Sunday Sensibilities- Fiesole

Sunday, after what seemed like endless rain, (not a metaphor), we saw the sun (also not a metaphor- the weather here sucks).  So, like any good Smithie, I took all of my homework and a granola bar to a bench under a tree on a hill.  The hill being Fiesole, a town whose altitude allows for a stunning view of Florence.  

I did some reading for my classes, of course, but I felt the need to write.  I hadn't written in so long- not just for this blog but for myself.  Things haven't been coming to me, and I've been tired and stressed and worried about things that shouldn't make me tired and stressed and worried.  (Story of my life).  I did all my writing just outside the church of San Francesco.  A friar walked by me with an understanding look on his face as he watched me write.  It was encouraging.  

So, as I've done in past Sunday Sensibilities posts, what comes after this is what I wrote, just as I wrote it.
    
The church was built here however many hundred years ago because it was outside the city, way up on a hill, on its own.  Most of the monasteries built at the time were built in comparable locations, because it was believed that in order to be as close to God as friars and nuns need to be, they had to escape the evils and distractions of city life.  Today, all it takes to get here is a bus ride.  I wonder what San Francesco would have to say about it.  I think he'd be really annoyed with us, honestly.  Especially with Italy.  It's a little ironic that he's the patron saint of the country.  The man took a vow of poverty and made every effort to use and have as few material possessions as possible, and he is now the patron saint of a country whose people are known for high fashion, who are obsessed with aesthetics and incredibly concerned with appearances and impressions.     

I have learned so much here.  And i don't mean in the classroom, however important and shaping that part of my experience has been and continues to be.  I am so much more in touch with myself than I've ever been before.  The benefits of taking the tiem for serious self reflection and self analysis have been immense.  I arrived confused and unsure, and now I have goals and objectives.  I am newly aware of myself.

It's sad to think how fast time has gone by here.  In some ways I still feel like I've just arrived, and in other ways I feel like an expert.  I do wish I had more time (though I am trying to stay for the summer!).  The thought of going back to Smith- a place where I spent so long studying things that weren't right for me and where I was never able to realize it- terrifies me.  I don't want to backtrack on all of the personal progress I've made.  I'm worried that I will lose myself in anxiety like I've done so many times there.  Don't get me wrong, I loved my time at Smith and the people I shared it with.  I'm grateful for it and better person because of it.  But it was, is, a love-hate relationship.  Education should not incorporate stress and anxiety at levels so high that it reduces people to tears.  Yet I've sat with a number of Smithies as they cry while looking over their to do lists and planners and assignments- and a number of Smithies have sat with  me as I did the same.  Education should not incorporate fear and worry.  How can you learn like that?  These things do nothing good for your brain, and they do serious damage to your heart.  

And I guess it's not odd that I had to come here to make this progress.  Italians in general are much more relaxed.  They don't believe in stress.  I'm still more high strung and stiff than your average 20 year old, but less so than before I arrived.  Much less so.  And letting go of some of that is what has hallowed me to make the emotional progress that I've made here.  It's allowed me to realize what I want to do, both in terms of a career and in other ways as well.  I guess I'm just growing up.  Something I've always been rather apprehensive about.   

   

Sicilia

Part of me feels that I should probably go through all of the places we visited and what I did and saw at each of them and what a wonderful time I had and blah blah blah but I’m not going to do that mostly because for me it’s rather boring but also because we did so much and saw so much.  It’d be a ten page blog post and I don’t want to write that any more than you want to read it.  That, and I don’t even know where to begin, really.  Maybe that’s because it’s hard to tell where the island begins.  It has been ruled by so many different peoples over the course of its history, and each of these rulers have left their influences, their marks and their scars.  

I also have no real segues for the things I'm going to talk about in this post so I beg your forgiveness in advance.

We arrived at the airport in Catania, and by bus we then traveled to Palermo, which served as our home base for the first three days of the trip.  Palermo is kind of similar to Naples: lots of Baroque, of course (which is growing on me) and colorful.  However, it’s easily twice the size and overall to me it felt much more…sad.  On the one hand, it’s pretty cool to see art and architecture from so many different time periods next to or sometimes literally on top of each other, but on the other hand it seems that it is quite a heavy burden to bear.  Walking down the streets of the Palermo, it was clear that history is not easily forgotten, and moving on is a time consuming process.  There was something in the air that served as a constant reminder of something that prevents belonging, at least completely, to Italy.  But can you really blame these people?  They have thousands of years of difficult, unforgiving and powerful history that other Italians, not even other southern Italians, can really relate to or sympathize with.  So when you hear these people identify first and foremost with Sicily rather than with Italy- can you really blame them?  There is no way it’s easy to legally be bound to a nation when you have two different histories.  And I felt the weight of this intellectual, spiritual burden most in Palermo.  In the smaller places we visited you could definitely feel how old they were, but the feeling wasn’t as overbearing.  Though I think those picturesque windy, cobblestone streets with ocean views and cannoli probably help. 

Italy, as I've mentioned before when talking about Naples, has its own brand of Southern Hospitality, and the Sicilians are some of the friendliest, most hospitable and most generous people you will ever meet.  Perhaps they feel a duty to make up for their islands’ problems (like, you know, the mafia), but these are southern Italian characteristics that have existed for generations.  At one restaurant the proprietor talked with us for almost our whole meal, about Sicily and about Italy, about himself and about us, and then treated us to almond wine made on premises.  (We asked about ingredients and process, but he was unwilling to give up the secret).  At a small restaurant in Erice, two men who were sitting at a bigger table got up and sat at a smaller one when I walked in with a larger group of girls.  These are things that don’t happen just anywhere.

We saw a lot of Greek ruins in Sicily, and believe me there is something really humbling about looking up at giant, ancient temples.  It’s also sort of depressing.  Because I don’t think we (we meaning currently living human beings) are really doing anything as amazing these days.  Ok, a few individuals are, sure, and maybe some companies…but entire societies?  No.  Not really.  Are we building things that are going to last?  And by “things that are going to last”, I don’t just mean things that won’t fall down.  Are we building anything these days that people from all over the world will flock to thousands of years from now just to look up at and go “Wow”?  I don’t think so.  I don’t know if it’s because we aren’t capable or if it’s because we just don’t care to- that’s a whole other conversation in and of itself- but looking at the temples in Segesta and  Selinunte just made me feel kind of like we as a race are doing a serious disservice to, and seriously insulting, the people who came before us.  Myself included.  In fact, I put myself at the top of the list.  I am the worst.  Here I am, receiving this phenomenal (and phenomenally expensive) education, I am being exposed to some of the oldest and truest forms of culture there have ever been and will ever be, literally walking in the footsteps of those who created it, and yet I don’t change myself.  I guess I could be even worse, I could get absolutely nothing out of all of this, and that would be bad.  I get a lot out of it.  I spent every night in Sicily before going to sleep deep inside my own head having these intellectual conversations with myself (I’m not even giving you guys the half of it).  And what have I done since getting home?  Sleep, upload my pictures to Facebook, and listen to “All Night Longer” by Sammy Adams maybe a hundred times.  (If you're curious: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kOmvUVDeO0I).  And this is why I’m the problem- because I recognize all of this and I question, but I don’t react accordingly.  It’s not that I’m not capable of thinking deeply- all I ever do is think.  That’s why I don’t sleep.  But I don’t do.  I don’t act.  I could pick up a book, hell even read some damn Wikipedia articles, on literally ANYTHING, and it would be a better use of my time not  just for my own personal intellectual upkeep but for the sake of, you know, preparing myself to be a meaningful member of society.  But what do I do?  I sit on my ass in front of my computer refreshing my Twitter feed.  Young people, even smart ones like me who know how to think, who have amazing professors like the ones in the Smith College Italian Department and who have so many resources available to them, are intellectually lazy.  And regular lazy, too.  What’s really bad is that most of the time when I’m sitting there refreshing my Twitter feed, I’m either thinking about really interesting, meaningful things (that I should probably write about), or I’m thinking about all of the other more intellectually useful things I could be doing.  For crying out loud I could even just go for a jog.  At least then when I came back to wallowing in my intellectual inadequacy I would take up less space doing so.   

All in all, Sicily is the most amazing, most beautiful and most unforgettable place I’ve ever been.  I was consistently made speechless, at times almost brought to tears, by the sheer natural beauty of the island.  That beauty is enhanced by a people whose generosity and sincerity are unrivaled, whose cuisine is unbeatable, and whose passion for life and living, despite their history, cannot be eroded.    

  

What do you do to live?

My host dad, to make a living, sells copy machines.

My host dad, to live, is an historian, a political scientist, and a philosopher.  

The beginning parts of these two sentences are quite similar.  The lack of a tiny, one letter word in the second one makes the difference.  The second half of these two sentences, however, are quite different.  Why did I put it like that? What am I trying to say?  

Let's start over.

My host dad's job is selling copy machines.

My host dad is an historian, a political scientist, and a philosopher.

Do you get where I'm going with this?  Let me try again.  This time I'll be more explicit.

My host dad's job is selling copy machines.  Selling copy machines is what he does to make money to pay his bills.  

My host dad, despite his (what many people would consider humble) profession, is incredibly well educated and aware, especially when it comes to history, politics and philosophy.

I sat at the dinner table for about two hours today, talking with and listening to- mostly listening to- my host dad.  The conversation, in I don't remember anymore what order, ranged from the Second World War, German philosophers, Greek philosophers, current day Italian politics, language, laws, and the political theories, ideologies, and cultures behind them.  And it wasn't just  a conversation that mentioned general aspects about these topics.  My host dad went through a number of both German and Greek philosophers, by name, and knew what their ideas were, their theories, when they were written and what inspired them.  My host dad knows important dates and historical figures from all over the world.  These are things that, at least at home, I only talk about with my fellow college students, professors, and adults who were at one point college students like me.  Intellectuals, you might say.    

In Italy it's different.  I'm sure it's partially due to the differences in high school education (no public high school in the States that I know of requires four years of philosophy class), but it's more than that.  Italians, at least the ones I've been fortunate enough to meet thus far, separate their jobs from their lives.  That's because Italians do their jobs to pay their bills, not to live.  To live, they think.  They talk.  They share and discuss and reflect.  Living in Italy is not synonymous with paying bills the way it so often- too often- is in the US.  In Italy, being an intellectual is not a profession.  It is not a title attributed to a certain class or group of people.  To be an intellectual in Italy, you don't have to be a college professor or a politician or a lawyer.  You can be, of course.  Or, you can sell copy machines.        

Why do we ask people "What do you do for a living?" Why do we use the expression "to make a living"? Have we really reduced the act of being alive to merely what we do in order to earn money?  

Had you ever even thought about it before reading this?  Will you ever think about it again afterwards?  I hope you will.  In fact, I implore you to do so.  The next time you meet someone new, instead of asking him  "What do you do for a living?" ask "What do you do to live?".  The words might be similar, but the meanings are completely different.  By all means, if you are actually curious as to what this person's job is, then just ask what his job is.  But if you're curious about the person, about who he is and what he believes and how he thinks, then ask him what he does to live.   

And while you're at it, ask yourself.  Look in the mirror and ask the question aloud.  What do I do to live?

It's a little scary how hard it is to answer, right?  Scary, and sad, and quite telling. 

My host dad, to make a living, as they say, sells copy machines.

My host dad, to live, is an historian, a political scientist, and a philosopher.   

    

Buses, Trains, Planes, Ferries and Feet

This morning, after my iPad alarm clock rang, I used the same device to check Facebook (I am a product of my generation, I beg you not to judge me).  Something good came out of it, though.  Liz had put up photos from her winter break (she went all over the place), and she titled the album "Buses Trains, Planes, Ferries and Feet".  I liked the way it sounded so I picked up my journal, which is permanently on my nightstand, and wrote the following, all before getting out of bed.  This one is for you, cara Lisetta.

Buses, Trains, Planes, Ferries and Feet

Buses, trains, planes,

Ferries and feet,

Unaware of the things

And of the people I will meet. 

Planes, feet and ferries,

Buses and trains,

Each step of this journey

I am breaking free of the chains

Of ignorance, of motionlessness, and of fear.

I feel with my heart as well as with my hands,

I see with my soul as well as with my eyes,

And with my head I think, I learn, I wonder, I fly.

Because flights do not only leave from airports.

I took a bus to a city nearby

And a plane to one far away

I took a train to somewhere in the middle

I've gotten lost, but I've never gone astray.

I've got a journey bug, now.

Wanderlust, I think it's usually called.

But for me, to wander is to be aimless,

And I have very clear intentions.

This world is so big.  There are

So many places to see,

Infinite things to learn,

And new people I'd like to greet. 

I'm thankful to my heart and to my mind for pushing me out the door,

And I am grateful for the buses, trains and planes,

For the ferries, and for my feet. 

Padova

My time in Naples ended bittersweetly on January fifth, when my parents went back to the States.  I however, couldn't come back to Florence until today, so Zio Mauro arranged for Noa and I to spend a few days in Padova  (or Padua, as it's referred to at home) with cousins of mine...whom I'd never met.  Actually, I didn't even know they existed.  To start, I've always been closer with and known more about my grandfather's side of the family than my grandmother's, and these cousins are on my grandmother's side.  Furthermore, given the fact that both family trees together amount to what is a figurative familial redwood forest, it's not all that surprising that I don't know all of my cousins.  I've always been curious, though, and have often wished that my older relatives would organize some kind of gathering or reunion.  I'd do it myself if I knew enough about my family tree, but sadly I don't.  

Zia Franca and my cousin Salvatore met Noa and I at the train station.  We had never met before, but we had studied each other's photos on Facebook the night before so that we could recognize each other at the train station.  Luckily, and happily, we found each other right away.  Zia Franca did not hesitate to inform me that despite living up north for many years she is still very much Neapolitan, proudly so, and that I need not worry.  She is a very small woman, maybe about my height, and so I was taken  aback when she told me that she has EIGHT children.  (She had the first when she was my age, which is frightening).  All eight of them were born in Naples.  When the youngest was just a few months old, Zia Franca's husband (who passed away quite a few years ago), got a job in Padova, and up they went.  

When we arrived at Zia Franca's home on Saturday afternoon, she immediately made us something to eat.  Too much to eat.  (Every meal for the entire trip was the same, really).  After lunch I took a nap.  My parents left for the airport around 4:30 am on Saturday, and so we just didn't sleep.  Needless to say, I was exhausted.  

Later that evening my cousin Lello (maybe the billionth cousin of that name from either side of the family), his wife Patrizia, and Zia Franca took us for a walk around the centro storico of Padova.  Although it is smaller than Florence, it didn't feel that way because the streets are much more...open.  Often in Florence I feel very closed in, and I was surprised that I didn't feel that way in a much smaller city.  The Christmas decorations were still up, and so was holiday spirit.  The streets were packed with people strolling along, looking at the tents and tables that are set up in Italian cities at this time of year.  It was lively and fun, and I enjoyed the overall vibe. 

Sunday was pleasantly overwhelming.  At first, it was Noa and I, Zia Franca, Lello and Patrizia, as well as Salvatore with his girlfriend and one of his sons.  I honestly felt like I'd known them forever.  Talking with them was so effortless, so natural.  It didn't matter that we had never met before, it was clear that the idea of me being a stranger had never once crossed their minds.  It doesn't, matter how we're related or how distantly.  All that matters is the fact that we are related, we are family, and we treat each other as such, no questions asked.  Over the course of the evening, more of Zia Franca's eight children (my cousins) came over.  Many of them brought their children, and one of them brought her daughter.  To think that I have this many cousins just from one family alone is a little mind boggling, and I had to keep asking who was who to fill in the picture.  We sat at the table for hours, I'm not even sure how many.  More hours than we didn't, let's say.  We then went with my cousin Patrizia (one of the eight) and her boyfriend and daughter for an aperitivo, and then to her house where we were (overly) fed (again).  We, again,  had a really great conversation, and it was nice to know that what I felt at the big table surrounded by people translated to a smaller, more intimate setting.  In a way, it made it seem more real.  

The next day Zia Franca took us to the University of Padova, where her son Carmine works, and he gave us a little tour.  Founded in 1222, the university of Padova the second oldest in Italy and one of the oldest in Europe.  It has long been known for its programs in law and medicine, and is also where in 1678 a woman named Elena Lucrezia Cornaro Piscopia became the first woman in history to earn a college degree  (obviously my favorite fact I learned that day).  Afterwards, we walked to Prato della Valle, which I was told is the largest piazza in Europe (though the Google search I did now as I'm writing this post told me otherwise).  Regardless, it is one of the biggest piazzas and Europe, and it's the largest in Italy.  We then went to the church of Santa Giustina and the church of Sant'Antonio, both of which were incredibly beautiful.                     

Zia Franca is proof that age is but a number.  She lives alone, and does just about everything for herself.  She's visited often by her children, but more for company than for assistance.  She is funny and quick, and always has something to say.  Her Neapolitan accent was a pleasant contrast with that of the Padovani, and I was thankful for a familiar sound in an unfamiliar place.  She almost exclusively uses the imperfect past in place of the present conditional.  I'm not sure whether that stems from dialect or upbringing,  but regardless I'm sure that there's a metaphor in there that I'm simply too tired to look for.  (I'll leave that to you).  My favorite part of the weekend was talking with her, especially about my grandmother, whom I unfortunately never knew very well.  I loved hearing stories about the two of them, what they did together as girls and later as adults.  My grandparents visited Zia Franca often after she moved to Padova, and every time  she mentioned that she smiled.        

Despite having faced a lot of difficulty, both as individuals and as a family, all of the family members I met in Padova were happy.  It's clear that they have remained very close, despite the big age differences between siblings and despite the death of their father, and I think it was their closeness that helped me to feel at home.  That and Zia Franca's heart.  She is one of the most warm and welcoming people I've ever known.  She made me promise to come back before returning home, and it is a promise that I will happily fulfill.  

My days in Padova, although not many, were intense.  In a good way, though.  I got to put another piece of my family puzzle into place, I got to see another part of Italy, and I shared the experience with a very important friend.  Days like this lead to thinking.  They lead to pondering and reflecting, all of which, eventually, lead to growth.  I feel so grateful that the journey I'm on this year, studying abroad, is being accompanied by a much less literal journey- one that takes place in my head.  I'm luckier still that every smaller journey within the big one, every trip to a new city, is partnered with it's own journey through my mind as well.  Padova is a small city, yet it is home to the Italy's largest piazza.  Zia Franca is a small lady, yet she has the biggest heart.  I am a small lady, too, and have returned to Florence today trying to decide what is big about me.     

    

Natale a Napoli

Christmas with the Gambardella family is loud.  Really, really loud.  On more than one occassion both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day before asking me to translate, my mother asked me if people were fighting.  They weren't, though.  It's just how they talk.  ...just how we talk.  (Excluding myself from that description would be incredibly dishonest).  

The alcohol probably doesn't help to keep the volume in check, though.  On the 23rd my dad went on what might actually be the world's longest liquor run, and came back with a gazillion (an actual, scientific number) bottles of wine and a number of after dinner drinks that although intended to be slowly sipped ended up in shot glass after shot glass.  After doing the math Christmas morning, given the number of empty wine bottles and number of people drinking, it came down to about a bottle per drinker at dinner on Christmas Eve.  Because we are a family of CHAMPS.

Food, and the process of cooking and eating it with the people you love, is an important part of Italian culture.  I don't need to tell you that.  So, the fact that my holiday involved eating like royalty probably isn't much of a surprise.  The phenomenal, delicious, easily restuarant quality food that we ate two days in a row was more than my inner foodie could handle.  I can assure you though that I left the table with my heart as full as my stomach.

Christmas Eve dinner, as per tradition, consists of fish and seafood.  A lot of Italian-American families in the states have kept this tradition alive, too.  But we do it better.  Forget the shrimp cocktail you buy in bulk at Costco, we ate those beautiful, giant shrimps with the heads and legs still on them.  And prawns.  And octopus.  And squid and anchovies and sea bass and seafood salad and lobster and scallops and spaghetti with clam sauce and clams and oysters on the half shell.  And caviar.  Does your family eat caviar?  I didn't think so. 

The next day, we ate meat.  And NOT a turkey.  (I have never understood why so many people choose to eat the most overrated meat so soon after Thanksgiving).  We ate steak.  Delicious, pink steak.  And lamb.  And cinghiale.  Do you know what that is?  It's wild boar.  Because, as I previously stated, we are a family of CHAMPS.

I saved the most important part of the holiday for last, however, because the most important part of Christmas year was not tangible.  Or edible.  (Or drinkable).  The most important, most moving, and most beautiful part of my holiday this year was the fact that for the first time in almost twenty years, my father celebrated Christmas with his sibilings and his dad.  You could see the joy in everyone's eyes, you could feel it in the air and in your bones.  I don't think I ever really realized what a sacrifice my dad makes every single year at this time, and how hard it must be for him.  As if I don't already have a million reasons to appreciate the man, this Christmas I found another one.  One that I really should have found a while ago.

Despite all the joy of Christmastime, especially this year, holidays are always bittersweet.  Yes, it is nice, and important, to appreciate the new faces at the table, but you can't celebrate a holiday as important as this without also remembering the faces who aren't here anymore, and without wondering whether or not the table will look the same next year.  Life is fragile, and there is no way of knowing what is to come.  Luckily for me, I'm a Gambardella, and the Gambardellas combat this fragility and uncertainty with laughter, togetherness, faith, unshakeable optimism, and a whole lot of love.          

Paris

I don't even know where to begin, really.  We saw so much, ate so much, drank so much and did so many things that I think it would be impossible to talk about them all.  We did the necessary touristy things, of course.  Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe.  I could write about these things, but a gazillion other travel writers/bloggers already have, and so I feel like it would be useless.   

I will, however, talk about Versailles.  Ever since first learning about the French monarchy in AP European History my sohpomore year of high school, I've wanted to go to the Palace.  And I am so happy I did.  We arrived in the modern day town of Versailles (which is a lot like a nicer, more upscale and French Huntington Village) via public transportation.  I'm not sure mere mortals can come up with words to describe it- I refuse to believe that mere mortals built it- but I will do my best.

Pick up a thesaurus.  Go to the word "big".  Read all of the words that are more eloquent and that are usually used for things that are bigger than big.  Then say all of those words out loud in a row, as if it were a sentence.  That is my description of Versailles.  It would take days, maybe weeks, to go through it and look at every single thing there is to see, and in detail.  If you've ever taken a White House tour in D.C., imagine that, but a million times better.  Not only is the Palace filled with big, beautiful and grandiose things, but its own physical construction and decoration is in and of itself big, beautiful and grandiose.  I'm not so sure that anyone other than French royalty could have ever pulled it off.  The whole complex is pretty ballsy in its size, decoration, and sheer grandeur.  It pretty much screams "Look how rich and powerful I am!".  It really put the anger of the hungry French peasantry I'd learned about in school into context. 

  

A rare winter visit to my summer home.

Yes, the museums and historical sight seeing are interesting.  And they are important, because they put all of the other things you experience in Paris into context.  And the same is true for any city one visits, really.  I think travelers, and no offense but especially American travelers, forget the importance of context.  How can you really develop an appreciation of a city and its people without knowing at least a little bit of how they developed into the present?  Every potential conversation, whether with a waiter or bartender, hotel concierge, taxi driver or local you ask for directions, becomes so much  more meaningful when it isn't a question and answer session.  So as much as I enjoyed Versailles (both the Palace and the modern day town surrounding it), and the other famous sights we saw during our stay, I think my favorite part of our time in Paris was the walking we did to get to these places, and the destinationless meandering we made time for, because it allowed us to put what we had learned and seen into context.  It's also how we found some really great food.  Speaking of which...

Eating in Paris is dangerous.  Because it is SO good.  If you are dieting, or a light or picky eater, pick a different city to visit.  Paris is not for you.  I was especially pleased because apart from the high quality of the food which we consistently encountered, I was eating what I don't eat in Florence: red meat.  I should remind you all that my host mom is a fabulous cook, but sadly she has some kind of inexplicable and unrelatable opposition to red meat, and by the time I arrived in Paris my inner carnivore was going mad.  My diet for the trip consisted predominantly of paté, some kind of potato, red meat and red wine.  I had missed steak, and I was getting my fix.  And, I ordered all of my steaks rare.  Because I was in Paris, and I figured if anyone knows how to properly cook a rare steak it's the Parisians.  I was never disappointed.     

One thing about eating in Paris which (pleasantly) surprised me is that even the more touristy restaurants we ate at managed to remain much more true and authentic to the cuisine, which is a lot more than comparable places in Florence can say.

Almost every night we took advantage of the mild winter weather the city was experiencing during our stay to have a drink (or a few), at one of the numerous bars and cafès that feature outdoor seating.  Most of them are enclosed in a kind of heavy duty plastic curtian, and have outdoor heaters, and I was happy to see that the weather doesn't kill the vibe.

This  This post really does't do the city of Paris or my trip there justice.  But it was too intense, emotionally, spiritually, gastronomically, to accurately describe.  The one thing that I feel I have to say is that I have absolutely no clue where the stereotype of rude, nasty, unwelcoming Parisians comes from.  I was greeted with more welcoming smiles, patience, kindness and laughter than I've ever received in Florence.  And the baguette was better than the schiacciata.  

   

Mandatory Eiffel Tower selfie.