Coeds in Florence

The semester is winding down with two weeks left.  The apartments are fully booked, and the Popes arrive this afternoon.  I am negotiating a job offer with a start-up travel company that could potentially keep me in Florence for awhile longer.   In preparation for a trip I am helping to organize next weekend I am reading Robert Harris's Pompeii while still slugging through The History of Western Political Thought, which although convoluted and dry, is absolutely fascinating.

A few things to share:

American girls in Florence.  Walking down the street yesterday, I passed a bevy of coeds marching by in their shiny outfits and high stilettos.  One asked in her loud, spoiled accent, "Is my ass hanging out?" perfectly cupping and accentuating the "a" in ass as if that situation could potentially present her with an unexpected and embarrassing inconvenience.  I laughed out loud, and realizing she had been overheard (as if no one in Florence spoke English), she turned red and scurried into the protection of her friends.

Advice for the ladies, do not buy outfits in which your derrière or décolleté may breath too freely.  Although the sexiest part of the human body is the brain, if you would like to draw attention to different assets, cover them up.  Modesty makes plain women beautiful and beautiful women irresistible.

If you find yourself complaining about men being contant jerks, observe that when you present yourself as jerkbait, you attract jerks.  Amazing correlation.  When a woman dresses provocatively, dyes her hair platinum, wears too much makeup, and stumbles about clumsily in high heels, its radiates an aura of high maintenance and desperation.  She wants social power over her girlfriends and men, and sex is her means.  In a man's mind, such a woman is good for one thing, exactly the instrument of her power, the bait on her hook.  You'll be amazed how far a little modesty and confidence will take your love life.  Unless, of course, that's not what you're looking for.

Finally, the accent has to go; it labels you as a joke.

A funny story.  I went out with some friends the other night after a long, wine-soaked dinner party.  I woke up the next morning to a phone call from a buddy.  He had lost his wallet and asked if I had seen it.  I had not and offered my condolences.

"You think that's bad," he responded in a strong Brooklyn accent, "I woke in the hospital this morning.  I just escaped and have no idea how or why I got there."

Quotes.  If you ever have the chance to live with a Polish Catholic, leap at it.  Here are a few of the less scandalous quotes from my friend and flatmate:

On listening to bluegrass music by The Flying Burrito Brothers: "Is this Jewish music?  It sounds like Jewish music.  Is he saying, 'Don't let your negro down'?"

T to a guest: "Are you a lesbian?"

MA:   "Oh no, Townsend, not at the table!"

Regarding a fancy dress party: "I can dress up as a tiger.  That way I can avoid dressing up."

MA: "By the way, I am NOT a feminist."

Back to Florence

I am heading back to Florence this afternoon after a few weeks in South Carolina and dreading the flight.  I hate flying.  I don't simply dislike or tolerate flying, I hate it.

I have enjoyed being home, reconnecting with family and friends, witnessing two good friends marry one another, and celebrating with my brother when he matched to Stanford for his residency in cardio-thorasic surgery.

This current semester ends on April 28th, and I am formulating plans for the summer.  Most likely, I will return to South Carolina, where I can find work for the summer months, versus consuming what little amount I have been able to save from my salary as a teacher's assistant.  Finding employment in Europe is tough, a job, nearly impossible, since the system is set up to prevent foreigners from taking European jobs from Europeans.  It costs an employer upwards of €10,000 and tens of hours cutting through red tape to issue a work visa to a foreign national.  Some American restaurant or construction site may soon be graced with my presence.

Off to brunch.

Post Lecture

Just returned from a lecture on Titian from a practicing artist.  I enjoyed hearing Titian's style explained through formal and stylistic elements versus through historical data.

In addition to TAing at Syracuse, I have started substituting at ISF's Junior School in Bagno a Ripoli.  This morning I taught first, second, and fourth grade art classes.  It's official: I don't want kids.

The Murse

There are times when a man must make a difficult decision, often breaking tradition and affronting morals, tradition, and taste. A test of mettle, these decision reveal the strength of one's character and priorities. According to the common conception of masculinity, man-purses (also called European carry-alls or murses) suggest affectation and the fairer sex. However, masculinity also calls for effectiveness, utilitarian practicality, and unflinching determination when facing tough jobs.

Keeping in mind these pillars of masculinity, I discovered that murses cause the trappings and the spirit masculinity to contradict one another. Preparing to lead a field trip through Arezzo and Perugia, I learned that cold front had settled on central Italy, the weathermen calling for snow tonight and tomorrow. At the train station tomorrow morning, I will meet fifty-five students, mostly twenty year-old coeds, blurry-eyed and skeptical of spending the day touring cities on foot through the cold and snow for the sake of architectural history. Besides force-marching this group through weather clogged streets, my responsibilities include managing logistics, transportation, museum passes, and hundreds of Euro in cash, divided across separate class accounts. After touring two cities, we will return to Florence just before 20:00, a full twelve hours of Syracuse's famous scholarship in action.

This field trip presented me with a dilemma. I had to accept my role as a teaching assistant, that is slitting the throat of many idle Saturdays in sacrifice to the education of the future of America, and developing, as one of the manlinest men that I ever knew used to hammer into my skull, a system. I needed to organize and manage each trip effectively on the fly. Pockets were prone to being picked and did not provide enough space for the reams of receipts, money, and handouts I would be carrying. It was also unwise to lug around a bookbag all day. Besides its weight, its extra space, as many TAs has learned, is an invitation to carry students' and professors' items.

Only one option was left: the murse, and I struggled with the idea. The word "murse" induces visions on one hand of sensitives male nurses and on the other of overly perfumed men strutting like roosters through Florence. The fact that Indiana Jones carried a murse-like satchel was of little comfort. "Murse" canoted ridiculousness, the thing itself anathema to gritty, fire-bellied manliness. I could not see myself joining the ranks of murse carrying men.

But slowly I came to realize that the spirit of manliness is more important than how manliness appears. More important than prevailing fashions or the opinions of others is finding the most simple and practical solution to a given problem.

This afternoon, I purchased a murse. I now have a system, along with the added benefit of being able to slip more easily, at least as easily as a large, Anglo-Saxon can, into the Italian social fabric. As a man, I have come to terms with my murse and feel comfortable sporting it, especially in a country that understands and appreciates many contradictions.

With the new semester, the young folks church dinners begin anew tonight. I am cooking a slew of tripe, and I'm going to make 'em eat it.

I have decided not to think about the future until Easter--not a thought or word of it. In the meantime, I am teaching architectural history, tutoring, and managing the church apartments. Life has taken on a rhythm of busy weeks and frequent visitors, whom I have enjoyed seeing greatly.

I am leading a field trip to Perugia and Arezzo this Saturday; it will be nice to spend the day wandering through those quiet cities.

Boxing Day

The blogging now resumes after a long hiatus; last semester, my Master's thesis and four other jobs took precedence.  However, I don't have anything to write.

Troppo da fare

Quick updates and a few pictures before returning to my Master's thesis, which is due in fewer than two weeks.  I have moved into St. Mark's English Church; I manage the apartments there and need to be on site.  I built a new website for the apartments that you can find at florenceholidayapartments.org.  Since the church has a transient congregation, stewardship is lacking.  We are using the apartments to keep in the black, but because of pending restoration projects, we need to find new means for raising funds.

Teaching at the International School and tutoring privately is going well but demanding much more time than I expected. 

In the place of more writing, here are some pictures:

Piazza del Camp in Siena

 The same piazza during the Palio

 Sabre Brigade

 Street in Cascia

 San Agostino in Cascia

 View of Florence

 San Felice in Piazza

Ponte Santa Trinità