pockets) Yeah. Ja.

(short pause for emphasis)

Magnus: (with a half nod in the general direction of Per) Wow. Oj.

(a companionable silence ensues)

Two Italians discussing a soccer game:

Mario: What a game! Unbelievable!! Che partita! Incredibile!!

Luigi: (begins talking before Mario can finish) That game?!? What were they thinking?!!? Quel gioco?!? Quali sono state pensando?!!?

(thus begins a 45 minutes discussion of the players (and their history), the referees (their faults and snide references to their lineage), the coaches (whose minds are certainly a mystery to everyone in the discussion, which has probably grown by several people), the fans (who are great and terrible at the same time) and a general history of soccer. There is a flurry of waving hands, shaking heads and eye rolling during the entire discussion. In fact, the discussion continues until they've walked out of earshot of each other.)

All this observance brings to my mind two questions.

If Italians couldn't use hand gestures would they become mute?

What does it look like when Swedes play charades?

And now that I've offended nearly everyone I think my work here is  done. Till another day.....

Whaddya mean, I can't buy wine today?

This morning we got up and over breakfast (which thankfully we never have to make a decision about, it's always the same) we got to talking about lunch. We decided to make chicken noodle soup so I made my grocery list and headed off in the pouring rain for the store.

I wandered through the produce section picking up a variety of veggies for the soup, then headed around the corner for the dairy and sale wine section.

GASP!! For some as yet unknown reason there was caution tape crisscrossing the section of shelving that had the sale wines on it. I stared in frustration at a note (in Italian naturally, which increased the time it took to read it from 10 seconds to 5 minutes) stating that the city of Florence had decreed that today only they were unable to sell drinks (read alcoholic drinks) in glass or cans. Store employees avoided looking directly at me as I tried to process this tragic unexpected information. Already at 8:30 in the morning they must have had  to explain the logic of this city decision with mixed results....or perhaps not so mixed. Outrage. Frustration. But never acceptance. No....never.

Thinking that perhaps I misread the note (happens frequently) I rushed walked calmly to the real wine/beer/serious alcohol/salty snacks (cuz what's happy hour without snacks?) section where I found the same tape and notes. By the way, this is an entire aisle (both sides). I stood at the beginning of the aisle, speechless. Red and white tape stretched the length of the aisle, from top to bottom, occasionally punctuated by a bright white sheet of paper clearly stating that the city wouldn't allow them to sell drinks in glass or cans today.

I stood there, possibly with my mouth hanging open as I tried to understand at the unGodly hour of 8:30 am just why the city of Florence didn't want me to have wine. What had I done wrong? Better question....how did they even know I'd done anything wrong enough to have my wine privileges removed? (Because of course the world revolves around me, right?)

Then I remembered that there is a concert tonight at the stadium. Which shouldn't matter but apparently does. So on the way home (it's a 20 minute walk) I tried to figure out what exactly the city of Florence thought they were preventing when they stopped sale of wine at 8:30 in the morning?

Did they think everyone with a ticket to the concert woke up this morning and thought "Holy cow! The concert is today! I better get out there and buy something to sneak into the concert!" like they haven't been thinking about this day for weeks....even an Italian plans ahead  when it comes to alcohol.

Then I started to wonder why exactly they specified "glass or cans". Could I have brought in a goat skin to have filled up? If I bought a bottle and and emptied it into a massive American insulated "go cup" leaving the bottle at the store would that fulfill the letter of this insane law? Only later (sadly, much later, and Leif had to explain it) I realized that they do sell wine in boxes, sort of adult juice boxes. Not good wine. Not the wine I wanted, which is slightly bubbly, not too sweet not too dry and perfect for chicken noodle soup. But apparently the non-breakable, semi-biodegradable properties of the Tetrapak make it easier to pick up than glass or cans. I sort of get that. No, on second thought, I don't get it.

All anyone has to do is walk across the train tracks to buy drinks in any kind of container they please. Which I didn't because I have an attitude problem and discovered that the spumanti we already had in the fridge was a more than adequate substitute for the wine I wanted to buy. So I got wine with my lunch and no one had to die. Win-win.