Italy: "A Week of Firsts"

Let's get the mundane details out of the way:

- Check-in was fine except for a few schisms that bristled me, as I was trying hard to shrug off the last vestiges of my New York quills.
  When I went to check my luggage it was full. So the attendant directed myself, Laura , and Steve (who were also checking luggage) to follow another attendant to a different baggage area. I was slightly off-put by this, but hoped they knew what they were doing. When the three of us gave our luggage over to a third attendant (who thoroughly looked as if he couldn't give a shit), I pushed forward and pointedly asked him if my luggage was going to Italy. But his reply only succeeded in stoking my suspicions: "Ah!" He grunted his affirmation with his head down.
  Security was probably the easiest part. I packed light (as I always do). And was only slightly worried about the ziplock bag of cherries my mother handed me before we got in the car for JFK. But to my surprise they weren't confiscated. I didn't even have to do the full-body scan, which seemed weird considering everybody in the terminal was booked for an international flight. — Oh well.

- Once I got to the gate and met up with the rest of the cast, I was fine, until I looked at my ticket. They had changed my seat; a seat which I had pre-booked online a full week prior to checking-in. In fact, the entire cast had been strongly advised to do this by Nannette, in a meeting we had before we left to insure that no one would be left behind due to overbooking by the airline. So I was beginning to get pissed. —More confused than pissed, though. Why would they change my seat at the last minute when i had already locked that in prior? It just didn't make any sense. I voiced this complaint to the rest of the cast and a few suggested the work of divine intervention. Laura suggested that maybe I'll be seated next to a hot Italian soccer player. To which Steve added "yeah. — I hope she's nice."
  And, it seemed no one else in the cast had the same problem. No one had their seat changed. The only one who came close was Nannette, who, ironically enough, didn't book her seat online like she had advised everyone else to do, so was assigned a seat at check-in. She shared in my angst and annoyance, hoping that whomever she inevitably sat next to wasn't a "first class dick". So we joked about our impending misery as we boarded the plane, Nannette sidling in front of me down the aisle, tickets aloft.
  In the middle of an aisle/carry-on traffic jam, she decided that perhaps we switch places in line so that i wouldn't be stuck behind her if her seat was in front of my own.
  "Well, what's your row?" I asked.
  "28." She replied.
  "I'm 28!" I gasped.
  "What seat?" She asked.
  "'E'" I said.
  "I'm 'F'!" She shrieked.
   And then we both laughed far too loud about the whole thing.
  "Do you mind taking the window seat?" She asked once we got there.
  "I PREFER the window seat!" I exclaimed.
  "Oh good," she chuckled. "Because I HAVE to sit in the aisle. I have a bladder the size of a peanut."
  Divine intervention indeed.

- My flight was magnificent. 8hrs that breezed by. The jet was stylish, complete with tv screens on the back of each seat, equipped with free movies and music in both English and Italian. We sat on the Tarmac for a long time, but once we got in the air, I quickly forgot it.

  I had intended to sleep through most of the flight, and took a sleep aid from Laura (pic). But when I took it immediately after our yummy dinner, it had absolutely no effect. Not even drowsiness. So I was up for the duration.
  Not a worry. I watched two movies, and listened to music for the rest of it.
And just like that, we were flying over the Swiss Alps. And then soon after, landing in Pisa.

- The thirteen of us passed through customs without a problem (you never know with actors). And collected our luggage. Our driver was ready with the van once we stepped out into the beating Italian heat. So we hopped on, and drove another 3hrs through Tuscany to the small coastal village of Forte dei Marmi; stopping twice along the way for snacks and use of the bathroom.

  Finally, we arrived at the house of Moratti, the home where Celeste grew up. And what a home! Acres of land, gardens boasting flowers, corn, beans, tomato, lettuce. Olive trees, lemon trees, apple trees, and rosemary bushes that bend taller than Michael Jordan (seriously). Everything these people eat, they grow.
  And oooooohhhhh!!! I haven't eaten this well even when I lived in Seattle. Every day there's freshly baked focaccia bread, and the sharpest cheeses I have ever tasted. Fresh pruscetta and fruits are constantly on display. And wine! Jesus! I can honestly say I have had more wine in this one week than I've ever consumed in my entire life. They drink it with EVERYTHING. So, to counter-balance that, I've definitely consumed more bottled water than ever as well.
Ok, back on track.
Celeste's house sits nestled in the valley of the "Marble Mountains" (translated from the Italian), which is the place where Michaelangelo got his marble for every statue he created.

The view of it is stunning when the sun hits it. Brilliant white and charcoal grey. ... And waaaaaayyyy in the distance, near the top, stuck in the side of the edifice, you can spot a collection of the whitest marble which — from our vantage point — looks like some kind of ancient mountain fortress (which it isn't). And half of my cast is convinced that it's the italian version of Hogwarts (which it is).

- An hour later, the cast checks-in to the Bed & Breakfast (Pensione Villa Elena) where we'll be resting our heads for the week. Mike gives us our room assignments. Steve & I are put together (I wonder if it's a gay thing). We're all given our very own bikes (la bicciclette) for the week to get around the town as we please. I name mine "Thunder", since that is what was embossed in gold on the seat.

Everyone freshens-up, takes a bath. But I head to the beach...
The cast was given access to a private beach hosted by a friend of the Moratti family. I waste no time. I get quick directions (literally two blocks from the B&B), and get my ass some sun.
  To say its "amazing" cant do a Tuscan beach justice. You have the milky blue and brown water of the Mediterranean followed by the golden sands of the beach. Immediately following that, you have verdant and lush green trees and fields, followed by the "Marble Mountains". All of which you can see from any point on the beach.
I bathe myself in cocoa butter like a chicken.
Bake. Brown. Turn...
Brown. Turn... And bake some more.
I cooked for three hours under the Tuscan sun and I look DARK. Like Brazilian/Cubano dark (Mateo, I swear I could be Arturo's brother). Then i head to the pool and bar for some cocktails with the cast, and everyone cant get over how dark I've gotten. Most of them couldnt even conceive that i could tan at all to begin with (duh!) But by the time we leave to go back to the B&B, it becomes apparent to everyone that this chicken is overcooked. I burned. My shoulders, forehead, and nose are a deep raspberry. Since then, my nickname from the cast has been either "chocolate strawberry" or "black cherry".
   A few hours later, it's back to the Moratti house for a dinner cooked by her maid, Funi (pronounced "funny", with the stress on the second syllable).
Everyone takes full advantage of the house and hospitality and wine and gets way too drunk. Even I knew I had to reel it in when I found myself sitting alone in a room brooding over my empty glass, feeling lonely. So I sobered up quickly (bottled water), and headed to the fields. I stared at the night sky and thanked God for my blessings: "I'm in Italy. Tuscany. I'm well-fed, and staring at the stars.... Thank You."

Back at the house, the actors were doing their best to conjure up drama that would boil over and scald themselves for the next three weeks. And yet I was standing outside the house, away from all that... (another thing to thank God for).

Later, I got back on Thunder, biked back to Villa Elena. And that ends the first night of my Week of Firsts in Italy.

Here are some highlights from the rest of the week:

Monday
— Beach.
Yes, again. I've fallen in love with my own color.

Tuesday
— Rehearsal at Casa Moratti.
— Beach.
— Biking with Andrew & Kevin through the town of Forte Dei Marmi.

    With the palm trees everywhere, and the tall green hills blocking the view of the mountains, and high-walled villas, Tuscany can be easily confused with Hawaii, Cuba, or The Bahamas. But add the stores in town as well (like Prada, Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana), and the entire cast agreed that Forte Dei Marmi looks exactly like Hollywood Hills.

Wednesday

— Took the train with Andrew & Kevin to Pisa and the small, walled medieval village of Lucca.

— Walked across the train tracks to get to the next platform! (Italians do it without a second thought. Like crossing a street. No 3rd rail! Just look both ways, and go!) It felt so wrong and yet so good!

— Got hit-on big time by a train conductor on the way to Lucca. He was shy at first, but my straight cohorts, Andrew & Kevin, instigated and amped-up my game. Soon the conductor and I were stopping the world around us with our lingering glances that were folded within the pauses of our conversation. He was smokin' hot. Swarthy, young, olive skin, deep brown eyes, barrel-chested. ... But I never caught his name. Too soon our train reached Lucca, and we had to separate. Our goodbyes were the stuff of a teen miniseries: long, drawn-out, and full of giggles.

Thursday
— Dress Rehearsal at Casa Moratti.
— Four course dinner at authentic Italian restaurant.... I cried over my meal (Mom, you would have too if you had seen the size of the scrimps).

Friday
— Beach/Pool & cocktails.
— Performance at Casa Moratti in the fields, between the olive trees... Priceless.
— Skinny-dipped in the Mediterranean Sea at midnight with a drunk, "confused" nineteen year old Italian boy named Roberto I met that night after the show. (my idea... Totally sober... Frigid water and I didn't care one bit)... Oh, yeah... He friended me on Facebook.
(Nothing happened that night. I'm way too smart for that)

Saturday
— Packed-up the set for the show.
— Beach.
— BBQ dinner at the house of the owner of the private beach.
— First time on a trampoline.
— First time in a treehouse.
— First time sliding down a pole... No really.

Sunday
— Day trip to "Cinque Terre" ("the Five Lands"; a strip of five small villages along the Mediterranean coast). A seven-mile hike connects them. It's been raining off and on all week, so three of the five villages were closed due to mudslides along the trail. But we hiked through the first town and hopped a train to hike the last.
  The hike was hard, stony, and mostly uphill. But the views were spectacular. And the water was crystal clear blue.

  In the last village — a seaside resort — I sunbathed while Andrew, Kevin, Nina, and Derrick (our Stage Manager) went for another dip in the water. Not even fifteen minutes into our respite but the clouds gathered darkly over the beach, and a sudden gust of hurricane winds brought all bathers ashore, seeking shelter, while seamen scattered the sands to batten-down ropes and rigging.
It was wild! I think I was the only one who enjoyed it. (Matt, it was like watching Storm at work, I swear!)
— Dinner at a very posh Italian wine bar (six courses), that had the awesomest display of bathroom reading material in French. And the hottest waiters.

Monday (Today)
— Packed. Went to the market to get some cheap groceries before I head to Rome's tourist-priced ones.
— Bid farewell to my faithful bike, Thunder, as well as Casa Moratti and the "Marble Mountains".
— Barely caught the train to Rome with the cast.

A side-note on three things I've noticed about Italy and Italians:

Dinner
— Italians take their sweet-ass time to do anything (and I do mean "sweet"). They don't rush. And when you make an appointment, expect the Italian to show-up 30-45mins later. I mean it. Every night this week I had dinner at 10 or 11 in the evening (at restaurants, mind you), and left after one in the morning (no wonder they take siesta from 12:30pm — 2pm!).
This is why I barely caught my train to Rome, 'cause the cars that were hired to take us to the station crawled into the lot of the B&B twenty minutes late.

Language
— The one things that Italians DON'T do slowly is talk. I seriously understand one word for every five sentences they utter. .... Thanks, Rosetta Stone.

Men
I swear, Italian men are not shy about what they like or what they want.
My confidence in my own self-image and beauty has skyrocketed exponentially since I've been here. And all because the men STARE at me like I'm a piece of pruscetta. I've gotten hardcore peeps from a boy on a bridge, lifeguards on the beach, busboys, a pair of brothers on their way to the local bar. Today, a really hot young exec-type slowed-down in his car, held up traffic, and grinned broadly as I crossed in front of him on the way to the supermarket (attraversiamo, Ashley!).

No sex yet.
I've been far too busy enjoying my own relationship with Tuscany. The only thing I've found in my bed when I wake up has been sand.

But I must close this chapter now. My train is pulling into Rome... And that will be a different tale to tell.

Ciao! Loves!

Things to come?
I just found out that this Saturday is EuroPride in Rome...