il fine settimana scorso (bozza)

This past weekend was the first weekend that I felt at home in Florence.  Friday was cold and grey; I spent the morning in the Bargello and ate lunch at the mercate centrale with Sarah.  That evening I cooked the pork loin and vegetables that I had bought after lunch for Caitlin, Maddie, and my flatmates.  The meal was simple and good, the ingredients perfect.  We drank Campari and wine and discussed Italian and American culture.  For example, in Italy, when you want to say something is delicious, touch the corner of your lip with your index finger and twist your fist.  In America, you say, "Nom nom nom nom nom."

After dinner, we walked through the rain to go dancing.  Oibò was packed, and after meeting friends of Franci and Sivi, we left for Twice.  The scene was typical of many Italian dance clubs: wasted American girls clustered in the center of the dance floor, wearing nothing, shouting and dancing with their arms in the air, while Italian and Albanian guys watch like lions searching for the weak and wounded.  We left for Rooms, a members only club that you have to be invited to join.  I learned from Smith Point that exclusive clubs are usually more expensive and less fun than a good dive.  Rooms followed this rule.  People went there for air-kissing and posturing; many seemed only a step above the furniture.  Men wore suits that cost more than my first car, and the women were dressed to kill (one wore a see-through dress that I couldn't help admiring).  For whatever reason, I received a membership, which I owe it to my my flawless Italian, svelte beauty, and virile style (Levi's Jeans and Jos. A Bank).  It was a late night.

Saturday, Caitlin and I ate a long lunch and saw the Capponi chapel in Santa Felicita.  Here Brunelleschi originally tested the double vaulted design that he would later use to construct the cathedral's dome.  His ceiling was destroyed in the 16th century when Vasari constructed the corridor between the Palazzo Pitti and Palazzo Vecchio.  The corridor cuts through the interior of the church, creating a balcony over the main entrance that allowed Cosimo I to attend Mass without mingling with the hoi polloi.  Pontormo painted the frescoes and his famous Deportation altarpiece for the chapel.  Seeing his work in person changed my opinion about Pontormo.  In the past, I thought he was too mannerist and affected, but his work wass truly beautiful.  We explored the Boboli gardens, its tea houses, overlooks, and grottos.  The day was windy and grey, and the garden was still wet with the rain from the previous night.  It smelled like gravel, boxwoods, and clean air.  Once the gardens closed, we joined the rest of the city strolling in centro, people watching and window shopping.

That evening Silvia cut my hair, and I now sport a rocking Italian haircut.  She made comfort food for dinner: rice, broth, porcini, and peas.  We ate for a long time and then sat around the kitchen talking.  Despite being exhausted from the night before, we went out again to meet my cohorts at Glamour.  Once the Americans hijacked it, we went to Tabasco, a gay club near Piazza Signoria.  It was drag queen night, and the theme was jungle fever.  We all had a blast, dancing together, while jacked drag queens in leopard onesies pranced through the dance floor with microphones, singing along to Lady Gaga and She Wolf.  Around three, we finally emerged into the cold night air and said our goodbyes.  Silvia and I walked home slowly through the empty streets, her feet hurting from dancing all night in heels.

I woke up late on Sunday with a headache.  There is no word for hangover in Italian.  The colloquial expression roughly translates as, "I feel like a monkey is pounding on my head."  But I wasn't hungover.  You don't drink much here; it's too expensive and frowned upon.  I had instead smoked a million cigarettes over the weekend, which is something I am not used to nor plan to be.  I met a friend for lunch, and afterwards, Silvia and I took a walk through the countryside south of the city.  It was a clear Sunday, and we caught glimpses of Florence's spires and domes past the hills.  We walked back to the city through Piazzale Michelangelo, and strolled through the Oltrarno to Piazza del Carmine, where we had a drink and chocolate at Hemingway, an incredible chocolateria.  I cooked mushroom soup for us for dinner and went to bed early.  I am tired still but truly happy to be here.