A Delightful Episode of Sensory Overload: Istanbul

One week in Istanbul was not enough time to visit all that my friend and I wanted to see and do. Relaxation time was not in our schedule, nor our vocabulary.  Despite our racing about, I remember well the genuine and kind-hearted people we met.


I remember also sitting on the rooftop terrace at our guesthouse for one or two hours one afternoon under a grapevine canopy overlooking the Sea of Marmara with the sea breeze on my face while sipping Turkish tea, resting my weary feet ... finally absorbing all that touched my senses.  What a wonderful people, culture, city, and holiday.  I must return.


I hope my photos below capture the wonder I felt and help re-create, for you, the magic that is Istanbul, Turkey...

View of Galata Tower from the Golden Horn of the      Bosphorus Strait

Hagia Sophia (first a church, then a mosque, now a museum)

Making bread and Turkish pancakes

How many different kinds of baklava are there?

Another Turkish yummy.  Looks like birds' nests to me.

Selling melon

Passing the church/mosque mosaic

Mohammed and Omed, two new and young friends

Pistachio baklava

A "shish" lunch.

Spice bazaar

Turkish Pinocchio

A young friend anxious to grow into her shoes

Marble Halvah straight from the source!

Fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice in abundance in Istanbul

Corn on the cob

Smoking the nargile

On the Bosphorus looking at Asia heading towards the      Black Sea

Nuts, I just like the foto

Selling Simit, which is like a sesame bagel that ran into a pretzel

"Yaya yolu" is a funny way to say "pathway"

Sugar cubes, a necessity for Turkish coffee and tea

Skyline of minarets

Bitter melon reappears even more colorful than before    (See my earlier post)

I know it seems I ate my way through Istanbul, but I really did go to many monuments.

Turkish rugs and kilims

Among my many amazing experiences this holiday was shopping for a rug. I went to Turkey with the intention to buy one, and yet, I just might be one of the few tourists to return home without a rug.  

Roots

Two years ago today Mabel and I said goodbye to L.A. and hello to Florence, Italy, when we boarded the plane for our flight to our new home.

Leaving Los Angeles, one last ride in our car

I worried about her traveling for so long in the cargo hold below me: the noise, darkness, items shifting about.  After all, my brother's dog, Sparky, made a similar flight from L.A. to Brugge, Belgium, a few years earlier.  He went deaf from the flight but enjoyed the best year of his life living in Europe.  A dog's life is pretty good here because people in Europe welcome dogs to go almost everywhere.  No need to leave them behind anywhere.


Mabel is a real trooper.  She acclimated immediately to her new environs.  Never will I forget the picture I keep in my head when two airport employees hand-delivered Mabel to me, still in her crate, at the Florence airport.  She was pert and alert.  In the taxi ride to our new digs, Mabel rooted her tushy to the seat of the car between the taxi driver and me as she extended herself as tall as possible to look over the dashboard and out the window at all she would soon get to explore. She quickly spotted sights and smells centuries old that she filed away for future exploration.  

Jetlagged, Mabel naps with her baby after arriving to Italy

Mabel is a lucky girl.  Everyone does their part to spoil her, and she is adored by all.


It can be an exciting and scary adventure to uproot yourself from everyone you know and everything that is familiar and comfortable and transplant yourself to a different country with a foreign language. To move to and live in a city that welcomes thousands of tourists every day makes getting close to the locals even more of a challenge because the locals measure their roots by generations, not days. Why invest in a friendship with people who come but do not stay?


Not every day is la dolce vita (the sweet life/the good life), of course, but the obstacles and challenges are, for me, worth the deeply felt gratitude, joy, and happiness I now experience. Sure, I continue to find my way here.  Slowly and con calma, everything begins to fall into place.  The life of the expat has its own process and rigors to endure -- many days present new and different challenges -- but its objective remains true to our passion: to arrive safely on the other side of the wide chasm that separates our past lives from the future we envision and strive to create.

Radici (Roots)

My roots grow deeper as I make Florence, Italy, my home.

Giving Blood

Not as a blood donor but for analysis, I gave up several tubes of blood this morning.  As a private party, I visit a private clinic where women in navy blue dresses resembling flight attendants greet you at the door and escort you to the counter where you are helped and issued a receipt listing the services to be performed.  A consultation with a doctor is provided, if desired or necessary.


Actually, I feel more like I am in a private villa than in a medical laboratory clinic.  The building is lovely, filled with antique furniture and original artwork.  Each painting has a label indicating the artist.  I recognize many original works by Boccaccio.  You wait to see a doctor or to be called for your lab work in small rooms with homey furniture as opposed to medical appliances and commercial furniture.


The phlebotomist asks if I fasted.  I tell her yes and "non vedo l'ora" (I can't wait) until I will enjoy a coffee and breakfast since I am starving. Following the blood draw, I am escorted back to the studio and told to wait ten minutes when breakfast will be brought to me.  What?!  They serve me breakfast?  My plan is to stop at the nearest bar for a cappuccino and eat when I return home.  Fewer than ten minutes later, a woman rolls in a linen-covered table upon which sit a sterling silver vase with a fresh rose, Florentine china holding a pot of caffe Americano alongside a pitcher of hot milk, blood red orange juice, and a continental-style breakfast.  The container that holds packets of sugar and sugar substitutes is sterling.  I have to turn it over to look, which I also do with the china and not because I am a snob but because I am surprised at the level of attention to detail that is provided.  Even the doilies are linen.  Actually, I feel embarrassed to be treated so well at a clinic.

For the average Italian, the private medical system is too expensive.  I admit the total lab work I do is not inexpensive.  But even with my private health insurance in California, I am accustomed to a price more than double today's price for the same tests.  And that is my out-of-pocket expense, not what I would owe after insurance pays their small portion and my $400-a-month premium, before the premium increased an ungodly percentage this past January.


The entire episode from the minute I walk in the door, order and pay for my lab work, wait, have the blood drawn, and have breakfast is under 30 minutes.  Efficient.  And that's not all.  The results for the majority of the exams are available the same day after 12:30 p.m. either by returning to the clinic or having the results faxed or emailed to you.  And for privacy (think HIPAA), you are issued a codice (code) to access your results.


Last fall, visiting another Tuscan town with family that visited from the States, we had a need for an ambulance.  Two ambulances and six paramedics arrived within minutes, and treatment began immediately.  No questions were asked about the name of the patient, health insurance information, means of payment, et cetera.  Treatment was rendered, period.  In the end, it may be a tie as to who was in more shock:  the three of us at the way the system worked and medical attention was No. 1 or the six paramedics at our amazement that they wanted no payment, no insurance, no tip, nothing.


I am not saying one system is better, just different. I like what I have experienced so far with the Italian health system. With treatment and services that made me feel a bit like a queen today, I just may return tomorrow morning. I remain impressed.

Changes

Most of us resist change.  I do.  I do not want to let go, give up the familiar or comfortable for the unknown and uncertain.  Personal experience teaches me that usually any change will be even better than what I hold on to.  Nonetheless, change is frightening.

A sunflower in its prime before its passage

 to its next beautiful stage of life

I am now a wee bit beyond the big Five-Oh and struggle with graceful acceptance of the changes I see in my body.  Emotionally, I am a mere twenty-something.  Physically, I am -- well, I won't say.  But I am at the age when my body goes through many changes faster than I can recognize them. Silent passage I think is what people call it.  I am not ready!  There are too many items I still want to do in my current stage of life.  This stage of the aging process signifies some things I do not want to have to consider.


I know very little about this stage of life I enter. Somehow I thought I would be exempt, that these physiological changes would not happen to me. Guess what?  It is time for me to come off my comfy, puffy, pillowy cloud of denial.  The time is now to stop resisting, holding on so tight, and to begin to let go and accept what is happening.  I can do whatever is in my power to retard the aging process, have fun, and keep my body in motion.  As for my mind and emotional self, it is time to be even more rooted in who I am, develop those qualities that matter most to me -- past, present, and future -- and practice being more kind, compassionate, and self-accepting.  Life is a process, a fact that makes more sense as I get older.

How do you welcome change in your life?

Satisfying Heart, Soul, and Belly in Florence, Italy

You know that sharing my experience and knowledge of Italy in general and Florence in particular is something I love to do, if you have been reading my blog. Every now and then, though, I am embarrassed or disappointed when my sharing does not go off so swell.  You know those times when you take your friends or family to a favorite restaurant, but it turns out to be an off night and the service is less than usual and you know your guests are unhappy or even displeased.  Perhaps the waiter forgets to place the order of someone's pasta dish, or the food comes out one plate at a time and lukewarm. That type of thing happens, of course; so I become a bit reluctant to share my beloved favorite places.  We all do.

Sweet pleasures

For the love of cappuccino

The other evening I passed a woman on the street whom I overheard asking in English to her husband, "Should we just ask someone?" I spoke up, as I usually do, and offered my assistance.  The woman was delighted and receptive.  They wanted to have a good meal, and I sent them to one of my all-time favorite restaurants in Florence. And off they went. I hoped my recommendation would prove just the place they sought...

This morning while Mabel and I were on our morning walk, that woman was standing at the base of Ponte Vecchio on the Oltrarno side staring at me. I didn't recognize her. She spoke up, "You are the woman who sent us to the restaurant for dinner, aren't you?"

Uncertain whether her experience was good or bad, I responded with hesitation, "Most likely. Where did I send you, and how was the food?"

The girls at OSP

She replied that throughout their dinner, she told her family that she wanted to find me and kiss me.  The family loved their food, the service, the locale, and the piazza. And they loved that they were the only American family there, or so they believed.

Osteria Santo Spirito

Osteria Santo Spirito is one I happened upon in 2003, my first time in Italy.  I was attracted because of the energy and atmosphere, and, all these years later, I keep coming back because the food is that good.  It is simple, not fancy, elegant, nor expensive.  The food is authentic and, oh, so delicious, though many tourists now know about it. (I am certain the fact that I direct nearly every tourist there that asks me for a dinner recommendation and each friend I take there ends up adopting the trattoria as their own adds to the number of tourists that eat there.)

Amy with risotto zucchini

As we were talking, the rest of her clan showed up - they are a family of 8 from Minnesota - and she told her family, "I found her; I found her. This is the woman that told us where to have dinner two nights ago."

Chitarra

A young girl about 9 years old asked her mother if she had kissed me yet. And the little girl told me she loved her spaghettata (spaghetti meal).  I inquired which pasta dish she ordered and realized it was the chitarra (guitar).  I explained to her the reason that particular homemade spaghetti is called chitarra is because, when the fresh pasta is being made, it resembles the strings of a guitar as it comes out of the pasta machine.  She immediately grasped the connection, and her face lit up having that little bit of new information to take home with her. They all piped in, speaking at the same time, saying they needed me for other recommendations the last two days and wished they had had my phone number. 

Mango, fragola, lampone gelato?

Local gelato supporters

Today is their last day in Florence.  They asked me about gelato.  I volunteered a lesson on the real stuff (gelato, that is) and sent them in the direction of Cantina del Gelato.

Getting coned

The ultimate compliment for me is the genuine feedback I receive and happiness I witness in others as a result of sharing my passion and experience. It's so simple and pleasurable that it makes me want to sing.

Art and Yoga in Florence, Italy

What attracts me most to the sculpture Costellazione (constellation) in front of Palazzo Pitti is the apparent yoga asana (pose, posture) she is in, Tarasana (star pose).  Tarasana is a grounding pose, allowing us to internalize our awareness.  

Whether accidental or intentional by the artist, the similarity to the asana, the name of the sculpture, the diamond/star shapes in her body paint, I do not know. Actually, I do not believe in accidents nor coincidences. Everything happens for a reason, and, no matter our perception, it happens for our own good.  

The Roman-born artist Rabarama, also known as Paola Epifani, currently has several sculptures on display throughout Florence, Italy. 

Nostalgia / Homesick

After five days' travel in the nearby regions of Le Marche and Umbria and a week-long absence from Mabel, my dog, who enjoyed her own holiday with an Italian family, we are again reunited.  Mabel stays close to me and tells me when she wants to be petted and just how and where to carezzarla (to pet her).  She is by nature a non-demanding little girl, but today she has no qualms asking for exactly what she wants and needs.  I love her style.

Crossing the central Apennino mountains

Meanwhile, it has been my desire to see every square inch, or centimeter, of Italy since I first fell in love with this amazing place.  However, this trip, I observed something out of character.

Fermignano (Le Marche)

Urbino (Le Marche)

Urbino (Le Marche)

I was homesick.

Abundance of sweet, fresh cherries

Castello della Pieve (Le Marche)

I have no memory of ever being homesick.  I have traveled on my own, without my folks, since I was a fairly small child, and I do not ever remember looking forward to going back home.  I always found it interesting when people say what a great trip they had, "but there is no place like home.  Home Sweet Home."    Only one time a few years ago do I remember being excited to return to Los Angeles, and that was because I was dating someone I was pretty crazy about and could not wait to see him again.

Urbino (Le Marche), Italy

Mercatale sul Metauro (Le Marche)

Sant'Angelo in Vado (Le Marche)

Only five days away from home this time, yet every day I longed for my home.  I missed my people; Mabel; my daily rituals and routines (never thought I would say that); my bed, a matrimoniale (two twin beds zipped together and not long enough for my altezza (height) but I missed it nonetheless); my yoga mat and hoop; certain routes I take; certain people I see daily; a certain someone who gives me a juicy kiss.

Gubbio (Umbria) (above 2 fotos)

I could not help but wonder:  What is wrong with me?  What happened to my sense of adventure and my love for exploration?  Maybe it had to do with the space I was in. This was a first for me.

Amicizia (friendship)

 Lifelong friends and local men of  Mercatale sul Metauro (Le Marche)

Old bridge and house at Mercatale sul Metauro

Without needing to figure it all out, what I observed this past week confirms for me that home is where the heart is, and Florence, Italy, is my home.  

Growing old together

Gubbio (Umbria)

I am home!

My Dog, Mabel, Leaves for her Holiday in Campi Bisenzio, Florence, Italy

written by La Mamma Ansiosa

Today Mabel packed her suitcase -- a blue Ikea bag filled with her favorite things, food, and toiletries -- and has left to begin her week-long vacation with a family in Campi Bisenzio, a suburb of Florence, Italy. Her adopted Italian family for the week includes the two cutest 2 and 5 year olds, Niccolo and Sara, with gorgeous giant globes for eyes.  It is like summer language camp.  Mabel will have a week of immersion and return home with a much stronger understanding of the Italian language and culture.  (I want to go to summer camp too.) The little girl arrived with a couple of her stuffed animals to take Mabel to her house.  I do hope Sara will hold on tight to her toys because Mabel has a thing about hoarding other dogs' and children's toys.  She places them under her neck and all around her body, and when the dog or child wants one of their toys back, Mabel just looks at them very smuggly as if to say "haahaa, you can't have it" while the other wimpers and cries afraid to reclaim the toy.

Mabel sprawled out on two of her beds on a hot day

I hope Mabel and her host family will enjoy many adventures and lots of fun together.

Mabel was unaware that she is going on vacation and that I will not join her.  After the children were buckled into their car seats, Mabel climbed into the back of the SUV and settled in.  We closed the door after many kisses.  My heart broke as they all drove off.  Mabel looked at me, her eyes fixed on me, not understanding why I was left behind.  The look in her eyes was as though she thought that would be the last time she would ever see me.

I cried.  

But meanwhile, there is the mommy, La Mamma Ansiosa.  That would be me. I am in favor of Mabel going off and exploring new things, but she is still my baby.  

A giant sea separates attachment and detachment. Letting go is very painful for those of us who suffer from our attachments.  But in this case, I know we will soon see each other again in just under a week.  

Non vedo l'ora. I can't wait / I look forward to it.