Working for a living

It was tough coming up with a title for this. What the hell is wrong with people? sounds too angry even if that's how I felt when I started this. I was confused and hurt and all things I shouldn't feel, so writing it all down seemed like a good way to work through my feelings.

As  you all know, or maybe you don't, I've spent the last year or so babysitting to earn money. Not a ton of money, mind you. Just a little bit of money. After all, this is work any self-respecting twelve year old in Minnesota does and I'd wager for probably more money than I make. In other words, enough to keep a girl in iTunes and nail polish and not much more. Here in Florence many of the babysitters are American girls with college degrees but interestingly enough, the money's still at the same iTunes and nail polish level. They're collecting experiences, not out to make a lot of money.

I've once again been asked to work for a family. Again they want to guarantee a certain number of hours every week. Also again, they want to pay me less because I'll have a steady income. It's the weirdest logic I've ever heard but I hear it a lot here, so they must not find it strange. I do find it strange, especially since the mother is American and completely familiar with how business is or at least should be conducted. However here in Italy a euro saved is one euro closer to those shoes or that car or whatever it is they think they must have besides quality care for their child. And everyone else is doing it, they're just following local customs. Whatever.

Deep breath. Sorry.

I'm a little upset not only about the money but about the final stipulation she put on my accepting the position. I have to give her priority over my other families because her schedule is always changing and so my schedule would have to change accordingly. Sometimes with less than 24 hours notice. "But," she said with a big smile, "you could work any evening you wanted for someone else!" Slight pause. "Unless I were to ask you to watch our son."

Yeah, go ahead. Think about that one for a little while. I did. I'll wait...

So if I'm understanding her correctly, and I think I am, in exchange for guaranteeing me 25 hours a week they want to hold my remaining hours hostage, just in case they need them. Oh.....and if I don't work all the hours in one week they'll just get pushed to the next. I think, but I'm not sure, that I'd have my weekends free but then again I can't assume anything. Once they've gotten me to agree to work they'll doubtless expand the definition of priority and mostly weekdays to the point where I won't be able to work  for anyone else unless I wanted to work late into the night.

But they've thrown that carrot out there...the idea of a steady income. Something to count on. It's the thing that my generation was brought up to understand as successful. People work crap hours in substandard conditions with co-workers from hell to be able to say they have a steady income. It's the stuff the modern American Dream is made of. I used to think it was the only way to live a responsible life.

But that's the thing about a steady job. For all it's security (and that's really up for debate as well, ask anyone who lost their job in the last recession) it robs me of any opportunity to become something more. It confines me to one set of circumstance.....this many hours, this much money, these certain benefits...and offers me little chance to improve my position.

No chance to keep my growing relationships with other families, relationships I've worked hard to foster and truly enjoy. My bike rides and drawing excursions would be limited by someone else's schedule. And then there's the biggest problem for me, no chance to work with Leif and grow our own business together.

I started writing this a day ago. The first part, relatively unedited, was written a few days after being offered this position and minutes after a power struggle between my two top clients which ended with me losing both jobs instead of landing one. I was angry and feeling used and pushed around, which is ridiculous because I'm the oldest one in the equation.

For anyone out there who knows me and has had reservations about Leif, you can put them away right now. He is my rock. He let me talk, rant and imagine my way into understanding that we were fine without my work last year and that no work is worth handing over my life tied up nicely with a bow for someone else to live for me. Work as much as I want to, sure, but keep my right to chose this thing or that thing. Never forget who I am and why I came here. Be complimented that so many people want my help in raising their children but don't let their pretty words blind me to the opportunities I'd be missing.

Hmm. guess I know what I'll be telling this mom and if the universe decides to punish me for refusing it's gift then so be it. I have millions of opportunities to try yet.

Revolution of a cyclist: When it rains you get wet

I haven't written about riding lately and don't want you to think that I'm not riding.....I'm just doing the same old route mostly by myself and I don't think even at my most creative  I can make it sound exciting and interesting. I haven't embarrassed myself, crashed into anything or gotten lost. Nothing has broken (I'm madly trying to find some wood to knock on...don't want to anger the irony gods). Let's not forget my mad dashes across town for work, they are also riding, but there again, they aren't really news-worthy.

I had the sincerest of plans to ride this weekend and make it something worth writing about. But things got in the way. Like rain. Like Leif working and he is my own personal Garmin. Like the Giro D'Italia finishing in Florence on Sunday. (I don't want to brag, but the finish is a block from my house.) Besides, my midwestern work ethic went into panic mode yesterday. Here I am with two whole days off and what am I going to do? Ride a bike?

Without going into details let's just say I didn't ride on Saturday and I was reasonably productive.

This morning I got up and looked out the window and thought "Drat, it looks nice out there. I should go for a ride." Leif was meeting his team and they were all riding up some impossible mountain (Consuma) to see this stage of the Giro outside of Florence. This was not my kind of ride. I kissed him and waved good-bye, then headed to the grocery store after putting the linens in the washing machine. I got back from shopping and put the sheets on the line to dry, because the sun was shining and it was quite beautiful.

I thought, since it was so nice out, that I should ride my city bike to the outdoor market at the big park on the other side of town. I found a place to lock my bike up close to the start of the market (sometimes this can be quite difficult) and started walking the stalls, which stretch for over a kilometer.

I looked at shoes and used clothes and new clothes. I considered handbags and pet supplies and rugs. I looked at lots more used clothes. You find the strangest and greatest things there.

Today I found a pair of winter cycling tights for Leif (his are  worn through in several places) at one stall. I was so amazed that I decided to spend some time there picking up every single piece of clothing to make sure I wasn't missing something else "cycling" that could be useful to me or Leif. Because these just aren't the kind of clothes you usually find for a couple of euro at the market.

All that looking netted me another pair of cycling shorts for Leif to wear for day tours. Sadly, even though I found a few pair women's shorts, they were far too small even when taking into consideration spandex's ability to stretch beyond the possible. Seriously, they looked too small for an eight year old girl, which I'm definitely not.

While I was there I got him a jean jacket to replace the one that he refuses to give up but is more holes than jacket anymore. It was pretty awesome.

So for the bargain price of 7 euro I got two pair of cycling pants and a jacket. It took several hours but I probably saved us a couple of hundred euro for things that had to be replaced anyway.

While I was looking through several hundred assorted sweat pants, jerseys, hoodies and other sports clothing the weather took a turn for the worse. Which usually isn't a problem here. I mean that it threatens rain often but doesn't always deliver actual rain. Today was an exception. As I finished paying for my great finds it started to rain and thunder started to rumble a bit. The closer I got to my bike the harder it came down, till I finally had to huddle under an awning pretending to be fascinated and on the brink of purchasing the ugliest plastic purse on the planet. I did this for the length of the market alternately showing great interest in belts, doggie beds, bras and men's underwear, and shoes.

Eventually I reached the end of the market. I could see my bike from the last stall with an awning, owned by a man who didn't even care if I looked at anything. He just wanted me to be dry....which would happen if only I'd buy an umbrella from his friend. Ha. Not this farm girl.

I put on the jacket I bought for Leif, put my purse into the plastic bag with the cycling pants, buckled my helmet under my chin and pushed my sunglasses firmly on my nose. I mean really, it wasn't raining that hard, we hadn't lost any visibility or anything like that. The lightening wasn't that close.

I rode past bicyclists huddled under trees, under awnings, in doorways and under loggias. People waiting for the bus crammed into storefronts turned their heads as one as I rode by. They all gave me the same look and their thoughts were pretty evident. What the hell are you doing? It's raining. Just pull over and wait for it to stop. It has to stop sometime. Crazy foreigner. It occurs to me now that they might have been less concerned about how wet I was than with how much they thought I was wearing. I had shorts on and the jacket covered them completely. Oh my. Nope, I'll stick with they think I'm nuts, not that they think I'm a nudist.

I'll admit that it might have made more sense to wait, but then again I was already soaked and waiting it out would just make me colder than I already was. So I just kept going, trying to time my approach to signal lights so that I didn't have to stop because I have to get off the seat (the bike is just a tad too big for me) and I didn't want to get my butt wet. Which is retrospect is pretty dumb, when the rest of you is wet they can't tell that your butt is wet too.

I felt something strange on my feet and when I looked I realized that my front tire had a wake and it was spraying my feet. The jacket is thick and incredibly absorbent denim that slowly became heavier and heavier as it gathered rainwater. My helmet didn't stop the water from running down my face.....at times I could feel the drops running over my eyeballs. I was kind of afraid of losing a contact so every once in awhile I'd whip the glasses off and gently wipe the soaked sleeve of the jacket across my eyes. It kind of helped.

Taxis passed me filled with dry passengers who either looked at me with great pity or great laughter; ditto for the buses although the bus passengers weren't all dry. I managed to get home without incident and squished up the stairs. I walked into the kitchen silently praying that the sheets I put on the line were dry. If the giant puddle in the middle of the floor was any indication then the answer was no. A thousand times, no.

I looked out the patio doors and watched the water running off the bottom of the sheets. I considered just running them through the centrifugal cycle and hanging them back up, but then realized that the rain had come down so fast and so hard that the gutter above our terrace overflowed and a century's worth of pigeon poop and other assorted city grime had washed all the clean water out of the sheets. So into the washer they went, with a double shot of detergent and boiling hot water. Of course once they come out of the washer they won't get dry anyway. It's still raining.

Spring planting season

When I was eighteen I moved off the farm. I decided I would never live on a farm again. No more chores, animals or plants that required my undying and regular attention. Eventually I couldn't even keep a houseplant alive.

When I was in my late thirties I moved out to the country, but the fashionable way...to a nice house surrounded by acres of nothing. The only reason we had a large yard was because my husband wanted it enough to spend days each week maintaining it. Anything I planted around the house had to withstand my complete and total indifference to it's survival. For the first few weeks they all got attention and water, then I sort of lost focus and things inevitably died. Those that lived through the initial trial by fire thrived beyond my wildest expectations.

No plant should look this good after the treatment I gave it.
Which is to say I ignored it on a regular basis.
Except to say "Oooh, pretty!"

Now in my fifties I've moved back to the city, but this time a big city in Italy, where green space is relegated to parks and terrace envy runs rampant among neighbors. At first the fact that we even had a terrace didn't impress me. It wouldn't impress you either. It's only a little deeper than your average American clothes closet and about twelve feet long. It's not big enough for a table and chairs so there is no dining al fresco. And we can't fill it with stuff because it's also where we hang our laundry to dry.

Our neighbors downstairs, however, have tons of space and they fill it to the max with flowers and vegetables and fruit trees and olive trees. They have a complicated system that waters everything with the turn of a knob. I've been watching them now for two years, planting things and watching them grow. Suddenly, this year it isn't enough for me to just watch.

I have a practically uncontrollable urge to get my hands dirty and plant something that next week I'll remember and actually care whether or not it lives or dies. I want to be cooking at the stove and think "Gosh, this dish needs something," and walk out to the terrace (conveniently located right outside the kitchen) and pick something to add that makes our dinner special.

Actually, this urge started slowly a couple of weeks ago. I bought flowers to decorate the table for a dinner party and when they didn't die immediately I thought they looked lonely so I bought rosemary and basil to keep them company and because we use them to cook all the time. Well, when I haven't killed our rosemary and basil plants I use them to cook, so yeah, a couple of weeks out of the year we have fresh rosemary and basil. The rest of the time I just call them artisan hand-dried herbs.

My little starter garden.

I've spent these last few weeks feeling all Julia Child by walking out to the terrace and cutting off a snip of this or that for our meals (this being rosemary and that being basil), but lately I've felt like we were lacking variety. So I snuck home a pot of thyme. It's really livened up the dinner table.

And now the point of this whole story. Every spring and fall there's a plant show at one of the parks and they have the most beautiful and abundant displays of plants for sale. That's right, for sale. I was practically giddy with excitement.

I left this morning with a set amount of cash in my wallet (we don't have charge cards) and the knowledge that anything I bought had to be carried 1.9 kilometers back home. A brilliant plan if I do say so myself. (Actually, I had no idea it was that far till I checked it for this post. I may never walk there again.)

I spent over an hour wandering around oohing and aahing (silently of course, I was by myself) and debating the flowers vs herbs decision as intensely as the Supreme Court considered Roe vs Wade. You would think these plants were going to live forever the way I carefully considered which to bring into our home and which to leave for some other family to have.

First I desperately wanted a yellow climbing rose. Absolutely gorgeous, almost as tall as me and would consume my entire plant budget. Then I saw lemon trees. Don't judge me. I figured in a couple of years (OK, maybe more) it would produce enough lemons to make my own limoncello. Everyone around here seems to make their own and I think it would be awesome to wow guests with my own limoncello. These were significantly shorter than the roses but the same money. I hadn't ruled either one out yet, but I kept looking to see what else there was to see.

My favorite (flower-less) stands had herbs. Who knew there were so many different kinds of mint or thyme? Who knew that people would stand and discuss the merits and aromas of each one like they were contemplating the purchase of a new car? Who knew there was a mint that had the aromas of cheese and meat, or pineapple? Certainly not me. But I could buy quite a few of these on my budget and exponentially grow my cooking repertoire. And none of them were taller than eight inches making them easier to lug all the way back home. In fact, I got chives and mint and oregano there and still had half my budget left. Naturally I continued to browse on my way out of the garden.

And there it was. Just waiting for me. Not the yellow roses I was so enamored with at the beginning but a shorter, white and pink version of climbing rose at the perfect price. Unable to resist I picked them up and waited far too patiently for someone to notice that I was actually ready to buy something, unlike all those other pushy people who just wanted to know how much so they could roll their eyes and move on. Honestly, I didn't care. It was mine. Nirvana, right there.

I left the garden feeling wonderful and probably looking ridiculous. My purse hung from one shoulder, my long umbrella hooked onto the purse, one hand holding a blue bag overflowing with aromatic greens while the other hand carefully held the bag carrying a three and a half foot tall blooming rose with itty bitty thorns. Close to the garden all of us loaded down with bags shared sheepish but triumphant smiles....the closer I got to home the more people started looking at me curiously, probably wondering just how far I thought I was going to carry all those plants. If they had asked I would have said "As far as I need to! Look at them.....beautiful!" with one of those slightly crazed smiles that makes people back off and shut up. It should be obvious that I'm a woman on a mission.

Doesn't it just make you want to cook something?

I already know that this isn't enough. I mean, it's perfect for the life we live now, this tiny potted garden. But we both know that someday we want to be out in the country where our garden isn't limited by square meters or just how many kilos the terrace will hold before crashing down. I want to move back to the farm, or at least the Tuscan version of a farm. We want to have olive trees and grape vines and entire hedges of rosemary (yes, they do that here.) We want to have a place where people come to taste the things we have in our garden....a place to enjoy life. This little garden on our terrace is just the beginning.

Random pictures from the show

FYI the sign says now also in Italy you can grow
the North American cranberry!

Revolution of a cyclist: Sunday rider

In Minnesota we have a term for people driving slowly looking at everything except the road while traffic piles up behind them. We call them Sunday drivers, and naturally you would encounter them mostly on Sundays....farmers on their way to church checking out all the other farmers' fields and comparing them with their own. Dad would say "Would you look at that!" and we would all obediently look out whichever window he was pointing to and see just another corn or bean field. But he would tell us what we should be seeing and when we got older we'd nod sagely and my brother would throw in a comment or two (just one of the many reasons he's the favorite) and eventually we'd get to church.

This Sunday was another day to ride by myself, because Leif's team was holding their raduno, which is a kind of practice race that teams from the area all participate in. He was super excited, in part because it was his birthday but also because it was an absolutely gorgeous day and he would be riding in it. Being alone allowed me to be the consummate Sunday rider; stopping whenever I felt like it to take pictures or just rest in the sunshine.Cyclists passed me regularly, but it was too nice to rush through my ride. I was momentarily engulfed by a large team riding in my direction. Each rider passed me with a boungiorno or ciao and a smile. Actually, everyone on the road was smiling and happy. How could they be anything else on such a beautiful spring day?

So this is my version of driving slow and pointing out the window. Don't be surprised if you don't see anything fascinating or pretty, it's part of Sunday riding.

Would you look at that?
Vineyards waiting for leaves to start popping out.

Words can't make this more beautiful.

Look at that!
(points dramatically to the right)

Quiet streets....a little too quiet for Sunday at the church.

The piazza is so clean today.

Would you look at that?
Things are getting green....see there?

No, over there!
(again, points dramatically, this time to the left)

Roadside shrine,
All those flowers make one wonder what happened here.

One of those cute and terrifying streets
where two full size cars can't pass.

And yes, the poppies are out.

Acceptance.....sort of

So my excitement level is pretty high right now. This week I think I've finally broken through that invisible barrier between me and some of the Italians in Florence.

Every time I babysit near Ponte Vecchio, which is in the touristy center of town, I go early enough to have a coffee. Maybe I should say that differently. I get there early because I was brought up with "early is on time, and on time is late."  Which really doesn't work in Italy at all, as their on time has a full half hour leeway built into it and even if you go beyond that no one holds it against you. I'm working on being less rigid about time, but it seems to be such a primeval urge with me that it's almost impossible for me to ignore it. I feel I've begun to live a slower life because I'm only five minutes early most days. One of these days I'll even set my phone clock to the actual time instead of five minutes early. See, it's a sickness.

That's probably enough about my weirdness. Of course if you've read any of this blog you already know I'm probably walking a thin line between normal and crazy.

So a couple of days a week I end up at a fairly elegant cafe bar for a little caffeine bump before becoming one with my inner three year old. They have beautiful pastries and a long, curving marble bar where all the neighborhood swells come to have their breakfast before heading off to work or for their morning constitutional. (side note: many in fact bring their dogs and sneak them in. If it's possible to sneak a golden  retriever into a room so narrow two people have to turn sideways to pass each other) They're all dressed beautifully and talk together like they're old friends, subtly turning their backs towards anyone vaguely resembling a tourist, ie me. The barista eventually deigns to take my order and deliver it without actually being rude, but darn close.

This has been going on for months. I'd come to accept that I would always be something of an outsider there, even if they were becoming a little warmer with their Buongiorno's. Then, on Tuesday I walked into the bar and the woman behind the counter said "Good  morning! Cappuccino?" Trying to act all casual, like we've been doing this for years I replied "Yes please." (I hope I don't have to remind you that this was in Italian) We exchanged genuine smiles and she told the barista  my order. He turned and smiled at me and when my coffee came there was a heart on it. Now every time I go there they know my drink and there's always lovely pictures in the foam.

I'm pretty sure this means I've moved from the possibly-not-tourist-but-definitely-stranger category to someone-from-the-neighborhood (even though it's not my neighborhood) but not quite a regular like on Cheers. It's a good goal to have, even though it will require me to speak a lot more Italian.

Revolution of a cyclist: Come ride with me

All right. I would love to invite all of you to come ride with me, but I suspect that while everyone would like to, most would be able to come up with a minimum of five reasons why it's just not possible. In lieu of of an actual ride together I decided today to take pictures for you. This is easier without Leif and since he's riding with his team (grrrr, go team!) and I am alone this is perfect.

So to set the stage for you.....this is the second day of sunshine in a row so we're nearly giddy with excitement at riding without winter gear and with sunblock. The sky isn't the summer blue, but a lighter, softer blue dotted with little fluffy white clouds and the occasional grey cloud that I chose to ignore. Things are getting green and other things are flowering. The air is drier (I actually washed clothes yesterday that dried in less than 24 hours) and warmer and heavy with the smell of spring. Cyclists have come out of hibernation and some are even brave enough to wear shorts and short sleeves. I assume they are mostly foreigners or ultra macho Italians. Regardless of what they're wearing on their bodies there are big smiles on every face. Mine too. I hope you enjoy our ride!

After the ride. I forget to take pictures before.
Also I think I should get some kind of
prize for wearing my Augsburg gear
absolutely everywhere in Italy
(an underdeveloped market for the college, I feel)

Thanks for riding with me. For every picture here there were a hundred that I couldn't take either because there was no safe place to stop the bike, or because every kilometer had something worth stopping for and I would have been out till dinner. Also no matter which direction I headed I was pedaling into the wind and I started to get tired. So unfortunately you can't see here the little stone churches perched on the side of the foothills surrounded by green forest, or how some of the hills looked like green quilts with vines planted to take advantage of every bit of sunshine, or how the sun sparkled on the water so brightly that it was sometimes impossible to look at the river without being blinded, or how calm it was riding through streets so narrow that cars pulled their side mirrors in before entering and still had to stop and pull over to let cars pass. I'll try and get those another day!

Easter

Finally, after two years of disappointment I was able to see the Scoppia del Carro, the traditional blowing up of the cart in front of the church here in Florence. I realize now that while I've talked around this topic a couple of times, I've never actually described it here. It definitely needs a little explaining.

It's a tradition that dates back (so they say) to the first crusade, when an Italian brought back three flints from Jerusalem as reward for service. A fire is started with these flints in the church where they are kept and then this fire is carried to the Duomo in the center of town in the cart (which seems a little dangerous to me as the cart is loaded to the scuppers with fireworks.) This tradition, in much the same form as today has been happening  for over 500 years.

White oxen decorated with the first flowers of the spring pull the cart from the westernmost city gate to the Duomo in the center of town accompanied by a hundred and fifty people in medieval dress. There's a band and flags and guards and of course the Ecclesiastical party that escorts the holy fire used to light the fuse.

Once the cart is parked in front of the church the more modern activity takes place, which would be using a boom truck to finish putting the fireworks onto the top of the cart. They piped music into the piazza from inside the church to make the process seem a little more solemn....it almost worked.

There was one break in the drama. Someone missed their cue or the timing was off because there was almost a whole minute of silence between the final "Amen" and the ringing of the bells in Giotto's bell tower but as the first bells started echoing off the walls a fuse in the shape of a dove shot out of the church doors and into the cart, igniting the fireworks and then returned on the guide wire to the high alter in the church. 15 minutes of non-stop action followed. If all the fireworks go off and the dove returns to the alter Florence will prosper that year with good harvests and a stable community. If it doesn't....well, in 1966 it didn't and the city was devastated by flooding. Let's just say whether they believe it or not everyone does their part to ensure that the pageant goes off without a hitch.

The cart has been used for centuries.

Modern equipment make
it possible to add
even more fireworks.

Using what I assume to be the "ancient and
traditional ladder" to place even
more fireworks.

People dressed as medieval farmers
handed out flowers and eggs.

My dad thinks five miles is close enough to fireworks so I've always seen them from very far away. Today I was about 20 meters away from the fireworks. There was plenty of smoke, lots of ash and it was very loud what with the sound bouncing off all the stone walls and cobblestones. It's an interesting combination of ancient traditions tied to the earth and fertility held in front of and with the consent of the church. Completely worth standing in the rain crushed together with strangers to see a ceremony that has been performed for centuries.

Probably more smoke than they intended.

It's quite an impressive display of power
in front of the largest church in town.

As a little side note: I wonder just how many photos my hand and camera appear in? Ha!