JCP ART

I had to leave Florence because I was broke, basically. I moved there with very little money in my pocket as it was, and while I was (mostly) careful, well, $1500 doesn’t last forever. I’m sort of proud of myself that I was able to make it last as long as I did, truth be told. I  managed to take a few trips, to Rome, Cannes/Nice/Montecarlo, and Amsterdam. And if I’m being really honest, the last month I was there, I bought a €250 dress. I still have it and I don’t regret that purchase for a moment. A dress lasts longer than a month’s worth of groceries, that’s for sure.

Anyway, for my last night, I went out with my friends in the city’s centre. We went to a few places, I Visacci being one, and Astor being the other (Astor has the dubious distinction of being featured on that one Jersey Shore season where they went to Florence. However, this story takes place 2 years before that, when it was just one of many cafe/bars in front of the Duomo).

At one point we were walking around looking for a cigarette machine and one of my friends grabbed this random guy walking past us and asked him something in Italian (I don’t remember what). It turns out he wasn’t Italian, just some artist from Chicago on holiday. It was quickly decided he should go back to Astor with us, and so it was. Once in Astor, a few more backpackers joined our group, two guys from the Midwest. I ended up talking to the artist in Chicago and it turned out we had a lot to talk about, being an artist myself.

An hour or two later we left Astor, probably because it was closing. It was like 3 am at this point. We wandered around for a while, before walking onto Ponte San Trinità. Florence is known for its many bridges, each one different from the last. Ponte San Trinità has large pillars on either side, just large enough for five people to hop over the side and sit on. Of course this is highly dangerous, and illegal, as it is at least a 40 ft. drop into the river. So of course that is exactly what we did.

Here we are. We placed a camera on the bridge’s wall (hence the large white line). Then we decided to walk further down to the dam that spanned the length of the river.

Here it is by day. You can see Ponte San Trinità in the distance and the ledges we sat on. This stone dam is my favourite place in all of Florence. I spent hours here every day, lying on the hot stones listening to music and smoking and writing. Anyway, it’s quite different at night, as one might expect.

The five of us walked slowly across the length of the dam, towards the part where water was still running. The city was asleep. We were quieter now, and the artist took my hand. We kept walking until we were ankle deep in the cold, running water, and stood there for a long, long time. The artist pulled me towards him and we kissed. That moment seemed to last forever and is one of my favourite memories. After all that I had seen, done, and experienced in Italy, this last night was a beautiful send-off that seemed to come straight from Florence itself.

Well, my last post was all sad and melancholy. Sorry. I’ve been really missing the two cities I spent so much time in, and being back home, well, you know how it is. At first it’s really nice, then it gets boring and sucks.

But you know what? After spending two years (18 months in London, 6 months in Florence) in Europe, I’ve seen and done a lot of things. And I have to have gotten some stories out of it, right?

Well, yeah. I do have stories. But, does anyone want to hear them, or more importantly, do I feel like putting them on the internet? I waver back and forth on that one. Today’s story, like most of my tales, has to do with romantical (yes, I know that’s not a real word) exploits (or lack thereof) (that’s a fair warning, by the way). I call this one…

Ti Voglio Tanto Bene

or….. That Time I Had a Secret Affair and Didn’t Even Care

So, living in Florence, Italy was everything you could imagine, and more. I’m not sure if you could tell but most of my art from the last 3 years has been inspired by my experiences there, one specifically (but I am not going to write about THAT, at least not today. I don’t mean to be annoyingly vague, but the ending has still yet to come). I will say it’s about one person, I guess you could say my muse, for the context of this story. Anyway, as one does, I sampled the local offerings - food, wine, art, and eligible young bachelors. I had a few girlfriends (on study-abroad programs from the US) I met through the language school I attended. They were friends with a particular group of guys around our age, who had emigrated to Italy some years back, let’s say from Croatia. It was really fun - we’d hang out at this one local wine bar/cafe several nights (and days) a week. Or, they’d take us up to Piazzale Michelangelo at night on the backs of their Vespas. We’d look at all the city lights reflecting off the Arno while drinking some cheap Chianti, well into the early morning hours. It may have been a bit cliche, but it was fun as hell and you’d do it, too.

Anyway, one of the guys (who I’ll refer to as Nikolai, but that’s not anywhere close to his real name, for any of you super sleuths among us) and I started hanging out alone, several times a week. It was totally casual and no one knew about it. I had been seeing this one guy (the aforementioned muse) and was totally wrapped up in that, until it came to a screeching halt. I found out later it was due to a misunderstanding, but at the time I didn’t know that. I stopped eating and sleeping and was a nervous wreck (ever want to lose 15 lbs? Try the Heartbreak Diet™!). It was a terrible time and it profoundly affected me. After a few weeks, though, I got angry, then sort of numb and apathetic. Enter Nikolai. Well, he had always been there, as part of the group, until one night. Earlier that evening, I had gone out with my girlfriends and the guys, and had a great time. As the night wore on, the group got smaller and smaller until it was just a few of us. I didn’t care to go home, I didn’t care about anything, so I stayed out and accepted the offer of a Vespa ride to Piazzale Michelangelo from Nikolai. I think we had some red wine, even. We sat on the steps, I don’t even remember what we talked about, but it wasn’t too long before he made his move. I was surprised, but I just went with it. I really don’t know what I thought was going to happen, as Piazzale Michelangelo is a known makeout point after dark. All my dates took me there at one point or another. I just remember feeling so incredibly numb that night.

From then on, we saw each other quite frequently (on the quiet) until the time I left Italy. I don’t know why he engaged in this affair, but I know why I did. I was hurting, angry, and bored. It was revenge, a rebound. He was probably also bored, saw something he wanted, and knew it would be short-term. And he even knew all about the other guy I had been involved with. There were no illusions, we knew full well that we were using each other. And I liked that. At the time, it could not have been more perfect. 

It was fun, though. He took me to obscure corners of the city and at night we kept each other warm. He’d make me tortellini with pancetta cream sauce at 2am, and it felt like we were the only ones left in the city. He’d pick me up from class on his scooter, we’d smoke on the riverbanks on overcast afternoons, and drank endless glasses of grappa (which is pretty much rubbing alcohol, if you were wondering). He was good to me and it helped (well, okay, it was like putting a band-aid over a stab wound). And I liked that we didn’t talk about it, each for our own reasons. Twisted, yes probably, but it was what it was.

So we went out a lot, sometimes with our mutual friends (where we’d sit on opposite corners of the table), sometimes just ourselves, or with his cousin or roommate (who both knew what was going on, yet hit on me frequently anyway). One very bright morning, Nikolai and I stumbled over to the favored wine bar for espresso, in an attempt to negate the effects from the night before. If any of our mutual friends had happened to walk by and see the two of us in last night’s clothes, the jig would’ve been up. However, the universe spared us this minor annoyance that morning. Eventually, Nikolai’s cousin, his roommate and some study-abroad girl that I didn’t know that well joined us and talked about what seemed to be the default topic: language barriers. Ti voglio bene means I love you in Italian, but one would say it to a friend or family member. It’s not necessarily for expressing romantic love (in which case, one would say, ti amo). There is only one way to say I love you in English, even though that phrase has many meanings that depend on context. You say the same words to your mom, your brother, your friend, your pet, your significant other. But in Italian (and several other languages) there are many ways to express particular kinds of love.

That night, before we went to sleep, Nikolai said, I love you, in English. I knew what he meant (ti voglio bene), but it still surprised the hell out of me. I didn’t know what to say, so I just hugged him. I feel sort of bad about that now. But of course, I love you is often a loaded phrase to native English speakers. If it’s said in a relationship too early or too late, or who said it first - it’s always a big deal. The shortcomings of the English language are evident at times like this.

I left Italy a few weeks later, and we didn’t really talk much after that. We did meet a year ago on one of my weekend visits to Florence, but by then he had a girlfriend and I was with another guy in our old group. He and his girlfriend cooked dinner for us, then we went out for grappa on the outskirts of Florence. It was all very familiar and I felt at home.

Well, this post turned out to be not at all what I had in mind… I had a vague idea of writing about a secret affair borne out of apathy and boredom, with some funny anecdotes about language barriers and the like, but I guess I’m just not in that kind of mood. I guess the apathy I felt then is coming out in my writing now, which is odd because I have such fond memories of our time together (but it’s not wholly unsurprising). It’s because of Nikolai that I know the best little cafes and parks in Florence, and his company was incredibly comforting. Well… I have more interesting stories, probably more interesting than this, that I’ll dig out of the archive (i.e. my head) at some point.

• Paris in the rain
• going to Le Pain Quotidien in Parsons Green with my flatmate
• smoking on the balcony with my flatmate outside our flat
• riding the London Underground
• riding the London Overground
• London in the summer
• the Arno
• the Thames
• speaking Italian
• living on my own
• Cabernet
• Chianti
• cobblestone streets
• ₤30 plane tickets
• intrigue
• things that I can not say

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