il apartamento

I live on Via de' Bardi, south of the Arno between the Ponte Vecchio and the Ponte alle Grazie.  The apartment building once was a palazzo with quarters that were converted into a clusters of smaller apartments.  In the hallway and kitchen groin vaults the high ceiling, which are flat in the rooms. In my room, the woodwork that supports the upper floor is exposed.  A massive central beam supports smaller square planks that run from wall to wall.  In between them, there are rows of sculpted porcelain flowers with golden centers and filaments, and the exposed ceiling is painted burnt red, matching the terracotta tiles on the floor.

The apartment is not large, and in the kitchen, the stone fume hood of a lost grand fireplace overshadows the oven and stove.  A terrazza is attached to the kitchen, and during warmer months, my flatmates dry their laundry and leave planters of herbs and flowers there.  My window looks out onto the terrazza, and I look forward for warmer months when I can leave it open.  Above my bed hangs a mosquito net.  There is no air conditioning.

I live with two Italians, Francesco and Silvia, who are warm, funny, and hospitable.  I am rarely home during the day, and sometimes I eat dinner with Silvia or Franci or watch TV with them while they smoke cigarettes if I arrive home after they have eaten.  They love each other and call each other by pet names like a married couple; Silvia has a boyfriend who lives in Genova, and Franci is gay.  They keep the apartment spotless, and at night, it is so quiet, that you can hear the silence humming like electricity.

I speak Italian well enough that it is the only language we use; however, I need to improve it.  I am not able to fully communicate, which, for me, is awkward.  Nota bene, in Italian, there is not a word for awkward, so don't bother trying to say you feel awkward.  You will end up saying I feel silly or funny, confusing statements that only make things more awkward.  It's a vicious cycle.  Moreover, in Mediterranean culture, awkwardness is not as funny as in the States; it's just awkward.  Woody Allen would be all the more miserable and all the more funny here.

I have found the best way to handle awkward situations is wine.  I learned that trick at Sewanee.  The first night in Florence, I was disshevled, jet-lagged, and exhausted, and Silvia, Franci, and I had dinner as new flatmates.  We drank two bottles of wine, got tight, and then mutual friends of ours came over.  More wine was produced, I was speaking beautiful Italian, and soon everyone was dancing in the kitchen.  We shagged, pretzeled, and attempted dance moves from Lady Gaga, Russian polka, and Dirty Dancing.  Sober or not, do not try to lift women over your head, especially girls you have just met or girls debuting at the Assembly.  It won't work as you imagined it.  Nonetheless, my flatmates and I bonded that night, and it has been a true pleasure living with them.