In sunlight, Italy romances me

You may know, I jumped on a plane without any prep work, and ended up in Florence. I’d been working, working, working, and had paused only long enough to fret about and finally purchase my ticket. I thought about picking up a guidebook while in transit at Charles de Gaulle, but dismissed it as I bussed to terminal 2G, the distant terminal for “regional” flights with puddle-jumping airplanes and a security gate reminiscent of Long Beach Airport rather than a major international hub like O’Hare or LAX.

“I’m just going to see Stephanie,” I told everyone. “I’d be going to Oaxaca, or Bali, otherwise.”

Last night, while waiting for her friend to pick me up and let me in the apartment, I ate pizza in a small place and manically typed away at my phone, emailing, chatting and the like.  (This is, by the way, a total annoying American thing, to be glued to your smartphone.  No one here outside of the airport is so pre-occupied.)

Eventually, Stephanie’s friend picked me up, Stephanie got in from Belgium, and we caught up over wine and bolognese sauce until my own jet lag caught up with me at midnight, local time.

I wasn’t feeling romanced by Italy, or by the language.  (Spanish is a much more useful thing to learn.) But keep in mind, my entire stay so far in Italy had transpired in the cold winter evening.  This morning, I woke up to what was one of their first real sunny days in weeks and stepped out onto the balcony.  I was met by apartments stacked atop one another, decorated by hanging bouganvillea or yesterday’s hanging laundry, surrounded by centuries-old basilicas, duomos, and villas.

So today, I said my first successful Italian phrase: “Dove la machina fotografica?” (Excuse the spelling, of course.)