A New Heading

As you can see, I have replaced the borrowed windows with a new image. I took this picture from the steps of Santo Miniato al Monte. This could be a postcard, you say, and you might be correct. I haven't seen a postcard with this exact image yet, but as suggested by a distinguished reader of this blog, I will beware of the infinite variety of possible postcards. My vow was never meant to deny me the benefits of personal photography, it was to prevent me from limiting my vision to a 2 x 2 inch digitized view of the world.

This particular image I felt inspired to carry back down the hill with me. I will claim the shadow on the bush behind the graves in the foreground as a signature. The statue belongs to the grave of a woman whose husband died in 1944. Although you can't see them in my cropped version of the image, at the base of the statue there are four children who grasp the woman's gracefully inviting cloak. While this scene is undoubtedly maternal, from where I stood on the hill yesterday, I saw a young woman, opening herself up to the expanse of the city with humility and calmness. Although I am growing more accustomed to sights, sounds, smells, sensations, tastes, and customs here, this city is still forcefully foreign. I doge Vespas and walk with raised elbows to maneuver through crowded sidewalks. When I walk alone (during daylight hours and on crowded streets--before anyone gets too worried), I am rarely bothered by street venders or other passersby. For the most part my uniform of black boots and a knee-length black, waterproof, hooded coat imitates the majority of Florentine females' wardrobes. On drizzly days, like today, when my hood is up, I have twice been confused for someone who could give detailed directions in Italian.

When I walk with others from my group, I'm no longer the silent, solitary pedestrian, but part of a noisy gaggle of mostly blonde-headed American twenty-something women, and suddenly there is an onset of "hello"s and "how are you"s and "where are you from," or "where are you going"s. Coming from the urban environment of Seattle where human interaction in public is characterized by a particular brand of passivity and subtly, this aggressiveness is outstandingly rattling. In the U.S., I like to smile at strangers, particularly those I sense are in need of one, but here, especially in certain locations, I've seen that a smile can invite an onset of undesired attention. This bit of commentary of course reinforces cultural stereotypes, of both young American women abroad and Italian men on the street, but the reality is sometimes stereotypes call out to you from bridges and piazzas.

So, where can I go from here? To the individual, of course. When I went to the lecture at the British Institute earlier this week, a young man with the beard of a grad student walked up to the chair next to me and gestured to make sure I wasn't saving it. I smiled and opened my palm over the seat to indicate its availability. We did not speak to one another throughout the lecture but as I got up to leave, through an identifiable but completely understandable Italian accent he said, "I thank you for your smile, they are rare and expensive in this city." As I walked back to my homestay, I was pleased with my well-spent smile, and was reminded the singular instance can be more potent than a litter of catcalls.

UNO

"I think that travel comes from some deep urge to see the world, like the urge that brings up a worm in an Irish bog to see the moon when it is full." -Lord Dunsany

I happened upon this quote the other day when I was seeking reassuring or inspiring voices to quell some of my pre-travel anxiety. I am heading to Italy not Ireland, this is a blog not a bog, and the moon was full last night not this evening. Despite all these discrepancies, I can still relate to the worm who must follow an urge, the lunar lure, to come out from a hiding place and see the world in new light.  In a few days I will meet the famous Tuscan Sun, as well as the Tuscan Moon.  I have been rather worm-like during my winter break, sleeping late each morning in my bog (a basement bedroom), and being a bit of a book-worm in late night hours. In Florence, I vow to get up with the sun--metaphorically since I've heard the winter climate is actually quite cloudy--and enjoy more hours of the day during my Italian sojourn.

Speaking of vows, I have another. A quote by G.K. Chesterton (yes UH '08 friends, the author of The Dumb Ox, the book about Thomas Aquinas that Fr. Reichmann assigned us). He says, " The traveler sees what (s)he sees. The tourist sees what (s)he has come to see." I've provided Chesterton with the posthumous privilege of gender-inclusive language, which he might not appreciate, but sorry dude, it's my post-modern prerogative.  The point of all this is I want to be a traveler not a tourist. I want to see through eyes attentive to the periphery.  I vow not to take photos of any thing or place I could find on a postcard. When I return I want to be able to close my eyes and smell the Duomo, hear the Arno, and taste the air from Fiesole. These are hopes not expectations. 

My bags are packed but not zipped, my belly is full of my mom's pumpkin pie, and my eyes are starting to droop. I should go to sleep. If I didn't get the chance to say a personal farewell, please forgive me, the past week was a slightly frenzied preparation for my departure for Firenze. I look forward to seeing you in May, if not sooner, when I will be a new worm.

*For the more visual among you, I will also try to post pictures if my internet connections will allow such activity. Until I find some Florentine images of my own, I borrow these windows with filigreed shutters from a Flikr page of windows and doors around the world.