"This is life." Part 2

Florence – Feb 24

As a small preamble to this extenuated blog, I would like to say that these events are now almost three weeks old in my mind. I may not sift through them as easily due to the extended circumstance in which they were written. Thank you, as per the usual, for your patience with my blogs! Those of you that read these are amazing.

Enough with the flattering! Let’s do this. Days 2 & 3 went as follows:

The morning after our first night in Italy, we rose relatively early and the five of us readied ourselves for the long haul to the great city of Florence, a four to five-hour drive from Turin.

After escaping the crazed hurry of the city morning, we reached the open road through the countryside of northwestern Italy [I’m sure our valiant driver, Lisa, let out a sigh of relief once on the country interstate]. We were to head east for about an hour, and then divert our path from the ever-nagging route that the “Navi” wanted to take us on. Our old-fashioned, paper map and live navigator route would take us south toward the coast, passed the city of Genoa.

Our path led us through the coastal mountains, climbing up toward the passes and tunnels that were dug through the mountain to better access the Mediterranean. The seasons seemed to change with every passing second: we drove through bouts of sunshine, torrents of rain and sleet, then outright snow with white-patched roads sending chills through the car as we passed the intensely charged moments in quiet concentration, then back down through tunnels and along the side of the mountain, through quieter rain, then into the glorious sunlight offered by the reflections of the sea.

My first sight of the Mediterranean. Though brief, it wouldn’t be my last. The coastal highway guided us along the mountainous terrain that fringed the sea. We passed high mountain villages tucked into singular valleys, then low, sweeping port cities with docks loaded with cranes and crates waiting for the next floating giant to take its fill. The sea glittered, as the sun shone through the patches of cloudy skies. The grey of the sky, churning with clouds, melded with the grey of the sea, churning with waves to create an almost endless perspective: the horizon was lost as the sky met the sea. Then, it was all gone in a flash as the car entered another tunnel.

The tunnels showed us dramatic changes in landscape: one moment, the sea with a city fastened to its shores, then after the darkness of the tunnel, the next moment would bring us higher still in the mountains facing a half-modern, half-antiquated city abutted to the mountainside. Needless to say, the drive proved to be an absolutely marvelous experience.

Once we left the final crossing of snowy peaks, we eased down into a wide flat, possibly as wide as the peninsula itself. The sun shone again, and we decided to drop off the freeway for a quick bite to eat at a roadside convenience station.

These stations are positioned all along the toll-sustained interstates and highways of Italy [at least, all along the portions of Italy I was able to see]. This particular station was fixed with a bustling, chow-line restaurant; a bit more stylish than a regular canteen. The cook grimaced at my attempt to pronounce the Italian pasta: a creamy mixture sprinkled with salty bits of smoked pork on top of spaghetti noodles. My first Italian pasta! Even though it was at a slightly commercialized establishment, the pasta was great. It tasted even better due to the fact that the sun was shining, and I finally had the time to stretch my legs, but that’s just complicating the equation.

Bolstered by the quick stop, we quickly finished the final leg of the journey. All the while, we discussed a dilemma: we had booked tickets at the Uffizi Art Museum, but we were worried that we would not make it to the museum in time to pick up the tickets. The information provided on the booking slip hinted to the fact that refunds weren’t thought of as a habitual action; it also hinted to the fact that rules were of the utmost importance. We were all a bit on edge, especially since that just added to the fact that we had been driving for almost five hours.

With the city in sight, the car was parked in a lot by a supermarket (free parking at the edge of the city, a great way to save on cash!). After spending a few more euros on tram tickets into the city, we were off. The tram took us to the main train station of Florence, near the ancient heart of the city. A heart, we would soon find out, that still beat with the strength and pride of its earliest days.

The group oriented itself, and then we were off, arms full of our luggage. As we walked, I sensed that we would soon be in sight of the Duomo of the Florence Cathedral. This building, of wondrous magnitude, had been one of the sole reasons I committed myself to the journey. They say it is the journey, not the destination that matters. In this singular case, I would have to disagree.

As we half-walked, half-jogged down the sidewalk, dodging through the crowds of tourists and locals, alike, I spotted the great dome. As a pilgrim might stop upon his arrival to the great Jerusalem, I stopped, mid-step, and gazed up at the structure before me. I lost all sense of the world around me, and my eyes moistened. I could hear Michelle, “Jesse!” But I couldn’t tear my eyes away. “Jesse! It’s the dome!” I could hear her smiling, “Yes, I know it is!” I was positively beaming from the excitement. I had made it.

Though, as soon as I had made it, we had to be off. The rest of the group had hurried off down another street, away from the dome. The Uffizi Gallery was temporarily placed higher on our list of priorities, especially since we were running about 20 minutes late. Struggling under the weight of our bags, we arrived at the gallery, queued in the short line for reserved tickets, and, with luck, we received our tickets and headed off to pass through the metal detectors! 

Plaza of the Uffizi Gallery. Photo courtesy of Michelle S.

The Uffizi Gallery, as I read on Wikipedia, was one of the largest, oldest, and most famous Italian Renaissance art collections in the Western world. A few of the well-known pieces [I qualify well-known, as in, I knew them before I got there… Which, obviously, means that they are well-known]: The Birth of Venus by Botticelli, Medusa by Caravaggio, and (my favorite) Judith DecapitatingHolofernes by Artemisia Gentileschi [one of the most important works by a female artist of her time]. Overall, the experience was dumb-founding and a bit exhausting. We arrived later in the afternoon, and the gallery closed earlier in the evening. By the end, we passed through many rooms at a brisk walk, bringing a new definition to the term “moving picture.”

Il Duomo, the Baptisery, and the Campanile by night. 

From Uffizi, the group traversed its way back through the Florentine streets, passed the now glowing Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore (Florence Cathedral), then up another street to reach our lodging arrangement for the next two nights: Hostel Archi Rossi.

Entering into the “lobby,” the Archi Rossi gave me a whole new perspective on the idea of a hostel. This place resembled that which we had just left: a gallery for works of art. The walls were covered with paintings, directly on the plaster. After checking in, we escorted ourselves to the first floor (remember, first floor would mean second floor, if we were in the States). The doors and greater portions of the walls were covered with felt-tipped, permanent marker scribbles of all sorts: names and dates, places of origin, friendly notes and risqué messages. If you have ever been to the Pie Pizzaria just below the University of Utah campus under the University Pharmacy, then you know what I’m talking about.

The room, comfortably fitted with two bunk beds and a single, overlooked a small courtyard. We settled ourselves in momentarily before heading back out to the streets below to find a place to eat. A respectable establishment, located just down the road, suited our tastes perfectly.

Established in 1943, the Trattoria Nerone Pizzaria Ristorante has everything anyone would want from an affordable Italian pizzeria: ambiance, history, style, and flare. The mismatched furniture seemed to be from the original founding, with some tables fitted with benches, while another table (lower than the others) stood up to a couch gilded with golden woodwork and knobby feet. Candlelight flickered at each wooden table, each a character of its own with a thousand memories scrubbed into the grain.

Our server, an older woman with a kind face, directed our order with a professional manner, speaking fluent English without the slightest bit of consternation. I ordered the Quattro Stagioni pizza and a flat mineral water, with a cappuccino to follow (as would soon become my custom). A quattro stagioni consists of four items on a delicious, thin-crust pizza: artichoke, olives, salami, and mushrooms. The olives were fresh, pits still intact. It was delicious. The atmosphere and the company mixed with the authentic Italian cuisine left us all in a great mood, but the night was still young!

We planned to meet our Italian friend, Ambra, at the Piazza della Signoria near the replication of Michelangelo’s statue, David. However, our after-dinner dessert was more important: gelato. After pizza, cappuccino, and gelato, the whole experience of everything I had seen so far overwhelmed me. I turned around to face everyone, as we walked with our frozen treats, and exclaimed, “We are here! I can’t even… I… This is life!” Lisa automatically returned, “That’s the title of your next blog!”

Piazza della Signoria.

The group meets up with Ambra. Photo courtesy of Michelle S.

We were soon standing under the looming tower in the Piazza della Signoria, where Ambra, along with her English speaking friend, Marta, were waiting for us. Ambra had planned a bit more sightseeing for us, by this time it was nearly 11:00 PM. First, we crossed the Ponte Vecchio, the famous bridge featuring many high-end jewelers during the day. Then onto the square beneath the Pitti Palace, a grand building lacking the artist’s flourish, but enough pomp and circumstance to hold my gaze. Back across the Ponte Vecchio, we traversed the streets, every now and then catching a glimpse of il Duomo peering down on us. 

Il Porcellino, the boar of Florence. Photo courtesy of Michelle S.

We came to stand under a columned pavilion featuring a bronze sculpture known as il Porcellino, a boar; the boar of Florence. The nose shone bright in the city lights from the traditional rubbing of the snout. The practice involves placing your hand on the nose in the hopes of returning; it reminds me of Matrimony Springs back in Moab: once you’ve tasted the water, you’ll always feel the tug of Moab calling you home. From il Porcellino, our group walked a few city blocks farther to sit in the square at the Church of Santa Croce, the largest Franciscan church in Italy with a crypt that holds the remains of Michelangelo and Dante.

Church of Santa Croce.

The night came to a close. We parted ways, Ambra and Marta heading back to their car, and our group back to the Archi Rossi. At this point, a small midnight snack was in order: des gauffres avec crème et chocolat! A perfect end to a staggering day. We fell into bed, ready for another day of exploration.

Florence – Feb. 25

Whew! Day 3. Just think, if you’re tired reading this; I actually had to experience and process all of this! I’ll try to keep my long-winded explanations out of Day 3. Anyway, call this an intermission: snack break? Stretch your legs? Bathrooms are down the hall to the right. Oh, the sun is finally shining! You had better go enjoy it while it lasts.

…

You’re back? Well, let’s get cracking.

Sometimes I just have to have my way. This sounds a bit childish, but sometimes it works out for the best. Apart from the great reviews, the Archi Rossi features an amazing continental breakfast, featuring many breakfast staples and hot food items to make two Dutch, a German, an Indonesian, and an US American happy. I knew, even from the pictures online before reserving the room, that this would be the choice. It took some convincing, because it wasn’t the cheapest option, but I think in the end we were all happy with the result.

As per the usual, I was late for breakfast. Though, I was still able to pile my plate with toast, sauerkraut and sausages, mini quiches, fruit, tomatoes, and baked beans. The food was amazing. I think I’d go back to the establishment just to have the breakfast. Anywhere else, the all-you-can-eat breakfast would have cost just about as much as the room rate. In the end, we were happy.

The sun was shining when we stepped outside, ready for a day of discovery. It had rained the previous night. The cobbled streets resembled a patchwork of miniature canals or river deltas. As we made our way down the street, I spotted the telltale signs of a street market: canvas pavilions with differing goods stacked to the ceiling. We meandered through the market escaping with most of our money, though I was worst off: I had succumbed to a new scarf and a genuine Italian leather belt. Later, near the Ponte Vecchio, I would buy a new wallet, fitted with a snap pocket for all the blasted coins that the Europeans insist on carrying around.

Ghiberti's door [a replica]. Photo courtesy of Lisa H.

Our main goal in the course of the morning was the Basilica and its surrounding wonder. We came into the square of the Baptistery, the Basilica, and the Campanile. The Baptistery, designed by the great Ghiberti in an hexagonal shape with the famous bronze door, stood before the doors of the great Basilica. The intricate bronze doors of the Baptistery gleamed in the morning light: Ghiberti’s design had won out over Brunelleschi’s design for the great doors. Though, in the end, it would be Brunelleschi’s design for a dome that would give the Florentine Basilica renown.

Brunelleschi's Duomo, the Baptistery, and the Campanile by day [with construction].

We made our way into the great hall of the Basilica. Again, I stood, astounded. To think, this structure was built with the technology of its age: a huge place filled with the solemnity of the ages, the expanse of air suspended between the gargantuan stone walls brought a hush to the mass of people below. A reverent tranquility had settled itself there long ago, as a dragon would on top of its hoard. A tranquility that no one would dare to disturb.

Properly known as a groined vault, I think. Amazing.

Soon, we had paid the fair to walk ourselves up to the top of the dome. A grand work completed in the name of grander ideas, yet a place that does not boast. A monument, an homage to man’s brilliance, that just is, without any trace of hubris or self-serving ideologies. A structure built for the purpose of worshipping God’s power on Earth. No matter your beliefs, upon entering such a place, you understand the dignity and strength of faith.

463 stairs later, after scrambling up the sloping stairways that would be much scarier traversing on the descent, we reached the lantern, the apex from which I could see the whole of Florence. At this point, I think the photos describe that which words have trouble defining. After a few moments of gazing out across the land, the city’s chorus rose up to the dome: the city bells rang out, and the Campanile sung a sweet, throbbing melody.

Perspective from the lantern.

A view from the lantern.

Panorama 1

Panorama 2

After our descent, we walked aimlessly through the Florentine streets, drunk from the experiences of the morning. Our wanderings took us back to the Ponte Vecchio, now bustling with tourists and hawk-eyed merchants. Clouds roiled overhead, though decided against spilling over into the streets below.

Along the way, the Ponte Vecchio in all its glory stands.

Once we had our fill of exploration, we found the path back to the Archi Rossi, deciding to rest for the later portion of the afternoon. The evening consisted of a long dinner, filled with games and laughter at a sister company to the one previously visited. The next day would find the group splitting to appease the interests of all, though each would come back with stories of their own to tell.

At the close of the day, I knew I had found one of my most favorite places in the world. That singular brush of the boar’s snout will surely prove to be a relentless tug, one that will hopefully pull me back to this wonder-filled place.

You made it! The end of Part 2 of 5. The next portion will feature Venice in less than 24 hours. I am grateful for those that stuck it out. I hope the photos acted as a bit of relief from the monotony! Enjoy yourselves today more than you did yesterday. Passez des bonnes aventures!

Day 20: Passing on the Left

Today is a day of stories. I think it is best if I start relating some of the daily occurrences that I’m fortunate enough to experience while I’m here. Today is also the day of news. Neither good nor bad. Just news. The feelings that come after are what determine the placement on the spectrum of said news.

I think I’ll leave the news for the end. Though, with news there are always stories to be told. We’ll see how it turns out when we get there, shall we?

As for the stories:

This past Sunday (Jan. 27), a friend of a friend decided she would show us one of the street markets in centreville Grenoble. Apparently, there are street markets that pop up all over the city. Something I didn’t know previously. We met at a tramway stop then walked a few blocks down a street filled with construction paraphernalia. Apparently, they are putting in a new tram line through this portion of the city, though there haven’t been any signs of actual work being done in months. Gotta love French bureaucracy.

Anyway, the street ran straight, and then came up short as a train overpass broke through the buildings. Underneath this concrete overpass, the market bustled with people. Boucheries, Boulangeries, Fromageries, et bien d’autres! Stands with meats and cheeses: great rounds of cream sitting next to cured hunks of meat of every shape and size. Breads, croissants, pain au chocolat, and more bread of every shape and size. The fruit stands were filled with apples and strawberries and bananas and oranges and pineapples and raspberries sitting next to the vegetables: peppers, onions, gourds, and squash. Some stands sold fresher meats: piles of fish and seafood smothered in ice. One stand even sold fully skinned rabbits, with a handwritten sign, “Lapin,” pinned to its head.

A fromagerie: cheese and wine. Photo courtesy of Michelle S.

Kitty and a basket of oranges. Photo courtesy of Michelle S.

A day at the market. 

In the end, I bought a small bag of strawberries, a small bunch of bananas, and a bag of potatoes. A stall down the way sold the best croissants of my life so far: buttery yellow flaky center that did indeed seem to melt in your mouth.

Strawberries in January.

Needless to say, I’ll be heading there again soon, this time armed with a list.

Tuesday (Jan. 29) all classes were cancelled for the day. Something to do with high school students invading the campus for an annual event, which meant the most logical thing to do, would be to cancel all classes for the day. Most people went skiing—I decided to sleep late. That evening, the group (I should capitalize that… Maybe I will capitalize that!) [Revised sentence] That evening, the Group finally ended up outside one of the local cinemas, le NEF, to watch the new Tarantino blood-and-violence drama, Django Unchained. The movie was good, probably not one I would watch again, but that wasn’t the best part about the night. The walk from the ticket line to the theater in which we would be viewing the movie, now that was an adventure. First, I can’t remember how many staircases there were, both ascending and descending. I remember the strong odor that reminded me of a cave my family once explored years ago. Literally smelled like a cave. Just when we thought we had reached the theatre, another lit sign pointed up (or down) at another staircase. Not handicap friendly. That should be in this cinema’s review…

My single class on Wednesday (Jan. 30) woke me up bright and early to put me back to sleep. It is mostly interesting, but with two hours of intensive French grammar, my brain usually decides to shut down. Luckily, I saw Kitty doodling in her notebook, so I knew that I wasn’t the only one. I’m not much for doodling, so I wrote a haiku!

Classtime

Stay awake, eyes wide—

Sleeping soundly now, eyes wide.

Voice whispers, “Eyes wide!”

And that pretty much explains my level of focus for that class. That doesn’t mean I haven’t learned a lot already though, I just have trouble seeing through the fog in my mind, that’s all.

Later that day, a portion of the Group decided to run errands in centreville: the bank, the mobile phone store, and then a café. The bank left us frazzled. I ended up successful: receiving both bank cards. Lisa and Dahye were not as lucky. “La prochaine semaine, s’il vous plaît.” Next week, indeed.

The coffee shop and the small adventure afterward were the best. We met Michelle at a café, Pain & Cie. I took a Grand Crème, or latté. The foam on that crème was delightful, at least a half inch thick, floating on some of the best coffee I have ever tasted. I looked down at my bowl of coffee and said, “This is beautiful.” The girls all laughed at me.

"This is beautiful."

After the coffee, we decided it was time to start exploring the other side of the road. Down one small street, then another, passing a pirate themed bar, La Barbarousse, we came upon an antique store that I instantly fell in love with. Outside, there sat a cart of aging books. None from this century. Nor many from the second half of the 20^th century. I opened one, then another. Bringing them close to my face so I could smell their pages, admiring the ink that swam across the paper. All in varying conditions, though each beautiful in their own way. A cart full of experience, knowledge, and information set out to brave the elements.

Beauty in the eye of the beholder. Photo courtesy of Michelle S.

Vintage books and a baguette. Photo courtesy of Michelle S.

I mention the name of the bar, for later that evening I would find myself in front of it again. I met a familiar face in Grenoble. Luc Victor, a previous student teacher at the University of Utah’s French department, found out on Facebook that I had started living in Grenoble. Small world, for he’s living here too! Anyway, as more of an acquaintance, I was just happy to have met someone that knew where I was coming from. It made home feel closer than I thought.

Prof. Luc decided it was time to show me a bit more of Grenoble. La Barbarousse was the exact environment. We showed up a bit early, before the crowd swelled to standing room only and the music blasted with French and American classics alike. Truth be told, Luc introduced me to a mixed rum drink that tastes more like fruit juice. By midnight, I had met a very drunk medical student from Ireland [EDIT: Oìsin, pronounces OH-sheen], a Bulgarian woman speaking very slurred French, and had finished off four bottles of the almost-too-sweet rum mixture between the two of us. Hush, don’t tell my parents!

Finally, a small story from today should finish off the story portion nicely. I found myself in the grocery store, yet again, with Kitty and Lisa. As we were meandering toward the exit, a middle-age man sprinted past us, sweating and flushed. We all turned our heads, wondering why he would feel the need to run through the store. The answer came soon enough in the form of two, fitter security guards in pursuit. They didn’t seem concerned; in fact the looks shared between them were those of excitement. I expect it is the same look predators share when their prey decides to flee: finally, something to chase. 

That is how I have spent my time over the greater portion of this last week. It has been time well spent, I think.

As for the title of this blog, I think that deserves some explaining. After having lived in the United States for my entire life, certain habits have become integral to day-to-day existence within society. One of these life saving habits concerns pedestrian movement and sidewalks. Think to yourself, when you’re walking down the street, what side of the sidewalk do you find yourself? The right. Not necessarily that it is the right side to be walking on, but it is the side of the concrete path that has been chosen for you by societal instinct. If someone were to be walking straight toward you, there would be little doubt in your mind as to which direction you would step once your pedestrian game of Chicken came to a close: the right.

That isn’t the case in France, or, shall I say, that isn’t the case every time.

I have found myself walking, enjoying the day. I look up at the path ahead and find that another is walking, enjoying the day, straight toward me. I let the game play out, knowing full well that there is plenty of time to avert disaster. As we near each other, I instinctively make small movements to the right, but at the same time the other person is making these incremental movements to their left. This means, of course, that we are, incrementally, inching our way toward a collision. I have started paying more attention to the phenomenon. Some people, though I haven’t determined the commonality, pass to the left. A small societal instinct that I have had to completely revise.

It reminds me of a question Luc asked me at Barbarousse: “How do you find the French? Do you like them?”

Automatically, I replied, “They are very nice, of course!” He gave me a very stern look of disbelief. I had to think about my answer, then I revised: “Well, I have only spoken with those French people that are paid to be nice to me. The people at the bank, those at restaurants, and at the school.” I then went on to say, “I think, for any new place, it is necessary to drop any expectations of the people. I remember having all of these expectations before I arrived, and the first week was spent shedding these expectations. I have learned to expect nothing. It is better to be surprised!” Luc enjoyed that answer much more.

Alright, enough with stories. I think it is finally time to share some news, unfortunate as it may be.

Yesterday, after slowly agonizing over a rarely won battle, my great aunt Marie Striblen died of cancer. A true matriarch of the Sheets family, she was one of the few remaining links I had to my grandpa Ervin Sheets, who died, also of cancer, before I was three.

I have seen sorrow and grief spread through a great portion of my family over the last few months. Some were agonizing over the eventual loss of a mother, a sister, an aunt, a friend: their loved one. For me, it has been a strange journey. Aunt Marie lived about a mile away from our home for as long as I can remember, probably since before I was born. Funny enough, as life would arrange things, we would only visit a few times a year, sometimes the longest visit would be annually on Halloween when we would Trick-or-Treat for her long-awaited popcorn balls. They were exquisite.

This past summer, my sister and I were lucky enough to sit down with Aunt Marie and two of her sisters: Verna and Bootsy [may be spelled Bootsie]. Three matriarchs of the family: monoliths of experience, each full of stories. What I had thought would be a short visit ended about two hours later. The stories flowed naturally, each throwing in a memory to spread across the table we all sat around. A perfect afternoon, as my sister and I laughed until tears, after Aunt Marie recounted a brawl with a man at a graduation that she ended up winning. Needless to say, she was one of the toughest people I have ever known. She will remain in my memory as one of the toughest people I have ever known: she had a fierce hug, and a stronger gaze. You knew that she respected what you were saying, you knew that you were being heard.

I knew that this moment would come. On Christmas, our family made the short car trip over to her house to say hello, though I knew, for me, it would be goodbye. The great matriarch that I had known my entire life sat in her room, fretting because she hadn’t been able to get up and take a shower that day. No worries, we told her. She invited us all into her room, a portion of her house I had never previously seen. She made sure we were comfortable, offering us corners of her bed. Quick as ever, we all spoke for fifteen or twenty minutes. At the end, I received another fierce hug, still strong as ever, though the battle was obviously taking a heavy toll on her body.

It is weird for me now to think that as I sit here in France, whiling away the hours in a place surrounded by new people, a great portion of my family will be attending a funeral day after tomorrow. I would never miss something like this, not ever. I know that now she is off on her new adventure, one that we will all share at one point or another. She is off to meet with my grandpa, someone I don’t remember well at all. She will be missed, but I know that my memories of her are worth every moment of grief. I have something to hold in my heart, even if it was for the briefest of moments.

In the end, this reminds me that I’m on a grand adventure. As Andy Dufresne from Shawshank Redemtion said, “Get busy livin’, or get busy dyin’.” Now is the time for life: to experience all the world has to offer. For that I am thankful.