Dead Poet's Society...no...really

The "garden"

The other day I started out wandering towards the Far East side of Florence. Regardless of the fact that it was drizzly and rather overcast, I still deemed it a fine day to explore. Everything seemed quieter and oddly more it its place, despite of the weather conditions. I found myself inside a bizarre little garden area of sorts and this began to set the scene for the rest of my day.

Though marked a garden, it really was more like a getaway. I couldn’t help but feel like Alice in Wonderland as I made my way through the gate into an area just full of vegetation. The pebble path was lined with shrubs and trees of varying sizes. Perhaps the most jarring thing was the table with a fluorescent-checkered tablecloth on it. It had an indistinguishably purposed gargoyle of sorts atop it, and below the table was a bowl full of, now, cat food soup. I believe this is Giardino Della Gherardesca, though on this dreary Thursday it was utterly abandoned. The odds that this was not Giardino Della Gherardesca and that I actually roamed somebody's back yard are fairly high. Wandering about the “garden” for a bit, I left it in a weird daze. After walking into the nooks and crannies Florence has to offer, I seem to understand Fellini better with each encounter.

The fog was thickening, though this still didn’t mean it was time to end my adventures for the day. Walking down a rather main road, Via Gramsci near Piazza Donatello, I saw in the distance a striking cemetery. It was very large and elevated off the main surroundings. Despite the fact that it is encircled by major roads on all sides, it still looked like a place of solitude and tranquility. And thus, I attempted to find a way into this cemetery. Crossing the lanes of traffic proved to be rather difficult, especially due to the rain, but after several near-death experiences on my way to the cemetery, I managed to make it.

Large iron gates welcomed me as I headed up the path to a gatehouse. The narrow archway houses a tiny office, outside of which there are many free postcards and various pamphlets of information regarding the cemetery. I managed to happen upon a cemetery for English poets who died in Florence. Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s words are engraved on a stunning sign stating, “and here among the English tombs/ in Tuscan ground we lay her./ While the blue Tuscan sky endomes/ our English words of prayer." Among the buried are E. Barrett Browning, Arthur Clough, Walter Savage Landor, and Theodore Parker—the American preacher. While none of these names were of any great particular recognition to me, the existence of an English poet’s cemetery of Swiss property in Florence was rather intriguing.

In 1827 the construction of Cimitero Protestante di Porta a Pinti began. The Catholics weren’t pleased at all with this in the least, and thus after the first burial services the graves were destroyed. I would like to know what the upturned poet's would write about their tumultuous end. Though, soon the cemetery began to grow in acceptance as well as size. Now, there are 1,409 people of 16 nations buried in the English Cemetery.

Walking around in the rain was an eerie experience. The graves were all slick and shiny and not a soul was to be seen. The paths lead around the perimeter of the graveyard, though one cuts through the center. I wish I could have wandered about freely amongst the tombs and mausoleums, but I understand why this isn’t the most plausible thing.

It was frustrating to be able to read only the graves immediately along the path, though these proved to be rather interesting. Some of them dated back to the beginnings of the cemetery, while others were surprisingly recent marking deaths around the later half of the 20th century.
The last burial was held in 1877. After the demolition of the Porte a Pinti and the city walls it became illegal to have a place of burial inside a town, according to Code Napoleon. Subsequently, for 130 years the cemetery was utterly neglected. It wasn’t until recently that it began being restored and rejuvenated…or as much as a cemetery can be rejuvenated. From what I understood, what is now a library was once the house of Beatrice and Claude Shakespeare.

While I’m sure the entire adventure of mine would have had a vastly different feel had it been a sunny day, I rather enjoyed the uncanny nature of it all. I would almost recommend going on a hazy day. It seems fitting.

That's Amore: A Reflection on Valentine's Day

‘Twas the night before V-Day, when all ‘cross the land

Not a creature was happy, not woman nor man;

The hearts were hung by the chimney with care

In hopes that St. Valentine soon would be there;

The students were nestled right tight in their beds,

While visions of chocolates danced in their heads.

And roommates in their jammies, and I in my sweats,

Had just wagered all of our Valentine's bets.

When out in the courtyard arose such loud chaos,

I sprang from bed to see who may want to date us.

Away to the window I jumped to right quick,

Peered through broken blinds, did the window trick.

The moon on the breast of the old, dirty snow

Gave the idea of LI as you come or you go.

When, what to my sleep-deprived eyes should appear,

But a miniature man, and eight tiny heart spears.

With a little small diaper, so awkward and white,

I knew it was Cupid this Feb'rary night.

More rapid than heartbeats his insults they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called out mean names;

"Now, Lonely! Now, Single! Now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Clingy! On Stupid! On, Love-struck and Smitten!

To boxes of chocolates! To flowers short and tall!

Now cry in bed! Cry in bed! Cry in bed, all!"

As dry as the flowers saved from last year's Valentine,

When Cupid meets with the humans, he ne'er doth refine.

So up to the many--the singles and dating,

With arrows of sharpness, was St. Valentine waiting.

And then, in a moment, I heard in my cab'net

The chewing and swal'wing of chocolates now wet.

As I drew in my head, and was turning to see,

Cupid shot me with an arrow and laughed giddily.

He was dressed in a rag, from his hip to his thigh,

And he began to explain, and started on why.

A bundle of arrows he had flung on his back,

And he looked like an archer with a heart that was black.

His eyes- how they're hollow! His hair how curly!

His wings were so creepy, his lashes so girly!

His droll little mouth was drawn like the devil's,

Cupid then told me how to get on his level.

The tale that he told was of grandeur but truth,

And the words that he said all had plenty of proof.

He had a round face and a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed as he continued to tell me:

The lovers get a day of chocolates and flowers,

The cynics get a day of black shirts and scours.

A wink of his eye as he ate my last treat,

He told me the point's to indulge in the sweets.

Be it sweethearts or Sweet Hearts to each their fun,

You see Valentine's Day discriminates none.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, out the front door he chose.

He flew with his wings, as he turned and gave me a whistle,

And away he then flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he flew out of sight,

"Happy V-Day to all, and to all a good fight."


I like to think of Valentine's Day as a Groundhog's Day for people. Your heart wakes up, comes out of its cavern, exposed to the staring people it waits for the verdict. Is there a shadow, or will it be a very long winter ahead?

Though this may come as a surprise, I actually really enjoy Valentine's Day. It is a day in which cynics, despite their words saying otherwise, truly are most themselves. Despite plethora of chocolates and barren hearts in every window, the cynics still find a way to complain.

I would argue that Valentine's Day is, in fact, is their most favorite holiday of all. It allows for them to be in truest form. Nobody is allowed to be contemptuous on Christmas. Nobody gets to be resentful on Thanksgiving. Valentine's Day is the perfect holiday! Best yet---they're gaining followers!

This being said, every bitter person on Valentine's Day is likely a bitter person most other days of the year. Thus, this is just another day—but with lots more readily available chocolates and a lack of remorse upon consumption.

And so, those who believe in things like "romance" and reasoning such as, "because I love you," this is a day for you. You, like the cynics, get to be more yourself than ever. Indulge in the flowers of suitors and the kisses galore. For those who have somebody to share this holiday with, even better.

Though, would those who love Valentine's Day love it any more if they were single, or would they be the ones yet sending out Yahoo's Valentine's Day e- cards and buying catnip in a heart shape for their cats?

Valentine's Day revolves around chocolate and people showing their true colors—be it pink, red or black. Now I hope you enjoyed my excessive poem I wrote in a reflection on Valentine's Day.

I Always End Up At Feminist Gatherings Wearing Flannel

Today was laundry day. I was down to my last flannel and weird jeans, but I figured I didn't have much to do today but read the Odyssey. Putting on my chic Italian wear, I remembered we were told there was a rally today. Our advisor had emailed all of us, essentially,to essentially, tell us not to go. Taking the email as a welcomed invitation I wandered out of my apartment on the drizzly Sunday to see what this was all about.

As it was the middle of the afternoon and I figured most protesters are early risers, I didn't have much hope of finding the rallyers still rallying. This was not the case. After walking a block I heard chanting. They were marching towards the Duomo. Hundreds upon hundreds of people were banging pots and pans and chanting and marching towards the duomo. WHAT?! This was not what I expected. I find people sending back wrong orders at restaurants outright audacious, the fact that now thousands of people were protesting outside this marvelous basilica was downright baffling.

I wasn't entirely sure what they were protesting, I just knew there were a lot of women with headbands chanting in Italian. They meant business. Several people soon walked by waving giant rainbow flags. Unaware both the point of this rally, and the fact that the rainbow flag was an international symbol, this piqued my interest.

Last semester for the newspaper it seemed as though I was assigned every LGBT event and feminist gathering possible. If there were empowered women taking a stand, there I was in my flannel. While I'm not actually gay, ("not that there's anything wrong with that") I do dabble in the plaid and will admit I would marry Ellen. Fitting most lesbian stereotypes, except the whole liking women thing, I found it comical that--despite no longer being a Chronicle photographer, and no longer being assigned Hofstra LGBT events, I still managed to find myself with a camera amidst crowds of empowered women taking a stand.

I later realized, the main point of this was not solely a gay pride/acceptance demonstration, but rather a demonstration for women. The women (and men, kids, and several puppies) of Italy decided to take a stand against Berlusconi. They argued he is degrading of women and he is humiliating females. Allegedly, the Premier paid a 17 year old for sex. (Also, another fun fact I learned today--prostitution isn't illegal in Italy.) The fact that Burlusconi (supposedly) had sex with a minor is overall a disgrace to the nation and a abomination to the women of Italy. It is a reflection of the fact that the Premier lacks respect for women and does not regard them as equals. I'm curious if this protest still would have happened had the girl been 18...but that's neither here nor there.

I decided to run back to my apartment to grab my other camera and Flip (because every real film major chooses The Flip). Making my way back I managed to get an exorbitant amount of footage of women of varying ages wearing handcrafted headbands, pumping signs (which may have been clever, I wish I could tell) and clanging household objects together. I'm not sure if it was meant to be symbolic that the women were marching holding pots and pans, or just convenient instruments. Either way, it was very effective.

I managed to end up morphing into the mob and marching with the masses. This was oddly moving. I had no idea what I was walking for, but I knew that this was something a lot of people felt passionately about. I figured I wasn't joining a communist gathering (as that rally was yesterday). Walking and hearing the chanting and seeing all the people so moved to action really stirred something in me. I wish I could've learned their catchy songs.

After many many "scusa"s, I made my way to the very heart of the rally. I was feet from a woman with a megaphone calling the people to action. Despite the fact that I couldn't really understand much more than "women", "enough" and "Berlusconi," I still understood the basic form of the rally. The ideas were all there, the words were all there--but what was most effective was the passion and emphasis behind the words. Regardless of the language, political party, or even gender, this rally brought together the people of Italy in attempt to vocalize the contempt and disgust at the current state of affairs in Italy.

I liked being at the very center of things. Again, I'm not entirely sure how the tiny American girl-with-camera made it to the heart of the rally, but I was pretty excited all the same. I took a bunch of pictures, and a lot of video. I plan to make a short video of the rally, though it proved to be a lot harder than anticipated to make a documentary when you can't speak the language.

All in all, I'm glad I left my house in my flannels and reject jeans. Though it was laundry day at my apartment--a rather big day, today proved to be an even bigger day for Italy. Also, I saw a group of sad women on a side street holding a sign that said "STOP KILL" with a picture of a whale with blood coming out of its blowhole. Viva Italia.

Cheese Whiz

The cheeses and The Cheese Man


Week One Cheeses


I like to think I know my cheeses. There are few things I love more in life than a nice slice of extra sharp cheddar on a Triscuit. While this should probably say something about my life, I don't read that much into it. The other day my apartmentmate told me she realized my main food groups are "cereal, chocolate, cheese...and vegetables." The vegetables part was more or less tacked on--the main food categories in my life are the Three Cs. Cereal, chocolate and cheese make up about 90% of my diet. Perhaps a hyperbole, but the exaggeration isn't nearly as grand as compared to that of a normal person.

That being said, Italy is proving to be a bit of a microcosm of Michaela happiness. There was fair warning that this blog would be largely dedicated to "photography, puns, chocolate and cheese." As you could guess from the cheesy title, I'm about to tell about my cheese endeavors.

On of the first days here I went to the central market, not five minutes from my apartment. One cheese counter alone in the market was enough to leave me awkwardly gawking and drooling in awe as The Cheese Man continued to ask me what I would like. Tempted to say "tutti questo," all of it, I refrained. If only due to the mere selection, I could tell me and The Cheese Man--the man with the cheese, the keeper of the queso, the foreman of formaggio-- would become friends.

I decided the best way to tackle the most cheeses of Italy was not to buy exorbitant amounts and attempt to glut myself on cheese and cheese alone in a one-woman race against expiration dates, but to set up a cheese schedule. Week one, after much deliberation, was mozzarella and parmesan. Excellent choices. I planned to continue buying two NEW cheeses each week. Though, admittedly my pitfall is the fact that on top of week two's choices--provolone and asiago--I still decided it was imperative to also have mozzarella and parmesan on hand. They are now staples of my shelf in the fridge.

The mozzarella is on the top of the list for most delicious things I have ever eaten. It actually melted in my mouth. I decided if I was going to use the cliche, I owed it to myself as an English major to at least test this out. It ACTUALLY melted in my mouth. I put this on every panino and in every bowl of pasta I made until, sadly, I consumed it all. I am not above saying I stood many a night in my kitchen just eating pieces of this magnificently marvelous melt-in-your-mouth mozzarella. I really cannot speak highly enough about it; though, I doubt few if any will question the splendiferousness that is Florence Mozzarella.

Though, for the following weeks mozzarella I opted for the bufalo mozzarella. Not as impressed by any means. It had a tough outer layer of mozzarella and was an odd blend of tacky outside and almost regurgitated-looking inside.

Parmesan, the other choice for week one, was a fabulous one at that. Typically people don't eat slices of parmesan sans bread or something of the like, though this is not the case with Italian paremsan. Eating a shaving of it was actually quiet delicious. Due to the fact that the grater that came with the apartment is covered in rust, I suppose it's a rather good thing that this parmesan is good in slices. In any event, it went very well on just about everything.

Week two proved another winner for cheese choices. I decided provolone and asiago were both good options and therefore my two for the week...on top of buying more mozzarella and parmesan--but those don't count. Despite the selection of those two, I ended up deciding to make stuffed Sicilian zucchini in the middle of the week. This meant ricotta. As you cannot buy it in a block, I don't think it really counts as a cheese choice for the week. Whatever the case may be, I ended up with pounds of ricotta-partially due to my love of ricotta, partially due to my ineptitude with Italian and unwillingness to admit to the misunderstanding.

Either way, the ricotta was delicious. It was salty, but not as salty as what we have in America. The creaminess of it made it blend exceptionally well with the spinach, asiago and sauteed onions and chopped zucchini for the filling. The ricotta also went very well over pasta and vegetables. While writing this I realize I have been discussing my seemingly abundant ingestion of pasta as well. It should be noted that I have just finished my first pound of pasta. Go, self-restraint and tiny pots.

Back to the cheese. The asiago, while slightly disappointing because I got an end piece and thus it had the upsetting dried qualities on half of the chunk, was still a good purchase. It always seems like a bastard child of cheddar, montery jack and parmesan. I actually have no idea, but if I had to take a cheese genealogy guess for asiago, it would be cheddar, montery jack and parmesan. If not, this formaggio fusion should exist.

As provolone is one of my mother's favorite cheeses, I was brought up on the mantra "the stinkier it smells, the better it tastes." I think this only applies to cheese, but regardless this provolone did not smell putrid...how good could it be? The answer to that is very. It was slightly stringy and had several qualities of mozzarella. It had a more meek flavor than the provolone my mom buys, but this may just be due to personal preference and the unavailability of Land O Lakes in Italy. Still, this provolone was very very good. More mild than I'm accustomed to, but delectable nonetheless.

Concluding this chapter in my cheese chronicles, which ended up being vastly longer than anticipated, I bring you to Cheese Week 3. Other than spinning a cheese wheel, I see no way of determining il formaggio prossimo. Perhaps feta or mascarpone. Big decisions lie ahead. Perhaps at the end of this all in May when I've consumed 79% of Europe and my cholesterol is nearing my SAT scores, I will have determined the winner...The Big Cheese.

Fiera del Cioccolato!

WannabeWillyWonka

Any sort of anything in which the primary focus is chocolate sounds good to me. While it's assumed that most females have a weakness for chocolate, I like to think I have a strength for chocolate...or some positive antithesis regarding the stereotype.

Chocolate and I have always had a very close, loving relationship. So, it should go without saying I was more than a little excited when I heard about a chocolate FESTIVAL in Florence. No more than a ten minute walk alongside the river, this chocolate celebration was held in the beautiful Santa Croce Piazza.

Now, as my Italian is currently about that of a three year old bambina, I wasn't entirely sure what a chocolate festival entailed. I understood chocolate and I understood festival...and that was really all I needed. Of what I gathered from the description online, each vendor had to pick a theme and stick to it. Whether or not this is actually true, I don't know--but I like to think it is. Some vendors had chocolate in the shape of every tool, another a giant chocolate-layered kebob, and some focused on tiny insects such as lady bugs.

I also imagined that the point of this festival was actually a competition to see who could create the best things out of chocolate. I pictured giant recreations of The David made entirely of white chocolate, and the duomo sculpted of various chocolates. Sadly, I did not see this...nor am I entirely sure where I got this notion. However, if anybody is looking for a festival competition idea...

The amount of self-restraint I exerted yesterday was large to say the least. I only indulged in purchasing a fruit kebob covered in dark chocolate (because dark chocolate is good for you!) and I bought a bottle of chocolate rum...because how could you not. Essentially, this is chocolate syrup with 17% alcohol content. The saleslady attempted to tell me it is very good on icecream, though I think it is delicious on a bowl of chocolate risociok (Italian Cocoa Pebbles) with milk. Making Italy classier one meal at a time.

There was chocolate in every possible form at this festival. I see it as a learning experience as opposed to a gluttonous consumption of every free sample offered. I'm just trying to soak up the culture as best as possible. If that means taking off my glasses and jacket as I pass by a sample tent for the third time, then so be it. I want to absorb every aspect of this city, and yesterday the chocolate festival helped me better ascertain this goal.

Halfway through this week the vendors switch. I fully intend to make my way back to the chocolate festival at least once. If not to try the fruit fondue, to inquire more about the jars of what looks like chocolate paste.

The more time I spend walking around (...and getting lost) in this city, the more I find festivals and vendors and gatherings of people. I really enjoy the fact that these people are so inclined to celebrate everything and with such specific honoring. Personally, my favorite find thus far is the festival of chocolate. I mean really...how wrong could you go with this?

Florence: The Long Island of Italy

Writing this, I'm in Italy. I'm sitting on my sunny terrace, listening to Italians bicker below and enjoying the 50-degree weather. Suckers. If you know me in the least you know I have a thing for snow. While most have lost both the feeling in your toes and the will to care whether or not your nose is dripping down your face, I'm finding a way to deal with this heat wave.

My roommate is from California, and one of my apartment-mates is from Texas. Both were rather disturbed when I threw open the windows the first morning yelling "it feels like April!" And so, I realized how well living in New York—specifically Long Island, has prepared me for this adventure abroad.

While I attempted to get as far away as possible from "The Island," I've found that I can't leave it. Botched Lost allusion aside, Long Island has managed to prepare me for the frighteningly similar Florence.

As I had said, it is rather warm here…or at least relatively warm. This brings me to my first similarity. No one in Italy or Long Island dresses weather appropriately. Every Italian I see is heavily bundled in poofy jackets and excessive scarves. I can only assume this is why they're not all 900 pounds…they sweat enough in the winter to burn off all the carbs.

This makes me inclined to remember the short shorts/Ugg boot combination running rampant on Long Island. Though, I suppose Italy at least commits to a season. I think everybody in the world would be better off with checking weather.com before getting dressed. Or looking out the window. Either works. Living on Long Island has made me think 45 degrees is warm, and rain only four times a week is a dry week…and thus, Florence has perfect weather.

Secondly, the driving here makes me almost miss the Hempstead Turnpike. Running by Popeye's across six lanes at three am seems safer than walking on the sidewalks anywhere near a main road here. Sidewalks are really more suggested for pedestrians, though they also serve as vehicle lanes and parking lots in Italy. Like New York drivers, the general rules of the road and safety precautions don't apply to Italian drivers. It's terrifying regardless of the continent.

While it's true America runs on Dunkin, I think the world runs on caffeine. Florentine cafés in the morning are intense. If the shots of pure espresso don't wake you up, the atmosphere alone will certainly give you the jolt you need. I can only equate the chaos and intensity with Hofstra's Midnight Breakfast. Florence cafés are like if I were to hold all of the bagels at 9:59 (the not-midnight time Midnight Breakfast is). Something like that.

Things such as Midnight Breakfast and morning lines at Pura Vida have prepared me for nothing else if not the cafes in Florence. They stand at the counter, take shots of espresso, yell something in Italian and leave. On that note, Café on the Quad should seriously consider adapting to the Italian café style of operation.

The similarities continue to grow with each day. Here's hoping this all means when I get back there will be a gelato stand in Bits and wine for 99 cents. While the parmesan packets outside CPK are a nice start, I think Hofstra really has room for improvement in terms of cheese. Luckily, I fully intend to bring back enough formaggio to last the rest of college. Va bene!

While many things of Long Island prepared me for Italy, the unispan simply doesn't compare to San Lorenzo Basilica. Also, I think there's definite room for improvement for Dempster. Step one: mosaics.

All things considered, I guess if I need to be on Long Island, it might as well be in Italy. Alla prossima.

Va bene.

So I’m going to try out the blog thing. I am currently studying in Florence, Italy and figured I should share my experiences. An enthusiast of photography, puns, chocolate and cheese, I think my blog should be read by all.

This first one is more of a test...