My Life In Florence Series (Episode: The Departure. Expecatations Run High)

(Unbeknownst to me as I was departing the States I was headed towards this 10x10 room with a tiny loft for sleeping which would become my 15th Century jail cell in paradise for the first few months. The Amaretto was the only thng that kept me warm inside.)
The Departure. (Originally written May 21st, 2002)

Six months in Florence, Italy. The epitome of the dream of every stressed out, hate their mundane suburban life, wish that life’s decisions were different American. Call it the anti-American dream. No wife, no 2.3 kids and no white picket fence. Just two duffel bags crammed to the top with worldly possessions and a briefcase and laptop.

Oh, yeah and a thirty-three year old male scared as hell. You see everybody whose path I crossed was very quick with the envy and encouragement as if I was walking off into the sunset of a Hollywood movie to live happily ever after, but the reality is different. This is damn scary. Quitting a job, leaving a relationship and packing all of one’s possessions that was worked so hard for into a 10x12 concrete storage room.

In fact, after consideration I realize how difficult a decision like this must be otherwise everyone in America would be living in Florence or Nice or Barcelona. No this adventure may be fun but it is no holiday. There is a point to prove here. Behind all the Mediterranean trappings there is a cause. It is the universal cause that one’s life belongs to that individual and not to Blow Me, Inc or a bank or spouses that won’t even talk to you anymore.

Life can seem awfully short but it is even shorter when you add up all the time you actually have for yourself. Don’t get me wrong here, I’m not some hemp smoking, stinky Bohemian. I don’t eschew personal possessions or wealth or even stability but the challenge becomes to earn these things on our own terms and not just because it is expected or that’s what our degree was in or what our father’s business was.

So here I sit, four bloody hours early in an airport terminal on my third drink waiting for all to begin. Or maybe it has already. I’m not sure. Maybe it began six months ago when the decision was made and this is just the beginning of part two. It really isn’t important anyway. I got here so early because I had not flown since the September 11th massacre and was told that the airports were absolute chaos with the increased security measures.

When I arrived it was eerily quiet. The neighborhood Wal-Mart had more people milling about than this but maybe that’s not a good comparison. I walked right up to the ticket counter and put my ridiculously heavy duffel bags on the side luggage counter and was only slowed when the agent asked me “What do you have in those bags?” This was more her expression of disbelief of the weight than a genuine security question. I had passed those with flying colors moments before. I responded to her in my best deadpan, “Six months of my life and that can often be heavy.” and moved towards the security gate.

Again, I was expecting a giant hassle since between my laptop, digital camera, video camera, disc-man and associated batteries I had enough electronic components to build a missile. Again, no problems as I cruised through the lane while they proceed to give an enthusiastic “pat-down” to a white women in her late forties wearing the most atrocious Hawaiian shirt. There is eternal justice.

( Outside my room on my street was a bit nicer and I wandered back and forth so often that I eventually knew all the panhandling gypsies on sight. )