Mystery of Love
I've been listening to Sufjan Stevens's "Mystery of Love" on repeat for the past two weeks, all because I've really come to understand it. I'm not in love with a person (proving my dad wrong and not getting married while I'm here), but rather with my city, with beautiful Firenze.
You know this. Your cousin's brother's sister's mother knows this. The entire universe knows this because I have all but screamed it from every rooftop at this point.
The thing is, I feel like I just cannot get my point across. How do you explain the color red to a blind person? That's how I feel trying to explain my love for this city to a group of people who mostly have not set foot in Florence or even Italy. But. I think I finally got it.
Let me set the scene.
It's about almost 6 PM on a Sunday night. I'm sick (I'll find out the next day that it's a lung infection because of course it is). It's pouring rain. It even snowed a little earlier in the day. But I'm hungry and my host family isn't in charge of my dinner and the delivery pizza place wants me to pay a minimum of 17 euro before they consider coming to my doorstep.
Naturally, I find myself layering up for the great outdoors because I want my cheap pizza.
So here I am, walking down Via de' Tornabuoni. One hand is stuffed in my pocket while the other is over my purse because I'm not looking to get pickpocketed. I'm getting completely soaked. I must look like the angriest/sickest person in the world, scowling and occasionally swiping a tissue over my nose.
Just then, the bells of the Duomo begin ringing. 6 PM. I stop where I'm walking and I begin laughing out loud because how absurd is this? When in my lifetime would I ever have pictured myself in this moment: walking down a gorgeous Renaissance street beside a church with gorgeous Baroque art, sniffling and sneezing, getting soaked in the rain, on my way to get pizza because delivery is too inconvenient, and still giddy at the sound of church bells? It's insane. It's absolutely, positively insane.
After a momentary lapse of my harsh "don't mess with me, I'm an angry German" exterior (it works - I have yet to be bothered with the angry German face), I continue forward. I walk down a thin road that gets bigger and bigger until you're in Piazza del Duomo, where I make a left (avoiding the speeding bikes and hidden puddles at all costs) and beeline for my favorite pizza place in the city: Mister Pizza. Great name. Very Italian.
The doors open and I am immediately greeted by the waitress. "Oh, it's you! Ciao! How are you?"
"Wet." We laugh.
"Well, I know that you like the seat by the door, but near the counter will be warmer."
With that, I am lead to the table closest to the counter. I squeeze in (because the comfortable distance between tables in Italy is shorter than a ruler) and look at the menu. It's unnecessary; I know the menu by heart at this point and I know exactly what I want. Salamino pizza. Spicy pepperoni, gooey cheese, and the freshest tomato sauce you'll try (in a chain store in Italy).
Still, the waitresses give me a moment as more of a formality than anything. I begin to peel layers off (gloves, scarf, coat, the works) and as I do, "Roxanne" begins playing (in fact, my entire dinner was set to a soundtrack consisting solely of The Police--which, is there any other way?).
And, again, it's entirely too surreal and I find myself laughing. Here I am, chatting with the staff who know me far too well, knowing the entire menu by heart, getting the warmest seat in the house, and listening to The Police.
It's moments like this--surreal and strange, but warm and homey all the same--that make up my experiences and memories in Florence. Today, I found myself laughing so hard I couldn't breathe (though, I mean, lung infections do that too) with two of the baristas at my (yes, my) coffee shop because one of them thought I was writing in Ancient Egyptian when it was really just Russian. A few days ago, a local jam seller at a farmer's market and I both struggled to communicate--me trying in Italian and him trying in English--before giving up with a great deal of laughter. And there are so, so many more that I could list for days. They're mundane and everyday, but they're also so very Italian. It's these moments that build the basis of my love.
And, I think, Italy has changed me, too. I'm more willing to enjoy these strange moments as they come. Perhaps that's why, as I was returning home, I paused to get a picture of the Duomo and the Christmas tree in front of it then stared for a moment, still sick, still in the pouring rain, still happy.
You know this. Your cousin's brother's sister's mother knows this. The entire universe knows this because I have all but screamed it from every rooftop at this point.
The thing is, I feel like I just cannot get my point across. How do you explain the color red to a blind person? That's how I feel trying to explain my love for this city to a group of people who mostly have not set foot in Florence or even Italy. But. I think I finally got it.
Let me set the scene.
It's about almost 6 PM on a Sunday night. I'm sick (I'll find out the next day that it's a lung infection because of course it is). It's pouring rain. It even snowed a little earlier in the day. But I'm hungry and my host family isn't in charge of my dinner and the delivery pizza place wants me to pay a minimum of 17 euro before they consider coming to my doorstep.
Naturally, I find myself layering up for the great outdoors because I want my cheap pizza.
So here I am, walking down Via de' Tornabuoni. One hand is stuffed in my pocket while the other is over my purse because I'm not looking to get pickpocketed. I'm getting completely soaked. I must look like the angriest/sickest person in the world, scowling and occasionally swiping a tissue over my nose.
Just then, the bells of the Duomo begin ringing. 6 PM. I stop where I'm walking and I begin laughing out loud because how absurd is this? When in my lifetime would I ever have pictured myself in this moment: walking down a gorgeous Renaissance street beside a church with gorgeous Baroque art, sniffling and sneezing, getting soaked in the rain, on my way to get pizza because delivery is too inconvenient, and still giddy at the sound of church bells? It's insane. It's absolutely, positively insane.
After a momentary lapse of my harsh "don't mess with me, I'm an angry German" exterior (it works - I have yet to be bothered with the angry German face), I continue forward. I walk down a thin road that gets bigger and bigger until you're in Piazza del Duomo, where I make a left (avoiding the speeding bikes and hidden puddles at all costs) and beeline for my favorite pizza place in the city: Mister Pizza. Great name. Very Italian.
The doors open and I am immediately greeted by the waitress. "Oh, it's you! Ciao! How are you?"
"Wet." We laugh.
"Well, I know that you like the seat by the door, but near the counter will be warmer."
With that, I am lead to the table closest to the counter. I squeeze in (because the comfortable distance between tables in Italy is shorter than a ruler) and look at the menu. It's unnecessary; I know the menu by heart at this point and I know exactly what I want. Salamino pizza. Spicy pepperoni, gooey cheese, and the freshest tomato sauce you'll try (in a chain store in Italy).
Still, the waitresses give me a moment as more of a formality than anything. I begin to peel layers off (gloves, scarf, coat, the works) and as I do, "Roxanne" begins playing (in fact, my entire dinner was set to a soundtrack consisting solely of The Police--which, is there any other way?).
And, again, it's entirely too surreal and I find myself laughing. Here I am, chatting with the staff who know me far too well, knowing the entire menu by heart, getting the warmest seat in the house, and listening to The Police.
It's moments like this--surreal and strange, but warm and homey all the same--that make up my experiences and memories in Florence. Today, I found myself laughing so hard I couldn't breathe (though, I mean, lung infections do that too) with two of the baristas at my (yes, my) coffee shop because one of them thought I was writing in Ancient Egyptian when it was really just Russian. A few days ago, a local jam seller at a farmer's market and I both struggled to communicate--me trying in Italian and him trying in English--before giving up with a great deal of laughter. And there are so, so many more that I could list for days. They're mundane and everyday, but they're also so very Italian. It's these moments that build the basis of my love.
And, I think, Italy has changed me, too. I'm more willing to enjoy these strange moments as they come. Perhaps that's why, as I was returning home, I paused to get a picture of the Duomo and the Christmas tree in front of it then stared for a moment, still sick, still in the pouring rain, still happy.
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