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.

Too many rather unexciting things to write about...

Wow. Time flies. Not too original a beginning, but truth is truth.

All kinds of things happen to me and I think "I have to write about this!" and then I get distracted (easier than you might think) and suddenly it's a week or more later and then it doesn't seem relevant and well....you get the picture.

So I'm slowly going to catch up with all the things I had the must write thought about. Starting with our trip on Tuesday to Livorno (the seaside) with our friend Simone.

Simone is the husband of one of Leif's Swedish friends here in Florence. He travels for his work and sometimes when he's going somewhere interesting he invites us along. We don't have a car and so the opportunity to go places is really exciting. He drops us off somewhere central, goes off to do his thing and then picks us up again for lunch. He always takes us to the Italian version of the truck stop because he says they're more authentic. He's right. These are restaurants that cater to working people and the food is typical to the region and plentiful.

He took us to one of these on Tuesday after our very windy tour of downtown Livorno, which features a fortress turned into a city park, numerous statuary attempting to look dignified while covered in pigeons and seagulls, and the harbor itself with water stretching into infinity.

The restaurant is sort of the Cheers of suburban Livorno. Every time someone walked in the waiters threw up their hands and exclaimed loudly "insert name here! Welcome back!" Well, not for us of course, but Simone and everyone else totally got that kind of welcome.

The room was set up with long tables that everyone shared. We managed to snag one of the few tables for 4. The decibel level was pretty high, the waiters were sweating as they ran (really) back and forth while shouting questions at the customers and orders at the kitchen. The menu was posted on a chalkboard on the wall. One flat price for a first dish, second dish, side and dolce. Extra for house wine.

They specialized in seafood so that's what we had. Pasta with seafood and for a second mixed fried things. It's always an adventure to order something al mare or misto because not only is there a great variety of seafood put into these dishes, but the degree to which they are cleaned is often far less than I'm comfortable with. Remember, I grew up in Minnesota where shrimp are little pink crescents that come hermetically sealed in plastic from the freezer. I don't believe an octopus crossed the state line until a few years ago.

The shrimp were slightly breaded and fried but still wearing their skins, legs, antennae and eyes. Wow. The little fishes were simply gutted, then fried so they had a lot of extra stuff like fins and yes, eyes. One was a pretty reddish gold color. Simone looked at it and said that they were very good, that they come from aquariums. I looked at Leif (I'm sure my eyes were as big as the plate) and said "I just ate a goldfish?" Once I was over the shock of it all I had to agree it was pretty good, but still. A goldfish. Bleh. I won't even go into how ugly the baby octopus are once they've been fried. The calamari was the least shocking part of the whole fritto misto experience. It was also the least tasty. Nuff said.

While the chaotic dining room was a fantastic dip into the experience that is Italian family style dining, the relative calm of the cafe bar at the front was just as exciting for me. The barista, whose name was Barbara, was making these very interesting coffees and I couldn't stop watching her make them. And it seems that the other customers (regulars, I'm thinking) couldn't stop watching me watch her. I was mesmerized. One of the men sitting behind us asked if I wanted one, that I should have one. In fact, he'd have one with me if it would make me feel better. So of course I said yes.

Barbara carefully showed me each step in making this drink (because naturally I have a big ol' espresso maker at home) and explained as she went along. First the sugar in the bottom of the shot glass. Lots of sugar, like a packet and a half. Then a small slice of lemon peel. Yes, peel. Then fill the glass halfway with with the Ponce alla Livornese which is a pretty strong liqueur then she steamed that a little bit (to 40C. Leif actually asked) before adding espresso to the whole lovely mixture.

It's a drink that packs a bit of a punch (pun intended) and definitely should be had only when there's an opportunity for a nap or at least a little quiet time while you pull yourself back together. But according to everyone in the bar this was an experience I should have, totally unique to their region, and they were right. Our trip would have been outstanding without the punch, but it became unforgettable once I enjoyed my Ponce alla Livornese with the guys at the bar.

The name of the restaurant? I don't know if I should share this little gem with the world, then again, you'd have to know your way around town to find it. I could never find it again. It's called Il Deserto and it's on a one way road heading out of town. Whether that town is actually Livorno or a suburb I don't really know.

I actually went online and found the place. Here's a link to their Facebook page. Enjoy!

https://www.facebook.com/TrattoriaIlDeserto

Happy anniversary to us!

Ok, it may very well be true that we celebrate too many milestones. But we don't want to forget just how wonderful this life is. So we celebrate the big and the little. Although, to be honest, those are in fact very subjective terms. What's big to you may seem small to me, and vice versa.

But today, by just about anyone's standards, is a day to celebrate. It's the day I arrived in Italy, two stuffed suitcases in tow, and handed my heart to the handsome man wearing his best suit who met me at the airport. Every doubt and fear I had imagined during the (eternal) flight here disappeared when I looked in his eyes.

He has cared for my heart better than even I can do, certainly better than any other man has. He feels the same as I do, that this day wasn't an end to waiting but a beginning of living.

It is truly a day to celebrate. So today, take a moment to thank the universe for being kind; for allowing kindred souls to find each other regardless of distance, language or culture; for nurturing love wherever it grows. Then ask the universe for your hearts desire. It works.

Finding my tribe

I'd like to tell you that all kinds of exciting things have happened to me lately. Exotic, vacation-like happenings under sunny skies in idyllic locations accompanied by a string quartet and photographed by a professional.

The truth is a little less exciting. I cycle most days, which I know for many people is in fact an activity reserved for weekends and vacations, but for me is just another day. Yesterday I rode in the rain. The setting was quite pretty, but when the cold wind is blowing rainwater into places that prefer to be warm and/or dry it's hard to truly appreciate the scenery. When alone I sing to myself, which probably sounds like a string quartet being tortured. My phone takes crappy pictures, which doesn't stop me from taking them or sharing them but they aren't really frame worthy and National Geographic won't be calling me anytime soon begging me to do a feature on Tuscany. Too bad for them.

But that doesn't mean life isn't exciting. Along with all the cycling, eating and wine drinking I've been doing there was a momentous occasion.

Last week I met a new friend.

Yes, that last statement required it's own paragraph, because friendships are hard to come by. I live in a city divided. There are The Italians, who are a tight-knit group of people staunchly trying to maintain a lifestyle while being completely over-run by The Tourists, who race around town taking pictures of laundry and food in their quest to "really experience Tuscany" and are being mocked by The Ex-pats, who are in Italy anywhere from a semester to an eternity and are too intellectual or cool to show how absolutely floored they are to be here.

I've never been cool. I'm not Italian. I'm not a tourist. I kind of orbit around all these groups connecting when I can. The rest of the time I amuse myself with things that don't require others. Reading, writing, drawing, walking around town or cycling around the countryside. Trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. If growing up is a given or merely an alternative. But that's a story for another day.

So, meeting a woman who doesn't fit neatly into these categories, is close to my own age and has many of the same likes and dislikes as I do was surprising and refreshing and serendipitous. Lately I've been thinking about the fact that when I left Minnesota I left behind my tribe. My apologies to the people who hate that term. That small group of women who I had instant access to and shared many of my same thoughts and feelings and desires, or if they didn't share them tried honestly to appreciate and understand my viewpoint, were suddenly thousands of miles and seven hours behind me. Since they were a relatively new addition to my life, I didn't think I'd miss that experience too much, but I was wrong. In part because after four years here I'm still kind of in a state of becoming.

Here, as an American, I spend a lot of time explaining other Americans or American culture or (yikes) politics to other people. I never just get to be American. When I am it's like I'm some kind of entertaining sideshow. So I'm a little of myself, and a little Italian and a little Swedish. But not so much of any one culture as to offend the others. Believe me when I say that no matter how much another culture might idolize the American dream, when you're sitting at their kitchen table they prefer you to be a little less American even as they ask you a million questions about being American.

Other Americans want to know why I came here, mostly so they can tell me why their position, ideas and inspirations are more lofty than mine. (one woman had the audacity to ask me why I came here, then told me my answer was wrong. "Can't you come up with a better way to phrase it?" Um, no.) We're so different we might as well come from different countries. But always, with everyone, I am first an American and then any other attributes they feel comfortable with.

So to meet someone who didn't immediately try to make me feel pitiful or angry or quaint was very nice. Someone who views me as another woman, not a specific nationality. I'm looking forward to a friendship unhampered by reciprocal invitations and hostess gifts and polite conversation, and instead fueled by shared passions for cycling, men who cycle, food and wine and living in the moment, wherever that moment might be. My tribe is shaping up nicely.