Reality Intrudes

Early this morning, my roommate's phone bleeped out an SMS ( short message system) "we are at war", the message read shortly, And it was then that the world shifted a bit in my eyes, made all the more frightening by this chess game of men. And so hours later, as the last winter's night closed on this beautiful city, I am struck by both man's greatest steps towards Godhood and also his continued decline into devilry.

The message was sent by Jon, another US expat working down in Catania who, like the rest of us insomniacs, had been keeping his eye on the news and had promised to give a ring should things go burnt umber. My apartment hasn't any television reception, probably due to the ancient wiring and as a result, what news we get, comes via print publications or surfing Le Figaro, Al Hayat, La Repubblica, or The Washington Post.

Feeling defeated, even if I knew in advance, that my president hadn't gathered 250,000 American boys and girls into the desert for a day of sunbathing, I had, up until that point, still held on to one remaining shred of naiveté, hoping somehow, that Europe's lack of consensus for this war, could help keep the snarling dogs at bay until some sort of reasonable toy bone could be thrown to one or the other.

Not crying, (what good are tears at this point?) but stunned none-the-less, I began my day. I logged on, reading message after message from friends around the globe. And as I looked at the harsh red ball, repeated in image after image of Baghdad, I couldn't help but be reminded of a similar morning on September 11th that even in its utter difference, gave me that same "this can not be happening" feeling only to be followed by the cold shiver of "oh but it is".

And just like the day the twin towers fell, and the pentagon exploded into smoke and another plane ploughed its nose into the Pennsylvania pastureland, I searched the news like some morbid census taker, weighing out the damage done, like some triage medic trying to see if he can saw off a leg to salvage a soul.

I wanted to see words of our righteousness, how my country was a champion for the downtrodden and if not that then at least the afflicted. And instead, as I scanned line after line of the news bureaus, I could find only man's arrogance, long since bolstered by political rhetoric. The stories I read appeared sanitized and anticipatory. As if mankind isn't capable of understanding right from wrong, unless it is cleaned up a bit and made to smell of roses.

I found more reality speaking by phone to friends and family or reading hastily written e-mails as throughout the day and on into the night, people checked in with me just to say hi or to reach out because at least in speaking we didn't seem to be going it alone.

There were words of concern and sadness from Tina in the backwaters of my Tennessee, and angry apathy from Mohamed in Cairo. My former colleagues in DC spoke with frustrated irony (having long since soured on Washington's spin doctors) and my roommate gnashed her teeth and said a curse or two as each of us voiced the pain we felt. Lastly there was fear and concern from my family, wanting gentle assurances that being an expat in Italy, I wouldn't somehow be targeted simply for being an American.

But here in Florence I find that the tourists still flock and take pictures of our churches. And the bus drivers strike, although now in war protest. My ex and I continue to have bitter disagreements that even an ocean apart cannot quiet and I still hear "Ciao, come stai ?????" every morning at my favorite cafe where they give no importance to my being an American or the fact that my Italian sucks.

Yes, things remain the same here in my little piece of Tuscany, like the constant of waves. But like I said earlier, my naiveté is gone. As much as this place is my sanctuary, I can't outrun my past in Italy. And as beautiful and constant as she is, reality intrudes.

Throwing Grosetto to the Lions

Attended my very first Florentine soccer match yesterday. Along with 3000 of my closest friends, I merged into the steady throng of afternoon revelers, after downing a quick post-pranzo coffee at the little gelateria in the piazza near my house. I think I am becoming addicted to Sicilian Pistachio….but that is another story.

Resembling salmon, on our way to spawn, we all wriggle our way up Viale de Mille towards the same common goal, the slightly worn, “D shaped cement bowl which is the gem of Tuscany’s sporting extravaganza……Il Stadio!!!!!!! The people around me, men and boys mostly, with an occasional dedicated girlfriend or spouse, are jovial and good spirited. And even if this young Florentine team is ranked in a lower division than her bankrupt older sister, Viola seems to be holding her own with respect to suitors and admirers

Without a ticket, I am not even sure I will get in, but the sky is blue and the sun bakes nicely warm upon my cheeks, so warm that by the time I walk the twenty minutes it takes to get there, I am already shedding my coat and scarf. Spring has arrived to Florence a bit early, and the city is still awash in yellow flowers picked by everyone the day before for woman’s day.

All around me there are purple flags and scarves, all gladly proclaiming that despite the mistakes of the previous team financiers, the Florentine fans are loyally proud of their place in Italian soccer history. So much so, in fact, that after standing in the tightest queue every seen, I just barely manage to purchase one of the few remaining nosebleed tickets before the box office closes, sold out.

As I wind my way up the circular stairs to the top of the stadium, I am reminded of the sounds a bee colony makes. That constant hum one hears just outside the woods that tells you that somewhere just ahead, you will come up upon a hive. Following the buzz, I round the top of the stairs just in time to see Grosetto’s players, Florence’s competitor in this match, come out on the field.

Almost immediately the atmosphere changes and I begin to understand, even if 2000 years late, just what the gladiators must have felt, walking out into the coliseum sunlight to the roar of its bloodthirsty onlookers. And while there isn’t any true malevolence here, the mood is definitely set. This isn’t just fun and games, this is Italian soccer and every match played, means a step up or down in the hotly contested rankings where a player’s fast and agile feet can bring him the smiles of pretty young girls, sportive endorsements, and a pocketful of euros.

As the game begins on the field, so too, does the show in Fiesole curve, the cheap seat season ticket section, where Florence’s most loyal (if not wealthy) supporters put on a show surely rival to even the opening of the Olympic Games. With timed precision, their banners spell out both words of encouragement and crude innuendo. And smiling with new awareness I begin to understand what friends meant when they say “if you want to learn the Italian language, the stadium is a place to get the basics!”

And so I sit and listen and add new polish to my list of curses outlining the male anatomy and what someone’s mother can do for a side business when not selling bread.

The players are matched pretty evenly and Grosetto scores first, leaving the home team to play fast catch up if they are to save face. Not to disappoint, and in less than three minutes, Viola ties up the match one: one. Like sardines in a can, to my left are three misplaced Grosetto fans, trapped in a sea of screaming purple. They grunt in disgust while the rest of us hoot and make rude hand gestures, (me amongst them) happy to now be in a dead heat instead of lagging behind, a team most Florentine’s feel is the equivalent to a recreational church league.

And so the game progresses, with strategically placed epitaphs, purple smoke, loud rhythmic drumming and occasionally, the kick of a soccer ball. For the focal point of this big event isn’t just about the sport of soccer. Its about the coming together of a community, a way for differences and social classes and religious beliefs to be set aside and for one brief afternoon, everyone in the city remains united and in agreement.

Some say the folks in Florence will turn their backs on this small little upstart team. That as time progresses, the more jaded, hard core fans will form loyalties to the bigger fish, trading in their purple passion for jerseys from other big league cities. I say if you believe that, then you surely don’t know the mentality of the Italian in his native element and you certainly haven’t been to Florence on a Sunday afternoon, sat in her sunny stadium or been bitten by the purple flu……for once she’s in an Etruscan’s veins their blood flows no other color.