Road to Camodoli

The seat felt hard and bounced with an uneasy springiness to it as our driver curbed his way around corners. As one side of the dusty gravel road dropped straight off into the greenery I thought casually to myself, perhaps he should slow down a bit. The bus, itself, was chillingly cool, a stark contrast and brisk surprise from the streets I had trudged to catch it. Not that it was needed, though, as the air around the bus was cooling quite dramatically the farther we climbed. I knew this for one of the rusted windows lay open beside me. I dared not shut for the scent of fresh pine stretched its way from the woods through to where I was seated, revitalizing me from my current concern of our drivers habitual unawareness. As he tackled corners of the sharpest degree, where a straight route sent you hurdling out into a vast valley of wilderness and air, turns that the average dehydrated, pale, and faint pedestrian would slow down for, his only refuge was to blast at his horn. Echoing off the bases of ongoing trees, I wondered what another car might do having heard that cry of war.
As the road widened we arrived in a town. Stepping out of that hardened, metal death-trap , I buckled under how soft the earth felt. The dirt seemed soft and polished, a welcoming breeze opened-up my senses. I was immediately aware that I was no longer the prisoner of man made defiance but but a welcomed guest to nature's inviting spirit.

Siena

The history of Siena seems painted throughout the city, with each small ally-way revealing hints of its rich past.







The town square - or Campo - lies open for visiting guests to smolder in the harsh Tuscan sun. Experienced travelers take refuge under one of the numerous surrounding cafes.















The central duomo offers its reward only to those willing to climb its harrowing steps: a beautiful palazzo with breathtaking views of the black and white marble façade.








Down any one of a number of side streets and you are likely to find a range of people selling goods or discussing local business.









Some even hope to disappear among the never ending labyrinth of streets.
















Basic architecture often borders on the comical.











If at all possible, make it up to higher levels where the city opens up in harmony with lush green tree-tops.









Only by venturing out to the edges of town can one get a sense of enormity that belongs to the outlying Tuscan landscape.









Palazzo Pubblico dates back to the 13th century, when it originally housed the republican government, and the now obsolete, Council of Nine.






At the end of the day, take time to converse with the locals. Not only full of historical tales, they are also known to crack a mean joke.

"There's no mistake"

A stop by the Pitti Internet Cafe, in Florence Italy, on any given afternoon, will bring you face to face with Cristiano Papi. At 34, Cristiano- a mix of both Italian and American roots- could not be more helpful in getting a better sense of his hometown. "I was born here", Cristiano told me, " when I was little we played soccer and went to Church. It was tradition." Though he doesn't attend regularly now, Cristiano still looks back with respect for what he considers an integral part of Italian history, the church. And its not just the churches he eagerly describes to you. It is a understanding of Italian culture in general. Something many tourists tend to miss in a brisk summer vacation.
"What is the one major mistake tourists make when they come to Italy?" I ask him.
"There's no mistake." He tells me.
Crisiano understands that most tourists idolize a country they may only have one chance to visit. They tend to become overwhelmed by the beauty, the wine, the museums, and to expect that this is everyday life for the average Florentine. Cristiano laughs. For he knows its not. The average day for a resident of Florence is spent waking up a five a.m., hassling through traffic, parking, and maybe packing a sandwich for work. Certainly not a pizzeria by the Ponte Vecchio every day. And Cristiano says the last museum he's frequented has been at least fifteen years ago. But he understands. As do most residents of this Renaissance city. For Cristiano, he is able to equate it to his visits to California, as a child. His family and himself would frequent Disneyland, Universal, and the beaches. But this is quite certainly not how the average Californian lives. I don't think I need to explain the traffic obstacles and pollution by-products of working there.
So for Cristiano, and other Florentines, dinner with friends and a nice walk might be an occasional treat, but for the tourist it is an everyday occurrence, and subsequently a financial necessity for the actual city to thrive itself.
Florence runs on tourism and their compulsive spending habits. And every time I walk into a store, I'm always surprised at the ability of the shop vendors to speak English with no reservations. Take Cristiano for example. Though he grew up with an Italian mother, his ability to simultaneously switch back and forth from English to Italian to meet the need of the customer is astonishing. He will even attempt to help those whose language he doesn't understand. He claims that he still struggles with English, his second language, sometimes-though I can find no evidence of it, and shares his desire with me to perfect his English speaking to what it should be. I look on in amazement and know it is a good as mine.
Upon my final inquest into whether the general tourist bombards the Pitti Cafe shouting their native tongue expecting immediate results, he says "No not really. The stereotype exists, because there are a few who have acted that way" But generally they make the attempt." And Cristiano cannot be more insistent about the need to make an attempt. He is a firm believer in keeping an open mind about a culture and being willing to try anything.
"Nine out of ten time Florentines will help you," he says smiling,"If you're willing to make the effort, there will generally be a Florentine on the other end willing to do the same.

Nick Verreos is a very entertaining, very lively fellow. And I might add, a gracious guest. For those who do not know him- as I did not- Mr. Verreos was a contestant on season two of Bravo network's Project Runway. During our stay in Florence, as a study abroad group, we had the benefit of arranging a visit with Nick and his partner, to not only shed some light on the fashion industry and its intricacies, but also to accompany us on our tour of the Polimoda fashion institute. On Wednesday night of last week, as we all leisurely sat in the lounge Facebook statusing our progress of the summer, Mr. Verreos busted in bright smiling and shining. Neatly groomed, hair styled to a tee, and teeth glistening as if he'd just Crest-whited them, he began loudly and spiritedly introducing himself to us and explaining what would lie ahead for our next 24 hour acquaintance. His dress was not as flamboyant as a naive person might expect from a fashion designer. (And especially the day he attended the lecture at the institute I thought his apparel was particularly 'plain'. A button-up oxford shirt with a green tie I have clearly seen at Khols many a time. Of course this coming from a person who wore Pacsun shorts and the one clean tee-shirt he owns.) Introductions aside, he talked- which I might add he not only does with great pleasure but possesses, as well, the ability of a wonderfully entertaining raconteur- for a long period and eventually accompanied us to dinner .

Now my first significant impression of Nick was his jovial attitude toward food at the Hostel we are currently staying at. Upon walking into the dining room he was met with a joke about the substance he was carrying on his plate. And instead of what I probably would have done- a nauseous glance downward toward the glop accompanied by a distortion of the face- this man brushed if off in an immediately humble manner. "Oh hunny if you've only eaten some of the places I have". With a big smile he sat down and ate.

In this one instance at dinner he was reserved. At the Polimoda fashion institute; however, he was not. I felt he overdid it a bit with his boisterous illustrations of experience in fashion, and his seemingly random interruptions of our presenter, who for some reason was not making the connections between Nick's invariable urban-female slang and his own, more distinguished, clear-cut examples. It should be argued here though, that Nick was in a tough position. Certainly no one from our group was speaking up and and a man in Mr. Verreos's position would neccessarily feel a certain need to regulate the flow of fashion conversation in what would otherwise be a monotonous lecture. In this respect he sensed that his expertise demanded his participation. However, I just didn't see that his attempts matched that of the output made by our presenter.
Nick went on to surprise me when it was his turn to present, later on that evening, back at the hostel. Not only did I find his long winded story genuinely entertaining but full of wonderful insight and helpful hints for anyone interested in not only fashion but all areas of business. Here is someone who labored a great deal, along with his partner, to arrive at the position they stand at today, and the two of them seemingly continue to forge ahead not only independently but also with integrity and wonderful personality.

Venice Gondoliers excel at loitering.

The bustle of Venice seems a bit tame in comparison to that of a city such as Florence. Small things stand out. At once, the pedestrian becomes aware that he or she can, in fact, hope to cross a street without fear of being mowed over. And with waterways and bridges comes a somewhat serene feeling that life flows a bit smoother here; that traffic itself is a bit more structured. Certainly more structured than the inconceivable lane changes made by angry vespa drivers in route to the Florence airport. Yet, as structured and seemingly calm as Venice may appear to an outsider, life, even there, moves a bit too fast for one group of inhabitants. The Gondoliers. Sure they peddle their services, but not with the same exuberance as the purse sellers, and certainly not with the same persistence as the bean-bag pushers. This group of individuals takes a lull in business as a great opportunity to enjoy the finer things of life: a smoke, a sit in the shade, and conversation with fellow gondoliers. Masked with sunglasses and posed with hands on hips they discuss the possibilites of age, fine cheeses, and photography. Yet, when having a picture taken of them the demeanor changes immediately. They lower their head - their straw-brimmed hats covering their faces- and become annoyed at what would seem their primary income; the tourist. It is quite amusing to watch the definitive italian male, in his youthful- or not so youthful in some cases- manner, gesticulating wildly and crowding in on each other so as to almost pass onto the other side of the individual they are talking to. And, of course, one would think that in such close inter-personal confines voices would be lowered. Oh no. Loud and boisterous. That gets the point across. All in all it is quite entertaining to watch this ritual of loiter that seems so prevalent among this profession; a ritual that never seems to end. That is... until the traveling tourist with a pocketful of cash comes waving, demanding to experience the essence of Venice. Then the Gondolere snuffs out his cigarette, waves goodbye to his comrades, and puts on his smile for hire.