The Parucchiere

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November 13-19

THE PARUCCHIERE
November 13th 6pm I’ve just walked out of the hair dressers with lovely stripes…Italian style stripes, that is, so that makes it ok. AH! A friend and I walked to several salons and finally chose this one, though both of us glared at one another several times with unease throughout the experience. Not only did the first coloring on my scalp burn like hell, but everyone there seemed confident that the “discomfort” would go away. The burning sensation was unbearable, and finally after 5 minutes of trying to suck it up, I was convinced by my friend to get the mixture OFF MY SCALP before I tore my hair out myself. After that, I knew I was on bad terms with the hair dresser. After my highlights were done, and another woman began my cut, the entire salon was in a mess- the boss (a female) was running around slamming magazines around, criticizing her employees and mumbling under her breath many a nasty word (parolacce- bad words literally, or swears). My hair is now boldly streaked with blond and red highlights-but everyone that saw them, including my friend, swears they look great. I feel like it’s too bold, like zebra stripes, but more ridiculous….but here goes nothing-as my motto has become.
At least I know that having a boss criticize his/her employees publicly doesn’t just happen at MY place of work….

EXPERIENCES
-I’m still unsure of the proper way to introduce people and be introduced-when do you shake hands, when do you kiss? Also, are people just shaking hands, even among newly acquainted hands, because I’m American (or at least NOT Italian)? As well, among older, more traditional, and perhaps more superstitious Italians, there is a danger of CROSSING hands when greeting people…as I’ve learned from my father, it is dangerous to greet another diagonal from you if the other diagonal pair are shaking hands at the same time.

-My chorus is going well. On Mondays I have a lesson that teaches me to use my lower register, how to breath with my diaphram, use my vocal chords correctly and pronunciate my italian (latin). We are now often practicing as a whole-both men and women. Another new girl and I are learning several old pieces on our own, that we will be singing with the group for our Christmas concert ( 19th of December here in Florence) and also for a concert in January at a beautiful church near the Ponte Vecchio.

I am loving this chorus, though it is exhausting practicing so late at night once a week, sometimes twice. We practice from 9:30-11:30pm, not including travel time. Our director is amazingly talented, and hilarious at the same time. Often he has has sing solo a certain part, or in groups of 2 or 3, to find out who is getting it right and who isn't...but i'm getting used to this....being PUT ON THE SPOT!

-I took my first ride in Firenze on the back of a Motorino. The friend (who I originally thought was the brother) of my friend’s fiance drove me to the movies-singing confidently practicing his opera most of the way (yes, come to find out, he DOES sing it professionally….). Half of me was scared to death, flirting disastrously that this might be last night on earth, and the other half presented itself through the huge smile on my face-the thrill of moving so swiftly, weaving through the streets as if I had wings myself.

-Roasted chestnuts-little carts on the corners of streets in the historic center of Florence. I am drawn to the smoke from the grill, and the simple sight of the darkbrown shell, through which is peeking the sweet roasted inside! Yum!

-Today there is such a wind that I’ve seen elderly women hold onto the street pole, hanging on for dear life! The wind has continued for more than 24 hours, and is doing damage… parked motorinos and even large garbage bins have been pushed over by the force. Supposedly tiles are flung off roves, a marble column in Santa Croce is pushed over and smashes to the ground, metal signs are pulled from concrete bases. At night all the windows rattle, and some have put up baracades of some sort to prevent the wind from pushing the locks to their capacity! Those who have lived here long tell me they’ve never seen such weather before-including the week of heat we had a week ago, followed by freezing temperatures.

-I’ve seen trains full and now buses full of young men with their heads and arms stretched far out the windows, waving flags, singing, shouting….all in the name of calcio!! (soccer)

-I have no excuse for them, but they love to argue. In fact, I think they love to be right, or at least make their voice heard LOUD. On my way to school, our bus suddenly stopped in the middle of the road, opened its doors, and there was a small motorino, which I doubt many of us noticed previously….but the argument that occurred, with loud voices on both ends, every other word some sort of curse, seemed to be about the signals miscommunicated about who was turning right and who was not. No, neither felt they could blow this off and go on with their morning. Instead we witnessed a pleasant exchange that didn’t solve much of anything nor could it have. The motorino roared off after 3 minutes of this argument, our bus driver closed his doors….and that was that. This is not rare, however, especially on the road, as often as there are stoplights and stop signs, you’ll see people swearing and cursing and gesturing in their cars.

-4:30pm has become one of my favorite times of the day (when I’m not working) as the sun has just gone down, and there is still a mix of fading daylight, the moon is out, and the lights within the stores are inviting and warm. I walk around the streets, stores here are full of delightful colors and curious objects-hand made papers, shiny jewelry, imported candles and lamps and hanging jewels, rich fabrics, antique chandeliers and tables, all sorts of twists and shapes of bread and pastries, hair salons, leather stores and mannequins in poses and gestures so real and hip and assertive that more than once I’ve stopped in my tracks to acknowledge them. (They have dreads, thrust out their hips, have open, yelling mouths, dancing poses, down cast eyebrows, hands on hips, spiked hair.)

Thursday, November 18th
PER L’AMORE DI MANGIARE
-Today I had lunch at a small trattoria near San Lorenzo, a few streets away from my place of work, and around the corner from the hustling market. The trattoria is well known among the local Italians, and inside you’ll find only mother-tongue conversations. Back in the day it was a horses stable which thus accounts for its long and narrow space, and enclosed kitchen (the trattoria has now been operating for over 50 years). Guests are seated at a table wherever and whenever a seat opens…thus making for an intimate and social situation.

My friend Salima and I sat at a table (the coats lined up on the hooks on the wall behind me) with one man who buried himself in a book, never looking up once at us, accept to fork himself a heaping portion of stewed beef. The other gentlemen, accompanied by a woman, seemed like locals and were entertained by us…as much to our surprise, we mistakenly ordered enough food to serve four hungry people. I must say, those four people would have been quite satisfied with the quality…and since those four people were in actuality our two bellies, our guests nodded in shame at the food we had to leave behind (as well as sampling it a bit themselves before they left “our” table)! Although how delicious!!!!

So what did we have? I had dish of fresh pasta with ragu (a Bolognese), as well as the dish of mixed meats and cheese-prosciutto, salamis, fresh pecorino and aged pecorino, fresh bread (this is no slice, this is a hunk larger than my two hands in a fist). Salima had bolito di manza, which is roast beef stewed with peppers, tomato, red wine, black pepper corns and other spices (making for a rich red color like an aura) as well as patate fritte (French fries NOT from the freezer). After receiving all this (in fact, we ordered more, but they ran out of it before we received it…) the woman was outrageously surprised and awed at our appetite, and another gentleman guest ordered us a glass of wine after our meal- supposedly to help with our digestion!

PER GLI ARTISTI
-Today, Thursday the 18th, I brought 2 friends to see a photo exhibit near Piazza Annunziata, called Cammina Cammina (meaning walk forward) which presented 150 years of children. The images are beautiful, documenting the various stages of growth, a variety presenting play, pain, learning, exploring.

The exhibit itself is organized so that young children have access to it-with many photographs hung low and an entire area in the rear of the hall dedicated to tactile, hands-on learning. The photos, all taken within Italy, are mostly in color, but mingled with some color and more recent photographs. We witness glimpses into the life of children on the streets, in orphanages, with their mothers, in school, in the midst of life, in the flow of the stream, leading the way, reflecting sorrow. They photos are beautiful and moving. Some of the family photos from the 1950’s remind me of the photographs I’ve seen of my own brothers as vivacious young ones, when my own family lived in southern Italy. I am also touched as a teacher-as there are images of class rooms from the 1940’s, of young women studying art- decoration and design class, a sculpture class. The sepia images are ghostly, and the women, in long dresses and perfect hair, are creating technically magnificent work-and I wonder how much they love it, and what are they thinking while they are doing it? I see another photo, and the young boys and girls are lined up behind their desks, hands folded in their laps, all looking wide-eyed at the camera which is positioned in the front corner of the plain classroom.

There are also photographs taken of the orphanages, specifically from the Instituto degli Innocenti, which served as one many years ago. Outside the exhibit is the window, lead to by two merging stairways, where during the depression in Florence (30’s?), women were forced/given the option to leave their children to the orphanage-by passing them through this stone window, and walking away. Some mothers would tie string to their children, or mark them in some way, and hope to return (and perhaps visit their abandoned child) as a breast-feeder (women who got paid to breast feed the orphaned babies). My two girl friends and I were saddened and deeply moved by this-especially after seeing the images in the exhibition of these babies-many crying, some laughing, some being rocked, other’s smiling warmly and openly and unknowingly. There are families in Firenze to this day with the last name of Innocenti, whose ties to this orphanage are evident. 50% of the proceeds of the exhibit go to UNICEF and the Instituto itself.

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