Per favore, cafe latte e riconciliazione.

Per favore, cafe latte e riconciliazione.

Language is the source of misunderstandings.
Antoine de Saint-Exupery

I talked to the friend with whom I had difficulties and it turns out that we had a misunderstanding of the situation. It happened as it did, but we each saw it differently. We both agreed that there are things each of us needs to work on. I am so relieved. I will approach this differently, but with the same compassion. With an open heart there is space to reconcile.

The resonating lesson from the past two years of my life is that our best qualities are also our worst. I am perceptive; I notice body language, word choice, nervous habits, but that is not enough. I can be so hard on myself, and also on other people. I must leave space for an evolving understanding of people. I hold myself and others to sometimes impossible standards. My ideals do not belong to everyone. I can hear my mother's voice in my head - Patience is a virtue. Rise above pettiness. Follow through.

So it goes.

Today I painted from 9 am to 4 pm. I am working on a painting of beets; my beets shriveled up and so my proportions now are off, but I am enjoying describing the hairiness of the roots with the wooden end of my paintbrush. I love to dig into the oil and reveal the old layers, scraping and pushing the mess of colors to create space. All art is an illusion and a reality. The tension delights me.

Here I am free to dive into my work; I have no other option for sanity right now. I so enjoy my independence and time alone, but I need a way to fill in the loneliness. I miss physical contact. I underestimated its power. At home I am spoiled, free to sink into Justin; he's a foot taller than me, so his arms are a cradle. I miss my family too; I am yearning to relax within the familiar. There is always Skype, but it is hard to be six inches from your loved one, and also thousands of miles. It's not the same as physical proximity.


Here, I have to ask new friends for a hug. Italians seem to have a knack for enjoying themselves in a crowd, but I am not always in the mood. I feel distant in a crowd. I feel distant from familiar strangers. I love the newness, but it drains me. I am beginning to get sick. My throat is sore, my nose is runny, I just want to sleep. There is dog shit on every street, and sometimes I see spit blobs on the ground, and so I spit up my sputum freely. Forse le donne italiane don't spit like gli uomi italiani, but i am un'americana and so I do what I must. That's my idea of freedom.

Adesso Sono Pronto.

Adesso Sono Pronto.

Now that I have some headphones in, I am ready to write.

I made amici nuovi at TNX; at first I wandered around questioning whether coming alone was a good decision or not, but I was approached by un'italiana and we began to talk. She spoke just a bit of english, so we communicated as best we could.

"Stai sola?"

"Si."

"Adesso tu hai un'amica. Balliamo!"

She introduced me to the security guard and some of her friends; we danced around a bit on the upper level and then I went downstairs to be in front of the music. I met more people down there; one guy I met was particularly nice and took me under his wing. Il suo nome è Michele. Lui è un DJ da Pisa. From what he told me it sounds like he plays a similar style to Justin's music (Justin is il mio ragazzo in Indiana). It got too crowded so he took me upstairs into a VIP area and we talked for a bit. He told me he had a girlfriend, that he didn't approve of the Italian way of life, that he preferred Switzerland.

I also made friends with the security guard. After the show I spoke with him and he asked how I would get home. I told him I planned to take a taxi. In his french accent he spoke in near perfect english.

"Wait just a few minutes and I'll see if one of my colleagues can give you a ride to center." I waited, and waited, then finally he returned.

"Come with me. You like Moto?" I sort of thought he said motel, but I wasn't sure, so I said yes.

I was ready to clarify, but he led me to his moto - his scooter - and gave me a ride all around Firenze before taking me back to my apartment. The permasmile came to my face as I summated the situation for myself: Diana is riding through Firenze on the back of a scooter at 5 am while holding on to a big black french man named Thierry. I laughed to myself, giddy at my own carpe diem.

I didn't know anyone when I left for the club, and I survived.

Of course.

San Giggliamo

San Giggliamo

"Aspettate autobus ventinove?" I asked a group of young italian punks near my bus stop. Bus 29 was the bus to TNX, and I overheard the punks talking about it. "Cinquanta minuti." We began the broken italian conversation; only one of them spoke english. I told them I was from Chicago; they murmurred, "Chicago, Sheecago!" I have learned it is easier than telling people I'm from Indiana because this generally leads to the wide-eyed look that lets me know they think I'm from India. Then a complicated explanation follows, in a mixture of italian and english. I figure Chicago is close enough.

Saturday was great but so much has happened that I just want to lay here on this couch in this little room and try not to hear my roommate and her friend giggling about suggestively named drinks - orgasms, blowjobs, sex on the beach. Ignoring this is impossible. They are going out tonight to a bar with the girl who is no longer my friend, and they are going to Amsterdam this weekend. I have been invited but I have declined because I don't really want to get high with a group of gigglers and I certainly don't want to spend the money just to wander off by myself.

I miss friends from home; I chose my friend base carefully - no drama, self-sufficient. It doesn't work that way here.

Gather 150 artists.
Plop them in a city away from parents and RAs.
Drama ensues.

It seems at times like everyone just wants to go out and get drunk every night. I am not one of those people, so I am at home.

I have no will to write now; I will update later. TNX was fun but my camera was stolen, and I don't want to think about how I don't have photos to upload.

Malfunk, Eufunk

Malfunk, Eufunk

Inauguration Day: I sat in Astor Cafe next to the Duomo with Marisa, Kerry, and V. We watched the big screen; I sipped white wine, I felt happy, teary at 6 pm Italy time. The girls I was with chuckled at me tearing up but I don't care. Obama's speech had me nodding my head in agreement; I thought they could have picked a better poet (though it would be tough for anyone to follow his speech). I was with my two roommates and V; Elvin the waiter was clowning around. He's Albanian but he made a point of putting the Italian flag next to the screen. It was all in fun I think, but he's also kind of a buffone too.

I feel frustrated with people on this program. A friendship with a girl I thought I got along with just blew up. Twice now I have introduced her to new people and I only had the best of intentions; both times she reacted poorly and her negativity tainted the evening. Maybe she will read this and understand what I am saying, and maybe she will not. From my experience I know that I just need to distance myself from negativity like this.


The good news is, I'm equipped with plenty of skills for venturing out on my own. At Astor after the inauguration, we met a student from another program. His name is Fiko (next to me, above); we started talking and discovered that we are both interested in electronic music. He told me about an electronic show the following night with an artist named Jamie Lidell. The club is Tenax (TNX) and it's a 15 minute bus ride out from the center of Firenze. Lidell was soulful, funky, beat boxing and mixing at the same time. He wore a gold jacket, a tux shirt, and MC Hammer pants. Funky for sure.


TNX was fun because it was full of Italians, not Americans looking to get drunk and Italians looking to get on drunk Americans. That's what clubs in Firenze's center are like - knock offs of american bars, playing hip hop, terrible mixing, high drink prices, drunk girls, grabby men. But Wednesday was the best time I've had dancing in Italy so far. No one was creepy or forcing themself into my bubble. That has always been my favorite part about the electronic scene: true listeners abound.
Wednesday I met some Italians and a girl who lives in Italy but is from Colorado; they were very kind and I am looking forward to meeting more locals. I think that will help me find people more my style. I'm going back to TNX tonight to see two names I'm very excited about - Konrad Black and Seth Troxler - and two other names I've never heard of (Guillaume & The Coutu Dumonts). It's a Beatport 5 Year Tour. Maybe the people I met Wednesday will be at the show tonight. I am going out independently; I am going out for the music. It seems like I'll have plenty of opportunities to meet locals and dance senza creeps - as long as I keep my eyes open.

Alé, amici.

Alé, amici.

I started this blog as a way of keeping track of my experiences and as a way of keeping in touch with friends and family back home. I love writing; it keeps me from spontaneous combustion and forces perspective. But as much as I enjoy writing, it gets to feeling a little strange when I'm spilling it all with nothing in return. This blog is not just for me; it's for you too. I have a journal; this is not it.

I'm hoping that this blog will be a dialogue between me and my readers, whoever you are (I sometimes suspect there are only 6). So alé, amici - come on, friends - I want to hear from you. If you have questions, or my post reminds you of something, or you want to say hello, do it. I encourage you to sign up; you can use a pseudonym if you want to remain anonymous (just let me in on who you are so I can appreciate your comments). Va bene?

Internaturally

Internaturally

Something is rumbling in my subconscious and I don't know what it is. I am having dreams that are not quite nightmares because there is no fear, just disturbing and graphic scenes that persist. I wake up with the covers falling off of my tiny twin bed, twisted around me and sweeping the ground, and I fall back asleep only to dream that I am not sleeping.

This is less disturbing than what I saw last night.

Last night I dreamed there was a young dead girl draped face up across a chandelier in the courtyard outside our kitchen. She had died of some illness; when Vicky got out her telephoto lense I saw that her skin was eaten by worms. We were taking photos because it was so bizarre. Her family put her on the chandelier as some sort of ritual and when the girl suddenly slipped she was hanging by her arms, so the family pulled the chandelier near the window to rearrange her. The family saw us watching and I wanted Vicky to turn out the lights in our kitchen but she wouldn't. It sickened and frustrated me because it seemed wrong. I didn't want it outside my window. I woke up with a sharp image of the girl in my mind and I felt so sad and disturbed. I woke up several times during the night.

This morning, I woke up early to go to school and talk to Justin on Skype. It is always good to see his face but is stressful wanting to be in two places at once. After we talked, I took a nap on the couch in the student lounge before the sculpture field trip at 1 pm. I dreamt that I woke up late for the trip. I was rushing around but couldn't make any progress because I had an armful of clothing that I kept dropping everywhere.

These dreams leave me exhausted in the morning. I walk around here feeling alone but independent, thrilled but strange. Saturday night a man followed me down a street and got very close to me; I could feel his proximity. As I turned around to glare at him he put his hand on my shoulder. I shouted "Va fanculo" at him, which essentially means go fuck yourself, and he laughed at me and said "Va fanculo te!" He left me alone after that, but I had mace in my pocket, so I did not feel too worried. Even still, I fumed all the way home.

It has been rainy all day and yesterday, but the field trip fascinated me and lifted my spirits. We went to Casa Buonarotti, a museum dedicated to Michelangelo. I saw his shoes that he never took off; they had formed to his feet and he was apparently a very small man. I also saw the first sculptural relief works that he did when he was somewhere between 15-17. I am amazed at the level of skill at that age; it is humbling. So too were his sketches and paintings. Every room was filled with work; my senses were overload. I had no idea how close I lived to Casa Buonarotti - 5 minutes, just down the street and around the corner.

Florence seems smaller and smaller every day. From a distance it seems vast, but I seem to see the same people every day, and they recognize me and say "Ciao, come stai?" I saw someone just Saturday who said, "I recognize you - from the market!" I saw him today and he acknowledged me with a ciao and a warm smile. It is preferable to those who catcall without knowing me. When they know me they seem so pleasant. I'd like to hang on to that notion.

Firenze Makes a Sound

Firenze Makes a Sound

After having dinner with V and Katie I came home to an empty apartment. I was kind of relieved; I need this time alone. I cleaned up my side of the room, washed my face, wiped down the sink, picked up some wads of Kerry's hair off of the bathroom floor, took out my contacts, gave my face and legs a massage. My legs are tired; I do so much walking here that I'm thinking about getting a pedometer. I'd be interested to see how many miles I walk in a day. Katie (on the left) has one; she said in one day she walked 11 miles. I am not surprised.

I have to be at SACI at 8 am with my passport so that the authorities can verify who we are when our documents are turned in for permiso di soggiorno. Being at SACI at 8 means waking up at 7, but I am still awake. A day in Firenze is long, packed, and yet leisurely; no one is rushing, but it takes longer to do things since we walk everywhere, and sometimes behind very slow old women. Scusi. Grazie. Prego.

I'm surprised at the music I hear here; for months I listened to Italian Radio through iTunes in an effort to prepare myself for Italy. Now that I am here I hardly hear Italian music at all. I'm surprised to hear a lot of American music. It's music I am not particularly fond of - pop, hip hop, all the things I heard on the radio when I ventured away from NPR (I always went back). All I can figure is that the world must look to America for entertainment.

Now I am sitting in my little twin bed listening to Sasha Live: Cream @ Amnesia, Ibiza, Spain from last July. It's a DJ set that my friend Seth gave me right before I left. I've never heard this set but a part of me is always wishing that Symphony for the Apocalypse or Sao Paolo will come up - both are stirring and wild techno tracks with deep melodies. They bring me to a deeply internal and quiet place. Even if you're reading this and you've never listened to carefully crafted electronic music, or you think it's shit, or you don't even know what I'm talking about, it doesn't matter. A listening experience that set your head on right is not unique to techno.

It has been a while since I've heard any good electronic music, and I think this is exactly what I need right now: a little bit of home, a little bit of something engineered for ears. It's calming in a way; the four-four beat is smooth and the melodies are deep. I feel even listening to this; I feel the weight of everything I am experiencing and I cannot believe it has only been one week.

I have to be careful when I evaluate my new situation. Everything is new - streets, people, friendships, classes, culture, language, bureaucracy, pavement, food, air, weather, traffic ... it is really too overwhelming to think about all at the same time. I feel keenly aware of what I need - a hug, some water, hours to write, and time to sit down and laugh with friends.

I have made a lot of good decisions, but nothing can come close to this. At times, when I am feeling low (something that comes like a tsunami but does not last), I wonder what I have done to myself. Four months?! That is a very long time to go only seeing my loved ones in pixelated form. But sometimes we have to overhaul, have to remind ourselves of our smallness, and our own internal greatness. For a long time I have had everything I need for this journey, but I did not always know that tools mask themselves as problems.

Tu Sei una Stella

Tu Sei una Stella

I am finding myself a bit overwhelmed. Finally getting something into words feels so good. I don't feel sad at all, and though part of me misses home, I am so completely immersed in this culture that I am distracted from homesickness. Someday I might long for Cheer King Star or Taco Bell, but not any time soon. For now I just want lots of gnocchi and gelato.

I cried intermittently on the plane. I felt a strange conflict of emotions. I cried because I felt so happy, and cried because I became overwhelmed by the not knowing, and cried because I looked down on Ireland from the plane and I knew I was close to Frankfurt. But I don't cry here. Mostly I just walk around, smiling in my eyes but not so much with a toothy smile, because I don't want to lead on any of the uomi italiani.

To get to SACI from my apartment is about a fifteen minute walk that takes me through the San Lorenzo flea market, and it's like being on a catwalk. "Ciao bella, do you speak english?" or "Bella, bella..." etc. Kind of the same pick up line everywhere. I just look straight ahead and raise my eyebrows without smiling. It is better to be a bit cold if I don't want men chasing after me.

In Indianapolis I came up with fabulous outfits in front of my own mirror only to put on the same pair of grey pants and black teeshirt. I felt like people didn't understand colorful or wild self-expression in Indy; perhaps it was me judging the colorful. I thought it was something like a need for attention or worse, but I don't believe that anymore. I feel so fashionable here. A few locals have told me I look like un'italiana, though one man thought I was una francese. Everyone checks everyone out. I notice when people are looking at my shoes. I am experimenting and I am only putting on one outfit a day. Truly, I was always afraid of being misunderstood in Indianapolis, but when I return I cannot be that same girl. It would be an insult to the blossoming woman you will see in photos of me here.

I had no one to photograph me so I attempted to show the new from above, except it looks like the myspace photos I criticize. New sciarpa rossa, new giacca di pelle, new vestito verde, new borsa a tracolla di pelle. Since I didn't bring very many clothes, everything is a variation on a theme: jacket, scarf, shirt, pants or tights tucked into boots. Mi piace l'aspetto.

I spent a good deal of money yesterday on some items I'd rather consider investment pieces than impulse buys. I bought a lambskin messenger bag; it is leather both inside and out, fire proof, water proof, multiple pockets, black. I also bought a tailored leather jacket; the man brought me a cappucino while I tried on le giacce. It is also made of beautiful, soft lambskin. And very sharp. The third thing I bought in the flea market; it was inexpensive and possibly cheap - a little watch for 8 euros. Analog, check it! It has been years since I owned a watch.

I saw a lot of girls with multiple giant bags that they could not carry themselves. That, for sure, is a shitload of laundry and the worst way to travel. It is terrible to trail that behind you on cobblestone streets, terrible to haul it up the steep stairs of italian apartments.

A few things really struck me as different about the buildings; to lock or unlock apartment doors the key must turn several times, and the doorknobs are sometimes round and in the middle of the door, though on the inside they are strange contraptions that require pushing one button to unlock a latch. The apartment hallways are dangerously dark, but there is a button you can push that will keep a light on for a minute. Electricity is very expensive here so we keep the lights off when we can. And the toilets are different. Much less water, deep bowls that produce echos when something drops in, and strange flushing mechanisms - big, flat buttons. It was like that in Germany too. In one gelateria I used a toilet with an automatically rising auditorium-like seat. If you click on the photo you'll see the pictogram they used to explain how it works.

Our apartment is homey and beautiful, with tall windows and long curtains and green shutters that can be opened to let the light in. I don't mind the mornings when my view is of a little courtyard and the streets are so full of life. People walk everywhere. When I return home, I will never drive when I can walk, unless I am going somewhere far after.

I met a girl named V last night and we had an instant connection. She was sitting down leaning against one wall, and I took a seat against the wall right across from her, and we had a conversation. I am so glad to find friends. She studies psychology at Rochester and has a flair for fashion. It is nice to know someone who likes to pick apart the workings of the brain as I do. She has a similar sense of humor and a similar personality, but we are different enough that it is interesting. It is already a promising friendship.

Everything seems so full of promise, really.

Sono Arrivata

Sono Arrivata

I am falling in love with this city. I just ate my first panini and burned my mouth with espresso, but I ordered in italian and I am faring quite well. The panini was made of soft, chewy bread, pillowy mozzarella, juicy but not soggy tomatoes, and crisp lettuce.

Pigeon shit everywhere, but it is all beautiful here. Even the trash ... maybe a little less so. I cannot believe how high the Duomo is. In the morning I hear its bells, and sunlight floods the room once I open the shutters. Our shower is not even big enough to bend over; the radiators hardly heat any of the rooms. Even toilets here are strange, and right now, I can feel espresso running right through me. It might be a while until I get used to their coffee.

It seems my fluency is a rarity among these students. Yesterday I had several wonderful, if not broken, conversations with locals. I am proud of how much italian I retained; I thought I didn't know very much, but I do, and new friends are finding me useful. It's also a confidence booster, and it really feels good to put myself out there with language.

My roommates are nice; Kerry is conservative but laughs easily, and Marisa is apologetic but liberal, and the other never showed up. Both have sharp minds and good hearts, and I enjoy their company.On my left is my roommate Marisa. With two new friends we split a litre of vino bianco; I ordered carpaccio because I was feeling adventurous. It turned out to be seasoned raw salmon and salad. It was good, but I had never eaten so much raw salmon in my life. I enjoy ordering in italian, even though I have to be corrected for at least one word every time.

No hot water yet; we have a little terrace - three feet wide, maybe ten feet long, high ceilings, wrought iron beds, a tiny shower, a tiny fridge. To get to my apartment, I walk up one set of steep stairs, through a courtyard, and up two more sets of stairs. Outside my bedroom window is another courtyard. Outside the kitchen window, a third.

Soon I will buy a cell phone. I thought I wouldn't, but I think I will need one. I don't have internet in my apartment and I want to wander by myself. Already I have missed two connections with friends because we thought we got lost and couldn't find one another and did not have phones. Although in this city, there really is no getting lost, as you can just keep wandering until you find your way back. Just look up for the Duomo.

Send packages to
Diana Means, c.o. SACI
Via Sant'Antonino, 11
Firenze 50123, Italia

Socks with Holes, or New Walls?

Socks with Holes, or New Walls?

Our New Year's Eve party was all about transitions. Every room in the house changed just a little bit to create something new. Rooms were divided by two panels of sheer fabric; furniture was moved to create four separate lounge areas, each with their own vibe. We prepped a bit each day from Sunday, moving furniture, adding equipment, hanging streamers, adjusting lighting. There was a lot of buildup to the evening, and a lot of great teamwork. Jeremy (being a tall Haus) helped me hang seven yards of silver jersey fabric; we discovered the walls were plaster, and that it is damn near impossible to hammer directly into the corner of the room where wall meets ceiling. We came up with a solution, and it was more than worth the effort to cover the original 1950s pink and blue flowered paper in the kitchen.

Just two hours into their night my studio became an impromptu lounge, bringing the number to five. I took on a rare form that evening. I found myself feeling very charming, entertaining groups of 1-10 people, answering questions about my art, fielding a persistent guest who wanted to buy a piece I will not sell, listening to people I had just met analyze my art. The response was enthusiasm and curiousity. The whole night was inspiring, and I am glowing from the wonderful connections.

Those who met me would never have guess my usual reserve. I suppose it was coming, the fanning of my feathers. The mix of people was strange and delightful.

My resolution, for 2009 and beyond: follow through, except when time is better than persistence. And so now I am off, to finish packing, gathering, eliminating. The time is ripe to throw out the old socks.

Think about it!

What will you throw out?