Attending BarCamp at Palazzo Vecchio: Discussions on Integrating the Contemporary and American Students

Salone de’ Cinquecento in Palazzo Vecchio (city hall) abounded with pens and notepads held by journalists eager to record discussions at the first BarCamp conference organized by the new contemporary and culture councilor, Giuliano Da Empoli.

From 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. along the walls of the large room marked by marble statues and frescos were numerous tables and dry erase boards facing a seated audience ready to hear the presenters’ opinions, ideas and visions for Florence in regards to culture and bringing the city in line with the contemporary and modern elements characteristic of most leading European cities.

I should probably explain this to my readers. Most people come to Florence to view the past. As beautiful, rich and preserved the past is, at times it’s a burden to the city. Florence is like a big small town. There is no modern museum, no cool nightclubs or swanky lounge bars like the ones you would find in NYC or London, no recent fashion trends that I know of have originated here, and there is no metro or subway.

There are innovative and forward thinking youths that come up from the underground during the Festival Della Creatività and Frabbica Europa. Those once a year events boast modernity in music, design, art, fashion, thinking etc… Despite that the shops display antiques, the art scenes hung on the gallery walls reminisce in the Tuscan hills and landscapes, the design of the buildings faithfully hold to the medieval structure and the artists promoted by the city are the artisans creating objects according to a hundred-year tradition. That is what keeps the tourists coming. I am not saying get rid of it, hell I’m Catholic I love tradition and always worry that the Sicilian ones I have witnessed will be lost because I am too busy to practice them.

But what’s wrong with a bit of the future alongside the past? Why can’t we have some different and diversity? Is that possible without damaging what the Medici’s left behind? Less than a month in office the new mayor Matteo Renzi and Da Empoli have recognized that Florence’s past is weighing the city down. BarCamp gave people a platform to discuss integration of the contemporary while preserving the culture heritage of the city.

One topic I overheard being presented was integrating the American students into the Florentine life. As of now, I feel that they separate themselves and don’t really have a way to experience Florence they way it should be experienced. In my opinion most of the locals probably wouldn’t give them a second look if it weren’t for the Americans’ excessive drinking with a side of shopping. The drinking is a catalyst for peeing in the Fountain of Neptune in Piazza della Signoria, puking in the streets and other debauchery that takes place in the wee hours of the morning keeping up the residents. Plus many men from Italy and Albania hang out at the local bars just for a chance to brag about having a one night stand with a hot, rich “American bitch.”

In some ways I am so sick of hearing about the American student. It’s like an obsession for the business owners: “How can we take their money while controlling the things they do?” It seems that most of the American students that come here are from the affluent neighborhoods in California or the East Coast; not an accurate representation of the 50 states. Because of my aversion towards the obsession I walked over to another discussion.

Pino Brugellis, an architect of Fondazione Targetti, presented Spazi Comuni: L’Architecture Contemporaneo Per La Citta (Common Space: Contemporary Architecture for the City). I couldn’t hear most of what he said due to the poor acoustics and lack of a microphone. When he mentioned the word “space” Maurizia Settembri broke into his discussion taking an opportune time to present her ideas about making permanent space in Stazione Leopolda for Fabrica Europa, an organization that promotes contemporary arts in Europe. There was a disput between them about time slots. Eventually Brugellis conceded that his time was up, giving me a chance to talk to him alone.

It seems that public space for the people is slowly deteriorating. In giro (around town) I hear people complaining that the city center no longer belongs to the Florentines; the locals do not frequent the center as they once did. That may be because they do not feel safe in their city.

He made it clear that he does not believe in a police state, rather the people can “autocontrollo” (self control) their city by promoting activities in the public spaces. The socializing and mingling of the residents can make Florence approachable at any time of day including night. “Streets are not only for cars … an influx of people makes a safe city,” he said. “A secure city is possible when the people of that city control it. If there is activity in the streets it will automatically become safe.”

I asked him his opinion on restaurants and bars taking up public space on sidewalks and piazzas for outdoor seating or entrances, such as the Cavalli Club’s entrance ramp that is causing some distress to the locals. He said the problem is the use of good sense. The space should not be overcrowded while fitting the objects in with the local atmosphere. “I am not against this use of space, but the space used should be proportional to the overall public space; an element of elegance is required,” he said. “When a restaurant takes up space and that is half of a piazza … they should use good judgment.”

Brugellis was called back to the Settembri’s discussion during the interview. So I found some of my friends and met some other Expats. My male American friend wanted to introduce me to Da Empoli, but said there was a crowd around him. I tried to figure out who he was. I saw a good looking man who barely looked 30 surrounded by journalists. That can’t be him I thought.

“Is that him?” I asked unconvinced it was.

“Yep, that’s him,” said my friend.

We slowly inched our way closer to him. My friend, being a journalist in the past, did not want to interrupt their work. I had to remind him that I am a journalist. But it was too late. Someone escorted him away. Even though I did not speak to Da Empoli it was worth the little time I spent there and I hope to be informed the next time Palazzo Vecchio opens its doors to the residents.

Visiting the Catina La Torre Castel Rocchero in Piemonte

“She was the one drinking wine like water,” said our waiter to two of the soci (associates) of the winery La Torre Castel Rocchero in Piemonte. The soci of the cooperative invited their clients for a lunch at the agriturismo S. Desiderio (agriturism) near the winery. Fortunately for us, Nuccia’s neighbors Fiorella and Bruno were one of the chosen invitees. They RSVP’d for 22, turning the lunch into our mini family reunion. Relatives in Torino, Milano and Piacenza were coming to the lunch.

We left Milano around 9 a.m. with the TomTom GPS system guiding the two “drivers” in the front seat. For some mysterious reason no one listened to it. After a couple of wrong turns, reverse driving to catch the passed up exit and fighting over rolling down the windows, we finally made it to our first stop before lunch, the cantina cellar near Acqui Terme. A cooperative, the winery collects grapes from the 120 soci that own vineyards in the area. According to our tour guide Michele, an aggregate 15,000 hectoliters of wine including Moscato D’Asti, Barbera D’Asti, Brachetto D’Aqui Dolce (a spumanti) are produced each year.

Fiorella said that although white wine from Piemonte is good, red is the par excellence.

The meal seemed to last forever. An endless stream of dishes came one after the other, each with a wine. My favorite dishes were the carne crudo (raw beef) and tortellini. Even the coffee came with sugar cubes soaked in flavored alcohol. Two jars, one orange the other green were placed on the table. At first I thought they were candies. I popped one in my mouth. The whole inside of my mouth burned like a cool fire. I quickly spit it out. I looked over at my cousin. She was eating them like Skittles. With a smile on her face she said “these are soaked in pure alcohol. I love them.”

At the end of the meal my brother and I were saddened because we only had a drop left of the Brachetto D’Aqui that was served with the cake. We stared at his almost empty glass.

“Oh man I wonder if they’re going to come around with anymore,” I said.

Just when we both gave up hope, the waiter appeared. Our spirits rose again as he refreshed our glasses with the red bubbly. A cling and a toss, we finished the last of the wine. The long lunch ended in the early evening. With our stomachs overloaded we headed back to Milano.

Eating Sicilian Cookies with My Family

“Ci vuole tempo, pazienza e passione (it takes time, patience and passion),” said my mother. She proudly explained to her cousins the mix required to bake. My parents returned to Italy after a five-year absence, and with them they brought my mom’s homemade Sicilian cookies. Everyone at the table was pleased that she managed to pack and transport the delicate edible “surprises” that she made in the early mornings.

She primarily made them for my sister’s baby shower, but then decided to pack up the traditional almond and hazelnut cookies, for her relatives in Milano and her sisters who are both waitng for her arrival in Sicily.

Her first cousins and their children sat around the table in awe of the little “gifts.” I find it a bit ironic that they enjoy her cookies when they have access to the ingredients and bakery shops that create the sweets. Thier reaction to me means my mother is an excellent baker.

My mother and father brought me the best gift of all — my older brother. His last visit was 16 years ago. He hardly remembered some of our distant cousins that were no bigger than a newly planted tree stalk the last time he visited Milano. But nonetheless, the Caprino’s, each one with fuller lips than the other, carried on just fine around Nuccia’s dinner table.

During dinner Nuccia discovered that she and my father are distant cousins.

“E sangue che ti tira (its blood that pulls you),” she said to me as she kindly squeezed my chin.

She always looks after me, and treats me just as good as her own children even though I am only related to her husband, Mario, through my mom. But now we know why she instinctively takes care of me.

Police Raid Piazza Santo Spirito

Empty. That is how Piazza Santo Spirito looked when I entered it from the side street that leads to the front of the church. It was 8:30 p.m. — time for aperitivo. Normally the piazza is bustling with young locals. I looked around for the neighborhood crew. They are not difficult to miss. Some of them with dreadlocks, a mix of African, whites and Italian guys rolling cigarettes and possibly other plants, they are usually sitting with their backs up against the church wall.

But today no one was on the church steps. Instead I saw carabinieri (the Italian police force part of the government's military arm) huddled in a corner of the piazza. An eerie feeling came over me. I thought maybe I missed something. Ever since September, 11 I always prepare myself for any possibility — bomb scares, buildings falling etc.

Then I remembered what my friend had recently told me. He said there was a raid on the piazza recently. First the cops were lingering around and next thing he knew all the entrances, including the main entrance that runs along Via Mazzetta, were blocked by police cars. No one could get out. Then the authorities came around and requested documenti (identification papers) from all the people in the piazza, except those who were dining outdoors at a café or bar. Apparently they were trying to find illegal’s.

“The cop was shocked when my friend (part black part Italian) took out his Italian passport,” my American male friend said.

I should mention to my readers that my American male friend is far left than any communist I have met in Tuscany. Most of the time I strongly disagree with his theories, but he did make me question why the authorities only requested documents from those in the square. Why didn’t they check the identification of the people sitting in the outdoor dining areas of the cafés or trattorias, a space that sits on the sidewalk and part of the square? Is it a question of money? Not wanting to disturb those who are spending it? Or is it assumed that those spending it can afford to, and therefore are most likely not to be an illegal immigrant?

My friend and I discussed if it was legal to search people without probable cause; however he reminded me that although many countries emulate the U.S. model of democracy, they tweak the rules to fit their needs.

A couple of months ago I read in Il Reporter, a local newspaper that covers Firenze by quartiere, that the residents of the Santo Spirito area want to build it up into a posh neighborhood. With Roberto Cavalli calling glitz and glamour at Cavalli Club around the corner they were hoping some of that dough would rub off on the rest of the quartiere. I also met some ladies who live in the square and they spoke of a Santo Spirito committee to clean up and better the neighborhood.

For who? For the people that live in Florence? The people who the police pressured into giving up their identification? Or for the businessmen and politicians who want a piece of the tourist action that takes place across Ponte Vecchio.

It’s true. There are drunks and drugs in the piazza. In the doorways of the homes that make up the border of the square there are always people drinking and once or twice I’ve seen some selling. But they never bother me. This is the place where I go to have a reasonably priced aperitivo not affected by “tourist inflation,” to hang out with friends, and to be surrounded by real Florence. Not the tourist saturated Piazza della Repubblica or Piazza Signoria.

This is a place that is filled with people who live here, alternative Florentines with their thick rimmed glasses and dogs stroll in, the occasionally Brit or American looking for the unconventional sit down at a Café, and the Arabs who meet for business stand around the water fountain that sits in the middle of the square. The church steps are filled with locals drinking beer, putting on fire shows and playing bongos on any given evening, especially during the summer. It’s real.

I am not advocating the drug sales or use, and violence that sometimes takes place here. But how can Santo Spirito be“cleaned up” without losing its life? Why do all have to be punished for what a few do? I fear that if the politicians focus too much on it, they will make it sterile. It could be compared to the rift raft of Times Square replaced by Disney Land during Giuliani’s term. Ask a New Yorker how many times he hangs out in Times Square.

I once read a book that was a compilation of interviews with three famous Italian journalists (of course I don’t remember the name of the book or the journalists). One of the journalists was questioned about his choice to stay in the margins of society. He explained that it was where the action was. To know what was really going on in society one had to be in touch with those who lived outside the mainstream. It is in the margins of society where change and creativity take place. This is why I spend most of my time in Oltrarno and go to Piazza Santo Spirito.

Piazza Santo Spirito is the home of the modern Tuscan hippies and the recent foreigner trying to carve a place. It is the home of the contemporary not the redundant Renaissance. Florence’s now converges there and it would be a shame to see it silenced.

Being in Love With A Woman

I am in love with a woman, who at times I do not like. I have been in a relationship with her for a year now. The past 12 months she has brought me joy, heartache, tears, smiles, good times and bad. Although she is magnificent to look at, at times portraying a serene disposition, underneath she is complex. She portrays innocence yet, she is not a fool. She wounds those who try to bed her too soon and rewards those who are steadfast, patient enough to weave through her web looking for her soul. She only reveals layers of herself when she feels I have earned it.

Her past is carried on her shoulders. It is her past that makes her attractive, but it is her stubbornness to never let go of it that makes me daydream of my ex. Is this wrong? Should I break it off? Can you be in love with a woman, while not liking every aspect of her personality? Is it wrong to wish that she give in, and submit; to gratify my wants upon asking?

At times I am determined to take charge and command her to speed up; to conform; to trust me; to be on my level. Sometimes I ponder her seemingly self induced complexity. Why can’t she be simple; be bland not spicy; straight not curly. Then I remind myself why I started this relationship. I start from the beginning. I weigh her negatives, with my ex’s positives. Today I concluded that although I may miss another, my woman is like no other woman I have met before. She does not give in. She does not give up. She is Italy, and I will wait for her for one more year.

Is He a Pervert or Just Being Italian

How do you know when a man’s hug or hand slightly creeping around your waist is not “Italian-ness,” but actually an unwanted sexual advance disguised as a warm gesture?

That was the topic in question at this Sunday’s after-brunch lunch among me and the other staffers when all of the customers had gone home. I told them the story about when I was alone with an elderly married man for business reasons. What seemed like an ordinary meeting turned into a reason for him to get me alone. His generous embraces left me confused and unsure about what was really going on.

The female staff present at lunch had also experienced unwanted touching by older men (sometimes relatives or family friends) in an ambiguous way. It was obvious that these men were betting on ambiguity, taking advantage of the girl being uncertain if he was being friendly or a pervert.

One of the waitresses retold the story of being greeted by a friend’s father with a caress to the back of her neck. In front of the friend, and with family present, she quickly reprimanded the father.

“Don’t put your hands on me,” she told us what she said with a firm and direct voice emphasized by a hand gesture that communicated “punto … basta.”

She said that out loud for her friend and her friend's family to hear. She explained to her friend that her own father never greeted her friends with a hug or caress, but only with a handshake, or the standard kissing on the cheek, and that only after the friend has become a part of the family. The friend was upset with her for calling her father out on the unwanted physical contact, but she absolutely refused to feel uncomfortable for telling someone not to touch her. Ironically, it was later discovered that the friend’s father had been molesting a little girl.

Many American’s that I meet in Florence are not accustomed to the Italian culture of kissing on both cheeks, but since it is known that Italians are warm, some of them step out of their comfort zone to return the cultural gesture. Nonetheless, the male staff present at lunch said that these little touches and side hugs are the Italian man’s way to slowly get close to a girl, full well knowing that an American girl may think the touch was a result of just being Italian. It’s their excuse.

“That’s how they do it. Have you ever seen how these guys act once their girlfriends have left the room? They are always hugging or touching other women,” my male American friend interjected into the conversation.

Unlike the waitress, I was not sure if the older man I spoke of was hitting on me, or just being warm. When the touching was happening, it was mixed with pleasant words and little side hugs. Then he brought me outside for a serious discussion about relationships. He walked beside me and wrapped his hand around my waist. I did not want to be rude. I thought of how upset his wife would be if I said her husband was getting a bit too close for my comfort. I did not want to ignite a fight between her and her husband, nor did I want to run the risk of being accused of false accusations, or provocation (I have heard many woman in Italy, say that men cheat because a woman is insisting he sleep with her, and since the woman does not let up the man will eventually give in since he is weak).

So I didn’t say anything. However, I know that I never want to be alone with that man again. I was so offended that an old, ugly man would even think I would be interested. In the moment that he was hugging me and putting his hands on my waist, I had thought that maybe I was reading it wrong; maybe he was just treating me like family. But then I realized that whether or not he was trying to get a feel, his actions made me feel uncomfortable, and in the end that is all that matters.

What is upsetting is that I am not the only one this has happened to. Many of my female friends have had similar experiences here in Italy. Of course things like this happen everywhere, but in the States we follow through on laws, such as sexual harassment, in order to make men think twice about turning a business meeting into an opportunity to make unwanted sexual advances on their colleague.

I left out significant details of my personal experience in order to avoid direct identification of the man, and to spare hurt feelings or misunderstandings of others.

The First, the Last, the Boy

There is a protocol to sex: Everyone needs to make sure that everyone else is having fun. I went out with the 21-year-old American boy after we returned from Munich, and what started out as intrigue soon dwindled into an akward union that left only one of us satisfied.

Monday night we met on Ponte Vecchio, and walked over to Pop Cafe in Piazza Santo Spirito for an aperitivo. The conversation was nice, but I felt that there was a change in our chemistry since returning from Munich. He seemed more reserved, and I was ... I dunno ... I was feeling more direct, or domineering. Perhaps it was because we were back in my home, a place he would soon be leaving and I felt, he really did not understand.

After we finished our wine he walked me back to my place. Once at the foot of my building door, I asked him if he wanted to come up.

"I don't care," he said.

"Is that a 'yes' or a 'no,'" I asked.

"Maybe" annoys me. What does "I don't care" mean? Is the person interested or not?

Throughout the evening he spoke of an animated Disney film, about two robots that fall in love, shocked that I had not seen it, he suggested we watch it. So we snuggled up on my tiny bed to watch a free download of "WALL-E." It was cute, but I can't remember the last time I watched a movie with a guy as a prelude to sex. Wait, wait now I remember. Yes, the last time that happened I was in college.

He made his move. He gently tickled my back with soft kisses. Being with him was sweet, no sparks, just sweet. And I thought he was a nice boy. Despite the thoughts in back of my head that said, "be careful he's just a boy. Don't get caught up," in all honesty, he just seemed genuine and good looking, and respectful of a woman. A precious boy. And I told him that.

"You're so sweet," I said in between a kiss.

"That's weird. No one's ever said that to me before," he responded.

That's when I knew this was not going to rank on the top 10 best sexual experiences of my life. What else do you do in these moments? You say nice things. In love or not. You compliment your lover. Those sweet emotions pull at you when your lying in bed with someone.

I love pillow talk. That's the honey of romantic trysts; spending time, clothes off, talking about nothing in particular. Maybe the American did not know who he was yet, because if he was secure with himself, as so he should be, he would have taken the compliment with a smile.

He was taking his time, and I was asking him to hurry up and get to it. Maybe I was being too Samantha, but after him not taking to my compliment, it became apparent that I would just have to use him. But unlike my hopes of repeating certain acts throughout the night, he said he would only be showing for one single performance. And if I was not satisfied at the end of it, so be it.

And I was not satisfied at the end, middle or beginning. Maybe he did not know how it worked. It's called reciprocity. On top of that, he kept his socks on. Doesn't he know the rules: No socks, give and receive, repeats are a must, and its rude not to spend the night.

"Look at you, you look so mad," he said jokingly, laying there, acting like he just ran the New York City Marathon.

"This is an exchange," I said.

Of course I was pissed. Are you kidding, that's it? I felt bad for being demanding, but I chose him for certain reasons, just as he chose me.

He left in a rush. I think he was embarrassed, although really there is nothing to be embarrassed about. Things happen, chemistry is not right. I would have liked to try again, it took Carrie and Burger two times before they got it right, but the boy never surfaced again.

I think about what I did wrong. Maybe I was too mean; maybe I should have been nicer; maybe I should have just smiled and kept my mouth closed; maybe...

Now I figured it out. Maybe he was just too young.