I'm Italian...I swear...
Another preface to Italy posting #2. Chris and I are currently sitting at a small table in the hallway of our B&B, eating the provided breakfast. And what is the provided breakfast today you ask? Well, for me it's my first cappacino (at yesterdays breakfast we had the Coffee Americano) for me and an espresso for Chris, fresh strawberries with plain yogurt on top, homemade croissants, nutella, fresh butter, pasteries, granola, ceral, fruit, pomegrante juice, and small soft pieces of bread that are set in a basket above the table. Soon (coming to a table near you ;)) is a plate of hams and cheeses and toast, a popular Italian breakfast topper, displayed on a circular wooden plate and as always, it is all displayed impeccabely.
Oh yeah. Life is good.
I love eating breakfast here. In New York, Matt's lucky to get me to eat his made from scratch breakfast's. Although they are delicious, it's often hard for me to eat them due to my rushed schedule and sadly, my constant notice to my diet and weight (and before him, I almost always went without).
But oh no, not here. It's yet another meal, let's be real-like all meals in Italy-to be enjoyed. Lingered upon. Savored. Let's cross our fingers that I can bring back this appreciation for food and all meals back to the states with me.
And so, as I write, laptop on table with journal open to yesterday's page (too much happens in a day and I don't want to forget anything, so I jot it all down in the journal), Chris is combing through her hair with her fingers, smiling across from the table at me, and we eat and savor our glorious breakfast.
I wrote about our first day last night and today, before we begin another awesome day, May 10, 2011, I will write about May 9!
Yesterday started just like today. However, like I left off, Chris and I woke up twelve hours later. When I said I was tired, I wasn't kidding. Chris woke first, scurried out the door to see if breakfast was still there and although breakfast was basically put away, Fabio calmly and kindly tells Chris that he will still feed us and it's then that we enjoy our first B&B breakfast like we do today, at, well, noon.
When I finally stagger out of the room sleepy eyed and still grunting, I am immediately greeted by Fabio's mother, Augustina, a white haired eighty five year old woman who walks, sees, and hears perfectly and who could probably out work and out run me. The way she scurries around and at her age is astounding to me! Augustina looks at me and says "Oh, bella!". I smile back at her and say to her, "Thank you but I don't feel very pretty right now." A hardy laugh is shared between us.
While at breakfast, Fabio tells us about his life-how is mother hired him to work at the B&B, when he started the bed and breakfast, and more ideas about what to do in the city for the day.
I start to ask Fabio how to start saying certain phrases and words in Italian. Although I do have a cheat sheet and book of Italian words and phrases, I just want him to say it. Not to mention, I am an auditory learner. I have always wished my brain worked in the world of languages and I wish I picked them up at least in the slightest bit. But for the first time, even since taking French in high school and four semesters of Spanish in college (of which I learned nothing due the combined lack of interest and teaching methods of my teacher) I want desperately to speak this romantic language. I want to to listen to it and be able to talk back so badly.
And I am already giddy when I am able to enter a store and feel like an Italian. I love that I can even say a few phrases like: Si, Graci, Preggo, Quanto, Premiso, Non so...and so on.
Oh my God. It's just hit me as I have been writing this entry. I'm going to be one of those annoying New Yorkers who acts likes she's from somewhere else. Who acts like she's Italian when she's not...AT ALL. Who won't stop talking in a different language and who are incredibly annoying by saying "Ciao!" when leaving her friends.
I'm going to be THAT girl. Oh dear God.
For that, friends and family, I apologize in advance.
I mean, in a few short days, these phrases (and hopefully more will be added!) have become a obsessed part of me to the point that I now listen closly to the native Italians to get the perferct pronunciation and intention.
Geez louise. You're all gonna hate me when I get back.
After agreeing to take a picture with our mascot, B.B. aka baby bunny, (oh yeah, I didn't mention that? A minitue pink bunny has been venturing around with us and has become our mascot...pics soon of course. :)) we venture into the city once again.
We decide this day to go into the Basilica in San Marco Square. If the outside wasn't outrageous enough, the inside takes my breath away. Golden arches, wooden statues and carvings, confessionals that look like pieces of art. Although I was christened Catholic, I grew up in the Presbyterian church. Since then, I occasionally will attend mass and I know enough to know what's coming next-when to kneel, when to say what, when to stand-and I find the tradition appealing and very centering at times. Even so, however, I have found that I do not know much about the Catholic religion as a whole. Chris starts to carry on explanations to answer my hundred questions when suddenly, I spot a sign that says, "Silence (Silenzio). Out of respect for this sacred place, it is forbidden to give explanations inside the Basilica."
Oops.
BUT let me just say, after we both read this sign and cower out of embarresment for our 'disrespect', we see a guided tour. Soooooo...I guess if you pay the tour guide, it's suddenly allowed to have explanation? Oh, goodness. Non so. (I don't know.)
We pass by confessionals, the "Treasure" (which we never discover because it costs money to see each extra part of each hall in the church), and the Pala D'oro, during which Chris explains to me the difference between Pope, Cardinal, Bishop, Preists, and Saints. I had forgotten that religious history is all so intriguing to me!
And finally, we stop at the alter to sit and reflect and I sigh. Yes, I know this blog is probably not the place to get into a religious talk. But I believe in something, God-a God-whatever-but I have not returned to organized religion in quite some time. And I haven't really prayed in an even longer amount of time.
But I sit there in silence and the world around me dissolves and I pray. Well...I thank. Thank You for this trip. For my life. For the the life and adventures that will be. And I feel a warmth. The knot in my left shoulder from my heavy bag has been forgotten. I'm not thinking about my weight or how many calories I have eaten. What people think of me or what I am going to do next. I am warm and at peace and thankful and sitting a church that is over 2,000 years old.
I close my eyes and (as dramatic as it may sound) a tear drops down my cheek. Italy--Venice--is the first place since my parents home, New York and Louisiana that I felt at home. If someone asked if I wanted to live here, would pay for my travel and the financial ability to actually live in Venice, I would. I know Chris feels the same way. It's a home in less than two full days. I've never felt so connected to a place. Like I belong.
Dear God, please make me Italian.
Are we sure I'm not Italian? Mom? Dad?
...God? Are you sure?
Anyway, after my enlightening moment (and if I feel this way in this church, I'll probably bawl like a child in the Sistine Chapel...) we get up, make our way to buy a couple of postcards of the church and start to wander again. We find ourselves surrounded in the world of shopping-dresses and purses. Glass and leather. Masks. All of it is beautiful. Chris and I may have picked up a few things and may have made an Italian saleswoman very upset when we took a dress off of a manican... (it was wearing the size I needed!).
As we wander around, we see many manicans, some of which displaying beautiful lingerie. And I notice immediately, the manicans have hips. For my male friends/readers, you may have never noticed, but coming from a woman, a woman who has been made concious of her weight thanks to theatre and her beginning days in ballet, the manicans in America would be a stick straight type character. A boy figure for a woman, if you will. And here, in Venice, the manicans have hips.
Once again, must I say it? God, I love it here.
Around four PM, as we strut along the street, we see a canoli in the window of a restaurant that is easily at least half the size of my forearm. Wide eyed, I look at Chris, who has the same expression on her face. All she has to say to me is, "You wanna eat?" and like that, I hastily scuttle into the restaurant. We sit and have a personal pizza that the man insists is for one person. It's not. But it's nothing sort of amazing as we finish our plates. Pizza with ham, articoke, mushroom, and black olives. (Btw, the toppings are not mixed together but in clusters on the pizza. I personally love it!)
We, of course, order a canoli, and for the first time I love this dessert. Not just, like it. LOVE it. The pastry shell, which is hard, (but not too hard) is coated inside with a dark creamy chocolate and stuffed inside the mamoth dessert is the vanilla cream with chocolate chips. And we linger like true Italians over our meal. About an hour of talking, soaking in the atmosphere, eating, and drinking my first espresso. (Btw, I was afraid I would not like espresso, but I adore it. Dark, intense coffee. Mmmm. How I love thee.)
I will arrive home twenty pounds heavier if I keep this up. Oh dear.
After lunch and after going to the Rialta, which is a beautiful bridge over the Grand Canal that is filled and famous for it's shops galore, we get home to change for a concert we were going to attend, Duettie D'Amore, ie Love Duets. When we find the place where the concert is held, it's basically an alley way. Not what Chris or I expected for an opera like concert...
When the doors open, we follow the alley into a house and climb two flights of stairs that are lit only by candles. And as we enter for the concert, it is a house with lavioushly furnished rooms. We enjoy the first act of a three string quartet and the pianst accompanying a man and woman opera duet singing couple in one room and are ushered into a second room for the second act.
My God, the whole experience was just...fantastic. I mean, their timing--the singers and quartet's ability to be in tune with each other, the breath between the six of them--just fabulouso. The story for every duet. Ahhhhh...
But the pianist. My goodness. The way he was able to conduct his group was impressive enough--what with, whilst playing--he used his eyes, movement, and breath to direct the group. I could tell when a crecendo was about the occur, or his favorite part of the song, or the innocent sweet part of the love story-his emotions and movements were uncanny and a show in itself.
Afterwards, after the second act, after the entire audience applauded so much that they had no choice but to come out for an encore, after everyone left, I stuck around writing down the artists names off the poster, looking at the DVDs etc. Alas, I got exactly what I wanted--the star baritone (with a glorious voice) came out from the back dressed in his regular clothes and I chased after him for an autograph. Although the usher did not enjoy this and called after to stop me, the baritone turned around and right away recognized me and said, "Ah. Bella.". With that, he kissed my hand as I said "Bravo" and he took my program and signed it for me. I asked where to find the soprano (a woman who's notes reached the heavens without the slightest hiccup), he ushered me to her dressing room, and I got her to sign as well.
Happy as school girls, Chris and I walked hand and hand throughout the town late that night. We found a leather store with a passionate book binding man who taught us about the way in which he makes and ages his leather for masks. We skipped around in San Marco Square as the bands for each restaurant played melodious music and compeated for the attention of passerbys.
And of course, finally to top off the night, we did our usual. We found ourselves eating a panini (this time, mine was eggplant! Mmmm!) and then at our favorite osteria around the corner of the hotel, drinking Montepulciano and dancing around to the disco type music. We find ourselves back at the hotel after midnight, exhausted but once again, blissfully happy.
Till the next post, ciao bella!
Love love,
Adrienne
Oh yeah. Life is good.
I love eating breakfast here. In New York, Matt's lucky to get me to eat his made from scratch breakfast's. Although they are delicious, it's often hard for me to eat them due to my rushed schedule and sadly, my constant notice to my diet and weight (and before him, I almost always went without).
But oh no, not here. It's yet another meal, let's be real-like all meals in Italy-to be enjoyed. Lingered upon. Savored. Let's cross our fingers that I can bring back this appreciation for food and all meals back to the states with me.
And so, as I write, laptop on table with journal open to yesterday's page (too much happens in a day and I don't want to forget anything, so I jot it all down in the journal), Chris is combing through her hair with her fingers, smiling across from the table at me, and we eat and savor our glorious breakfast.
I wrote about our first day last night and today, before we begin another awesome day, May 10, 2011, I will write about May 9!
Yesterday started just like today. However, like I left off, Chris and I woke up twelve hours later. When I said I was tired, I wasn't kidding. Chris woke first, scurried out the door to see if breakfast was still there and although breakfast was basically put away, Fabio calmly and kindly tells Chris that he will still feed us and it's then that we enjoy our first B&B breakfast like we do today, at, well, noon.
When I finally stagger out of the room sleepy eyed and still grunting, I am immediately greeted by Fabio's mother, Augustina, a white haired eighty five year old woman who walks, sees, and hears perfectly and who could probably out work and out run me. The way she scurries around and at her age is astounding to me! Augustina looks at me and says "Oh, bella!". I smile back at her and say to her, "Thank you but I don't feel very pretty right now." A hardy laugh is shared between us.
While at breakfast, Fabio tells us about his life-how is mother hired him to work at the B&B, when he started the bed and breakfast, and more ideas about what to do in the city for the day.
I start to ask Fabio how to start saying certain phrases and words in Italian. Although I do have a cheat sheet and book of Italian words and phrases, I just want him to say it. Not to mention, I am an auditory learner. I have always wished my brain worked in the world of languages and I wish I picked them up at least in the slightest bit. But for the first time, even since taking French in high school and four semesters of Spanish in college (of which I learned nothing due the combined lack of interest and teaching methods of my teacher) I want desperately to speak this romantic language. I want to to listen to it and be able to talk back so badly.
And I am already giddy when I am able to enter a store and feel like an Italian. I love that I can even say a few phrases like: Si, Graci, Preggo, Quanto, Premiso, Non so...and so on.
Oh my God. It's just hit me as I have been writing this entry. I'm going to be one of those annoying New Yorkers who acts likes she's from somewhere else. Who acts like she's Italian when she's not...AT ALL. Who won't stop talking in a different language and who are incredibly annoying by saying "Ciao!" when leaving her friends.
I'm going to be THAT girl. Oh dear God.
For that, friends and family, I apologize in advance.
I mean, in a few short days, these phrases (and hopefully more will be added!) have become a obsessed part of me to the point that I now listen closly to the native Italians to get the perferct pronunciation and intention.
Geez louise. You're all gonna hate me when I get back.
After agreeing to take a picture with our mascot, B.B. aka baby bunny, (oh yeah, I didn't mention that? A minitue pink bunny has been venturing around with us and has become our mascot...pics soon of course. :)) we venture into the city once again.
We decide this day to go into the Basilica in San Marco Square. If the outside wasn't outrageous enough, the inside takes my breath away. Golden arches, wooden statues and carvings, confessionals that look like pieces of art. Although I was christened Catholic, I grew up in the Presbyterian church. Since then, I occasionally will attend mass and I know enough to know what's coming next-when to kneel, when to say what, when to stand-and I find the tradition appealing and very centering at times. Even so, however, I have found that I do not know much about the Catholic religion as a whole. Chris starts to carry on explanations to answer my hundred questions when suddenly, I spot a sign that says, "Silence (Silenzio). Out of respect for this sacred place, it is forbidden to give explanations inside the Basilica."
Oops.
BUT let me just say, after we both read this sign and cower out of embarresment for our 'disrespect', we see a guided tour. Soooooo...I guess if you pay the tour guide, it's suddenly allowed to have explanation? Oh, goodness. Non so. (I don't know.)
We pass by confessionals, the "Treasure" (which we never discover because it costs money to see each extra part of each hall in the church), and the Pala D'oro, during which Chris explains to me the difference between Pope, Cardinal, Bishop, Preists, and Saints. I had forgotten that religious history is all so intriguing to me!
And finally, we stop at the alter to sit and reflect and I sigh. Yes, I know this blog is probably not the place to get into a religious talk. But I believe in something, God-a God-whatever-but I have not returned to organized religion in quite some time. And I haven't really prayed in an even longer amount of time.
But I sit there in silence and the world around me dissolves and I pray. Well...I thank. Thank You for this trip. For my life. For the the life and adventures that will be. And I feel a warmth. The knot in my left shoulder from my heavy bag has been forgotten. I'm not thinking about my weight or how many calories I have eaten. What people think of me or what I am going to do next. I am warm and at peace and thankful and sitting a church that is over 2,000 years old.
I close my eyes and (as dramatic as it may sound) a tear drops down my cheek. Italy--Venice--is the first place since my parents home, New York and Louisiana that I felt at home. If someone asked if I wanted to live here, would pay for my travel and the financial ability to actually live in Venice, I would. I know Chris feels the same way. It's a home in less than two full days. I've never felt so connected to a place. Like I belong.
Dear God, please make me Italian.
Are we sure I'm not Italian? Mom? Dad?
...God? Are you sure?
Anyway, after my enlightening moment (and if I feel this way in this church, I'll probably bawl like a child in the Sistine Chapel...) we get up, make our way to buy a couple of postcards of the church and start to wander again. We find ourselves surrounded in the world of shopping-dresses and purses. Glass and leather. Masks. All of it is beautiful. Chris and I may have picked up a few things and may have made an Italian saleswoman very upset when we took a dress off of a manican... (it was wearing the size I needed!).
As we wander around, we see many manicans, some of which displaying beautiful lingerie. And I notice immediately, the manicans have hips. For my male friends/readers, you may have never noticed, but coming from a woman, a woman who has been made concious of her weight thanks to theatre and her beginning days in ballet, the manicans in America would be a stick straight type character. A boy figure for a woman, if you will. And here, in Venice, the manicans have hips.
Once again, must I say it? God, I love it here.
Around four PM, as we strut along the street, we see a canoli in the window of a restaurant that is easily at least half the size of my forearm. Wide eyed, I look at Chris, who has the same expression on her face. All she has to say to me is, "You wanna eat?" and like that, I hastily scuttle into the restaurant. We sit and have a personal pizza that the man insists is for one person. It's not. But it's nothing sort of amazing as we finish our plates. Pizza with ham, articoke, mushroom, and black olives. (Btw, the toppings are not mixed together but in clusters on the pizza. I personally love it!)
We, of course, order a canoli, and for the first time I love this dessert. Not just, like it. LOVE it. The pastry shell, which is hard, (but not too hard) is coated inside with a dark creamy chocolate and stuffed inside the mamoth dessert is the vanilla cream with chocolate chips. And we linger like true Italians over our meal. About an hour of talking, soaking in the atmosphere, eating, and drinking my first espresso. (Btw, I was afraid I would not like espresso, but I adore it. Dark, intense coffee. Mmmm. How I love thee.)
I will arrive home twenty pounds heavier if I keep this up. Oh dear.
After lunch and after going to the Rialta, which is a beautiful bridge over the Grand Canal that is filled and famous for it's shops galore, we get home to change for a concert we were going to attend, Duettie D'Amore, ie Love Duets. When we find the place where the concert is held, it's basically an alley way. Not what Chris or I expected for an opera like concert...
When the doors open, we follow the alley into a house and climb two flights of stairs that are lit only by candles. And as we enter for the concert, it is a house with lavioushly furnished rooms. We enjoy the first act of a three string quartet and the pianst accompanying a man and woman opera duet singing couple in one room and are ushered into a second room for the second act.
My God, the whole experience was just...fantastic. I mean, their timing--the singers and quartet's ability to be in tune with each other, the breath between the six of them--just fabulouso. The story for every duet. Ahhhhh...
But the pianist. My goodness. The way he was able to conduct his group was impressive enough--what with, whilst playing--he used his eyes, movement, and breath to direct the group. I could tell when a crecendo was about the occur, or his favorite part of the song, or the innocent sweet part of the love story-his emotions and movements were uncanny and a show in itself.
Afterwards, after the second act, after the entire audience applauded so much that they had no choice but to come out for an encore, after everyone left, I stuck around writing down the artists names off the poster, looking at the DVDs etc. Alas, I got exactly what I wanted--the star baritone (with a glorious voice) came out from the back dressed in his regular clothes and I chased after him for an autograph. Although the usher did not enjoy this and called after to stop me, the baritone turned around and right away recognized me and said, "Ah. Bella.". With that, he kissed my hand as I said "Bravo" and he took my program and signed it for me. I asked where to find the soprano (a woman who's notes reached the heavens without the slightest hiccup), he ushered me to her dressing room, and I got her to sign as well.
Happy as school girls, Chris and I walked hand and hand throughout the town late that night. We found a leather store with a passionate book binding man who taught us about the way in which he makes and ages his leather for masks. We skipped around in San Marco Square as the bands for each restaurant played melodious music and compeated for the attention of passerbys.
And of course, finally to top off the night, we did our usual. We found ourselves eating a panini (this time, mine was eggplant! Mmmm!) and then at our favorite osteria around the corner of the hotel, drinking Montepulciano and dancing around to the disco type music. We find ourselves back at the hotel after midnight, exhausted but once again, blissfully happy.
Till the next post, ciao bella!
Love love,
Adrienne
No, I'm afraid that we are not italian. Pawpaw traced the Bergeron side of the family back to france in 1620.
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Dad