The Florence Diaries

There’s a reason they call it an art–and if you’re looking for the masters, just come to Italy.

This month, my favorite band of miscreant bloggers (or as you probably know them, the members of C.O.S.I) have tackled an immensely complicated subject–the concept of furbizia or as I like to call it, being a con-artist.  As you may know, being furbo is quite the complement in Italy–indeed, the more furbo you are, the more likely you are to be praised by your peers and regarded in high esteem.  So what is being furbo? Aside from the general definitions of cleverness or craftiness, it basically implies a willingness to do or say whatever you want in order to get what you desire.  If you’re still unsure of the meaning, just google Silvio Berlusconi, Italy’s #1 furbo, and you’ll start to get the picture.

It’s hard for me to fully explain my feelings on the matter, mostly because I rarely recognize when I am being conned until it’s too late.  Growing up in a white suburban middle-class neighborhood, the only experience I ever had with furbi was in the form of these bad boys:

You would think that after 7 years in Italy, finally being able to recognize when I am being conned would make me the most bitter anti-furbo person on the planet, but the truth is that I understand why this is such a popular behavior.  Living in a country where being honest has more disadvantages than advantages, it’s pretty easy to fall into the predictable patterns of con-artistry, especially if you are being encouraged by your Italian counterparts who praise you for your intellect and skill while weaseling your way through life.  I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been scolded by Italian friends for paying the full amount for a mediocre meal, or not cutting the line at the first glimpse of an opening.  And I would be lying if I said that I had never employed my own version of furbizia from time to time–I am only human, after all, and a woman so obviously I know how to get what I want.  Luckily, I find a perverse satisfaction in doing things in the most difficult way possible so there is no danger in me becoming Mrs. Furba anytime soon, but I can definitely see the attraction in behaving so shamelessly.

In short, Italy has taught  me some important life lessons when it comes to trickery and guile. However, my parting words for anyone thinking to pull a fast one on me would be this:  Karma’s a bitch. You’ve been warned.

Check out other musings on furbizia from C.O.S.I here:

Girl In Florence- Why Being Furbo in Italy Is Anything But Cool
Rick’s Rome- What Does It Mean To Be Furbo?
Surviving in Italy- Furbizia: The Italian Art of Being Sly
Englishman in Italy- Furbizia
Unwilling Expat- The Complexity of Italy’s Cheating Heart
Sex, Lies & Nutella- Tourists Beware: Fighting Furbizia in Italy
Married to Italy- Furbizia–A Blessing or a Burden? 

Dear Internet Diary,

How are you? I know it’s been too long since we’ve last spoken–so much has happened in the past month or so that it’s hard to pick a good place to start, but we both know that finesse is not my strongest quality so I don’t think you’ll mind too much if I jump right in.

After a long few weeks of searching for apartments from the internet-less cave of F’s parent’s house, we finally managed to find a place of our own and move in. Of course my stomach decided to choose Moving Day as the perfect time to stage a WWF fight inside my body, so I spent most of the day lying on the bathroom floor while Zola hid between the boxes in our new living room to get away from the Exorcist sounds I was making.  Perhaps not the most ideal way to spend our first night in our new apartment, but I did discover that my bathroom is in fact awesome and totally prepared to handle my future hangovers.

It’s been a painfully long transition into spring here. My winter coats and sweaters are still hanging in my closet, and each morning as I get dressed I glance longingly at the plastic storage container where my trusty pair of Rainbow flip-flops lie, sighing as I pull on my worn black boots and puffy jacket to go to work.  Even though I know that in a few months I’ll be complaining about the heat and the infestation of mosquitoes that terrorize the city each summer, it all seems so far away and impossible that my patience has completely vanished.  I find myself angrily throwing scarves and tights into the far corners of my bedroom, as though it is their fault that the sun refuses to stick around for good.

To be honest, the lack of sunshine isn’t the only thing weighing on my mind. Although I’ve been in Italy for about 7 years now, this year has been particularly difficult and I find myself questioning every new decision that I make. Nearly all of my closest friends have left Florence this year and moved back home, in a bold statement of dissatisfaction that has left me scrambling to find that familiar sense of faith and compassion for my beautiful city that was once so easy to call to mind. The lack of economic opportunity and constant uphill battle to be understood have taken their toll on me as well, and with each passing day I find myself wistfully remembering all my lazy summer afternoons on the beaches of California, and wondering how to move forward from here.

If you have any advice or a kind word for your anonymous friend, I’d love to hear from you. For now, I’ll be drowning my melancholy with the biggest Nutella pizza I can find.

Cari Saluti,

Your preoccupied friend in Florence

When my good friend Georgette from Girl in Florence approached me about collaborating on a group discussion on the topic of authenticity and Italy, I was a bit skeptical.  Talking about the “realness” of this jumbled country is not an easy task, and to be honest I didn’t know whether or not I would even be able to organize my own constantly fluctuating opinions into something even remotely worth reading.  However, the great thing about writing on a computer is that you, my dear reader, will never know how many times I erased the stupid things I was putting down on the screen and only have to suffer through the next few paragraphs until you get bored of me and can start scrolling on Buzzfeed for more interesting crap like babies who look like drunk people.  Now stop stalling and pay attention to what I’m saying because it’s important if you ever want to understand why an authentic Italy doesn’t exist.

So here we are, searching for an authentic Italy. The real Italy. The one that we’ve recently started reading about in travel magazines, or hearing about from our friends who invite us over for a home-cooked Italian dinner taken straight from their recipe book bought in Rome.  We sigh enviously when we see those stunning photographs of the Amalfi coastline from our neighbors’ summer vacation, imagining ourselves stretched out on those sun-drenched beaches and languidly floating in the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean.  We swoon over ruby glasses of wine brought back from Tuscan farms, exclaiming over the marvelous quality and taste of the balsamic vinegars and golden oils given to us as gifts from returning visitors, wondering how in the world such a place could even exist.  And with a sudden start, we realize that all this time, the Italy we thought we knew is another creature entirely.  We wonder if perhaps we don’t know as much about this distant land as we once thought. And suddenly, before we even have time to process it, the seed is planted—desire, that curious little spark that unfurls its tendrils and quietly seeps into your heart.

And slowly, after months of dissatisfaction at our ordinary lives, the longing becomes so unbearable that we must act.  We must visit this mythical country for ourselves.We scan the internet for flight deals, talking to everyone we meet about the best time of year to visit, what we should see and do while we’re there, taking recommendations for restaurants and daydreaming about rooms that are stacked floor to ceiling with strands of golden pasta hanging out to dry.  We pack our suitcases weeks in advance, armed with guidebooks and lists from trusted friends who have been there before, counting down the days to departure.

When the big day arrives, we manage to get all the way through connecting airports until we are being waved through customs in Italy by a bored-looking older gentleman who doesn’t even stamp our passports, only flicking through them with a cursory glance before glancing over our heads to the next person in line behind us.  We cram our bodies into tiny Fiats, allowing ourselves to be driven into a winding maze of shrinking alleyways at breathtaking speeds, craning our necks as we glimpse the dizzying heights of ancient buildings whizzing past us.  And as we venture out into the streets for the first time, a sinking feeling starts to wash over us as we realize that perhaps we may have been mistaken entirely.

Because surely this cramped, chaotic mess can’t be the same idyllic place from the photographs. The place in the photographs didn’t have shouting street vendors on every corner, hounding you as you walk down the littered streets.  And it must be impossible to grow such delicious food with the lingering cloud of cigarette smoke and bus pollution permeating the air. Why, we can’t even walk down the staircase without stepping over discarded ashes and empty beer bottles, let alone sleep with all that noise outside our window at all hours of the night! Impossible, we say.  It’s not the same place.  We can’t even get the internet to work in our tiny rented flat—how on earth can these people survive?! Surely there is some mistake.

So we rent a car, thinking to move to the countryside, or out to the edges of the sea. And we sigh with relief. Yes, this is better, much better, we think to ourselves as we hastily pack the last of our souvenirs into our bursting suitcases and thank the taxi driver who carries them all the way back down the stairs again (but not tipping him for all his hard work, no, because our guide book says all the real Italians never tip for these kinds of things).  And as we pull away from the cities in our rented Fiats, our hands grip the steering wheel tightly as we try to manuever our way out of town, cussing loudly at the insane drivers around us who honk and swerve around us as we desperately try to follow our GPS directions. But wait—wasn’t that the sign for our exit back there? How do you know? The same sign is pointing in 3 different directions, and we’ve definitely gone through this roundabout at least 2 other times. Are we lost? Oh god, what have we gotten ourselves into?

As our frustration and blood pressure level rises with each passing kilometer, we complain amongst ourselves.  How can these people get anything done, we ask? Everything is so much more difficult than it ought to be.  There are no clear directions anywhere, everything is so confusing and complicated, and every time you ask someone for directions you get a different answer! We throw our hands up in the air in defeat. Fine, we concede.  We just have to get through the next few days and then we will finally be home where everything makes sense.  We stop at a roadside restaurant, staring dejectedly at our plates of cold sandwiches and Coca-Colas in defeat. This is definitely not the authentic Italian experience we were looking for, we think sadly as we climb back into our overstuffed rental car, staring moodily out the window as we drive through miles of industrialized towns.

And then suddenly, without warning, we turn the corner and are driving along the most beautiful stretch of road we have ever seen in our lives.  We gasp with excitement, pulling over on the side of the road and hitting our hazard lights, not caring about the honks from exasperated drivers behind us as we snap picture after picture of the glittering blue sea stretched out for miles ahead, hugging the cliffs where brightly colored apartments are stacked precariously along the edge, forming an impossible Tetris combination of ancient architecture and land. A peaceful feeling washes over us, soothing the jagged bits of anger and resentment that’s been lingering in our hearts over the past few days as we watch the sun sink down into a blanket of sapphire water, lighting up the sky with a comforting golden glow. And we smile as we realize that perhaps we are experiencing a moment of pure authenticity that has nothing to do with Italy, but with our own satisfaction instead.

This post has been a collaboration with #italyroundtable and your favorite blogging misfit group #COSItaly. Read on for more!

Jessica – Where is this “authentic Italy” everyone’s looking for?
Gloria – The odd woman out’s view on “authentic Italy”
Rebecca – Italy Roundtable: Finocchi Rifatti al Pomodoro
Alexandra – Art and Travel: the authenticity of seeing art in person
Melanie – Everything Is Authentic
Kate – On being authenticated
Michelle – Living Authentically: How Italy Forced the Issue
Georgette of Girl in Florence-
Pete of Englishman in Italy – “How Authentic an Italian are you?”
Rick of Rick’s Rome: “The Authentic Italian Culture Debate”
Andrea of Sex, Lies and Nutella: “How to be an authentic Italian (in 9 simple steps)”
Married to Italy – The fear of the fake: What “authenticity” means to a foreigner in a strange land
Surviving in Italy – What does it mean to be Authentically Italian?
Unwilling Expat – Leading an authentic life in Sicily