On a usual Tuesday morning in Florence, I was able to leave mia casa at around ten after 9, to make it to my 9:30 Italian class. Tuesdays were lucky for me. On any other weekday I left at 8:30 to make it in time for my 8:50 Italian class. Tuesdays were the only day classes were pushed back.
But even for 9:30, I at first dreaded the early rise and shine. 8:50 class did not exist in my Syracuse experience until now (sad, I know). But despite my whining to get up at a decent hour, I fell in love with my morning walk.
Trip Advisor gives a pretty good image of Via Fiesolana, the start of my adventure. After chugging my espresso shot and downing some chocolate cereal or a blood orange, I'd close two massive floor to ceiling doors that seemed to scooch me out. I stepped out onto the cobblestone street and entered a world of poorly parked macchinas and vespas half on the sidewalk, way too many leash-less dogs following their owners, and bicycle riders who never seemed to understand the concept of a brakes. One left turn, passing street sweepers dragging water into the drains, and then a quick right and I was on Borgo Pinti. It was a straight run from there.
I have to give credit to Abe's blog for his perfect capture of this famous street. Although a bit wider than your average Florence "pathway" (I say pathway because I define street as somethings average size cars can actually fit between), the ten minute walk down Borgo Pinti is something I wish I could do everyday. There's nothing like hopping onto the sidewalk when a vespa decides to honk when he is about an inch away from hitting you.
What I miss most is the vendors on the streets everyday. Trying to sell be tissues or umbrellas or little toy trains because I would somehow find a need for them one day. It was fun ignoring their broken English, pretend to be Italian girl. My secret was only revealed in March when I began to wear flip flops and got death stares from every women over 30 strolling to the nearest cafe or on her way back from the market. Side note: Italians only wear warm clothing and open toed shoes when it is officially summer. It could 90 degrees in May, but arms, toes, and legs were deemed socially unacceptable.
In Syracuse, my morning walk is a bit different. I leave from my back door at Ostrom Place and head down a wide alleway only residents know about. I turn left onto Euclid and wait for the obnoxious overly sized bus to turn his wide rear, as I hang out in the middle of Comstock. There's always a line of cars to enter campus from Euclid too, but the drivers always have some sort of issue with the stop sign, rolling there eyes as we cross the street to get to class (this is a school, right?).
There are no vespas, but rather the occasional motorcycles parked in some regulated corner aligned next to one another(they don't believe in free parking here). The occasional South campus bus. Yet there are bikes. Ironically, a lot of the people I see on bikes are those who rode them while studying with me in Florence. They bring the same attitude here: Full speed ahead! Move at the sound of my bell because I will not brake for you.
Instead of students lounging at cafe tables or doing espresso shots at the bars, there is always the endless line at People's Place, located in the basement of Hendrick's Chapel which is guaranteed to make you late for class. But we all remain. It's true, once back in America, I was nothing without my morning cup of hazelnut, size large. How I managed off tea cup size cappuccinos and shot glass espressos, I am not sure. But standing on this line..
yes this line, never really gets old. Bad angle, I know. It was a little awkward whipping out the blackberry like some undercover student in orange attire and snapping a shot of the 22 (exactly) students that stood in front of me. Most were too busy reading the DO or testing how close their face could come to their berry (that is blackberry with a pink or teal cover,) or iphone to even notice my actions.
I laughed to myself thinking how this would never happen in Italy. Two reasons: 1 because no coffee shot would be placed in the basement of a chapel. 2 because people focus more on talking to each other on any line rather than sticking their nose in newspapers and phones. But People's Place is the only coffee shop who's prices compare to Italy's. $1 coffees vs. .50 euro cent cappuccinos= same price, done deal for me.
After putting a lid on my cup, I headed to class. Although the Villa Rosa is no longer the final destination of my walk, I picture it in the middle of SU's Quad, surrounded my lemon trees, orange trees, and palm trees.
My Professora who we called Francesca, is waiting with her high leather boots, tight denim jeans, and flowy oversized sweater to start the day. I enter Bowne Hall-white walls, straight staircases, not winding, and water fountains replace the tiny cafe owned by a nonno and a nonna downstairs.
Bonjourno Ragazzi fades away as "Good morning students" shouts over the Italian slur. It's still all the same language to me.
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