I wanted to know the right fancy word for winter depression so I entered 'winter depression' on wikipedia and it spat out the Seasonal affective disorder entry. Neat. The entry said that moving south helps but it somehow forgot explain why the hell I feel like shit here, in Florence, Italy. Back beyond the Alps, there's snow and light, here it's dreary, grey and uninviting outside.
I had my first exam today, Swedish. Not technically the very first but first after the procrastinating due to my winter depression (vinterdepression. Neat, too). I mentioned it after blabbering something incoherent and the professor recommended me seeing a shrink. Also neat; my insurance wouldn't cover it and I try to avoid shrinks since that incident when one caused me a false pregnancy by trying to cure my sick stomach with antidepressants.
I had a list of things I wanted to do, like, buing a perspex bracelet if I pass, buying a blossoming camellia, asking at the tourist information how do I get to I Tatti, signing up for language course, buyin g yarn for Sue's sweater, buying food and quite probably something else. Yeah, going to Riccardiana. I passed, bought that bracelet in one shop in via Ginori where I had seen it weeks ago (it was twice as expensive as I expected but bite it), went to Riccardiana which is almost next door and made a total idiot of myself there. It's not only the library in the building but also some municipal offices and I asked the receptionist where do I get the card. We had a meaningless exchange and then she probably got the point - a crazy person has to be going to the library and told me where it is. I found out that my presentation letter is neat, too, but il professore forgot to sign it. I must however say that it's a library up to my taste, it smells of old books and has chairs upholstered in pink velvet. Not that the pink velvet was that important, grey twill would do, too, but there are nice soft upholstered chairs.*
The tourist office lady was an idiot. She did manage to google Villa Berenson or I Tatti or whatever, including the address. I have a vague idea that it's somewhere in the general direction of Settignano but the address of via Comecavolosichiama didn't ring a bell. And, it's technically in Fiesole. The woman found it in a map - the street is off via D'Annunzio so towards Settignano indeed, as the map showed, but since it's listed as Fiesole (no I don't know and I don't want to know who invented such catastral divisions), I was told to take the #7 bus to Fiesole and ask someome there. And possibly walk five kilometres. I didn't argue, I was too tired but I saw on the map where the place is - my city map ends two blocks towards the city centre. Via D'Annuzio goes all the way to Settignano, #10. I wanted to go there straight away but I missed the bus so I went to sign up for the courses. I was there early so I went to Campolmi's to get the yarn. I hit the lunch break so I went home instead.
It is actually really warm. I'll paint my toenails and start wearing Birks again. Not as good as spring but better than nothing. I could use some lighter sweater, I felt too hot even in the hoodie.
I wanted to post some kitschy Florence picture but apart from not being able to do anything but rot at home, I wasn't able to focus properly when I was doing a bit of photography that month ago.
Maybe I should have a nap.
-----------------------
*Note to self: I have to note in my last will that my book collection be presented separately in a reading room with comfortable furniture. I hate my ass being pressed flat by all that oak and plywood and whatever crap they use so at least this way I could do something nice for the posterity
Tuesday, 20 January 2009
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
And now about something superficial.
It's a less known fact that I'm a fragrance lover. Sometimes, I go sniffing. Usually, I'm bored; most of the readily available fragrances are somewhat boringly floral with an undertone of soapy indefinable Let it sell well. I love Le Jardin sur le Nil - maybe it's the lotus in it. I love Dolce Vita, that's flowers who do not care that they may offend anyone by smelling too loud.
I do like Emilio Pucci's design. I read somewhere that he was one of the first fashion designers to use abstract patterns for his fabrics. The bottle of Vivara uses one such pattern. I didn't like the fragrance too much, it seemed vague to me. The Silver Edition... well, I didn't expect anything. It just was on the shelf and I wanted to give it a try.
The top notes hit my nasal mucose with the power of paint remover. I found that it should be orange blossom and neroli, not acetone and who-knows-what. After a brisk walk outside, I smelled old melon peels and my eyes started to water. Even later on, the middle notes evolved to a fruit salad of no longer definable fruits that lay too long on the bottom of the fridge. Now, it needed to be served so it was covered with lots of whipped cream and those little coloured sugar thingies that look like dirt on LSD. And lots of sugar. A block farther, the scent hit the bottom of the olfactory pyramid and a warm, wet, ugly smell reached what remained the inside of my nose. I had always imagined that bad sex would stink this way.
I took back streets on my way home - I smelled like an itinerant bordello and I didn't want to meet too many people.
Back home, while making coffee, I wanted to was the damn thing off. The ordinary and cheap kitchen detergent and the kitchen scrubber didn't help. I still stank like an itinerant bordello. I adopted a sophisticated approach and used a decadently and strongly scented Luxe Noir body scrub from Sephora which should take away the layer of the offending fragrance and whatever may remain would be covered by the other scent. After vigorous rubbing, I gave in being afraid that I might hit the artery. The result was itinerant bordello gone two streets away.
At the end, I had a long hot shower. I made a good guess that Le Jardin sur le Nil could cover the worst, very fresh scents are often able to cover hardcore crap, and left the sweater in the hallway.
I perused fragrantica.com to check what is the thing made of and found out that I happily own and use fragrances with all the ingredients listed there; I obviously like them, too. I guess that two evil things combined: allergic reaction to one of the components and the thing that sometimes happens - it reacted with my skin to create a foul smell.
I suppose the sweater is mothproofed until 2025.
I do like Emilio Pucci's design. I read somewhere that he was one of the first fashion designers to use abstract patterns for his fabrics. The bottle of Vivara uses one such pattern. I didn't like the fragrance too much, it seemed vague to me. The Silver Edition... well, I didn't expect anything. It just was on the shelf and I wanted to give it a try.
The top notes hit my nasal mucose with the power of paint remover. I found that it should be orange blossom and neroli, not acetone and who-knows-what. After a brisk walk outside, I smelled old melon peels and my eyes started to water. Even later on, the middle notes evolved to a fruit salad of no longer definable fruits that lay too long on the bottom of the fridge. Now, it needed to be served so it was covered with lots of whipped cream and those little coloured sugar thingies that look like dirt on LSD. And lots of sugar. A block farther, the scent hit the bottom of the olfactory pyramid and a warm, wet, ugly smell reached what remained the inside of my nose. I had always imagined that bad sex would stink this way.
I took back streets on my way home - I smelled like an itinerant bordello and I didn't want to meet too many people.
Back home, while making coffee, I wanted to was the damn thing off. The ordinary and cheap kitchen detergent and the kitchen scrubber didn't help. I still stank like an itinerant bordello. I adopted a sophisticated approach and used a decadently and strongly scented Luxe Noir body scrub from Sephora which should take away the layer of the offending fragrance and whatever may remain would be covered by the other scent. After vigorous rubbing, I gave in being afraid that I might hit the artery. The result was itinerant bordello gone two streets away.
At the end, I had a long hot shower. I made a good guess that Le Jardin sur le Nil could cover the worst, very fresh scents are often able to cover hardcore crap, and left the sweater in the hallway.
I perused fragrantica.com to check what is the thing made of and found out that I happily own and use fragrances with all the ingredients listed there; I obviously like them, too. I guess that two evil things combined: allergic reaction to one of the components and the thing that sometimes happens - it reacted with my skin to create a foul smell.
I suppose the sweater is mothproofed until 2025.
Shopping and hunting
Lousy picture, great bag. I bought it with a green-loving friend on my mind.
I set for the trip a bit late so the shops started to close when I was still in shpping rage but there will be more coming.
Monday, 12 January 2009
Back from holiday.
So, long-promised travel stories. One, to be exact.
Fellow travellers may be normal but sometimes they are weird. Or annoying. Or just anything. The woman was of the weird and annoying sort.
After the steward announced to me and the Asian nerd in the compartment that there'll be only one more person getting aboard in Bruck an den Mur, a big fat ugly crone arrived. She was wrapped in an ugly coat and umpteen layers of something that was macerated in mothballs for longer than polite. As it showed a while later, she was Romanian and travelling to Rome. She looked like one of those beggars that are to be seen even in Florence but I didn't ask about her job. I wanted to knit, read and later on, sleep.
Alas, Ms. Mothballs wanted to communicate. I tried to politely hint that I do not want to talk. Apparently, I should have shouted and hit her. She asked where am I from. Finland. Full stop, evil face. She wanted to know where I'm going, Rome, too, eh? Grunt, unfriendly look. She said I was pretty and wanted to pat my chin. I made a very unfriendly look and hid behind my book. She wanted to see my knitting and when I decided that I speak only Finnish and two extinct languages of your choice and didn't react. She grabbed the hat I used as a pattern for the mitten pattern and started to inspect it saying that the pattern is ugly. As if I asked for an opinion.
I settled to sleep. Or to pretend to sleep - I was watching the snowed caps of the Alps in the moonlight. Ms. Mothballs was rustling her lunchbag and munching whatever she had, at least it was not matured cheese.
In the morning, I woke up because Ms. Mothballs was making sounds. Cough, cough, gurglegurgle, spit. Repeat a lot. Yikes.
In Florence, I shot out of the train as fast as I could. Got a ticket to Reggio Emilia, went home, dropped the suitcase, checked the internetz, went to the station... and the brain caught up. My diary is not in my bag - I don't remember taking it out - where is my diary? Left on the train. I asked the personnel as for what to do and was told to go to Rome and ask at Lost and Found.
Here I need to declare that I officially love Ravelry. I called out for help because going to Rome... well, three hours on the train, if nothing else. Fellow Ravellers went and checked - too bad that my diary wasn't found. I suspect the Ms. Mothballs but it might be anyone, after all, it was a diary of 2008. But, the people tried. Things work.
Fellow travellers may be normal but sometimes they are weird. Or annoying. Or just anything. The woman was of the weird and annoying sort.
After the steward announced to me and the Asian nerd in the compartment that there'll be only one more person getting aboard in Bruck an den Mur, a big fat ugly crone arrived. She was wrapped in an ugly coat and umpteen layers of something that was macerated in mothballs for longer than polite. As it showed a while later, she was Romanian and travelling to Rome. She looked like one of those beggars that are to be seen even in Florence but I didn't ask about her job. I wanted to knit, read and later on, sleep.
Alas, Ms. Mothballs wanted to communicate. I tried to politely hint that I do not want to talk. Apparently, I should have shouted and hit her. She asked where am I from. Finland. Full stop, evil face. She wanted to know where I'm going, Rome, too, eh? Grunt, unfriendly look. She said I was pretty and wanted to pat my chin. I made a very unfriendly look and hid behind my book. She wanted to see my knitting and when I decided that I speak only Finnish and two extinct languages of your choice and didn't react. She grabbed the hat I used as a pattern for the mitten pattern and started to inspect it saying that the pattern is ugly. As if I asked for an opinion.
I settled to sleep. Or to pretend to sleep - I was watching the snowed caps of the Alps in the moonlight. Ms. Mothballs was rustling her lunchbag and munching whatever she had, at least it was not matured cheese.
In the morning, I woke up because Ms. Mothballs was making sounds. Cough, cough, gurglegurgle, spit. Repeat a lot. Yikes.
In Florence, I shot out of the train as fast as I could. Got a ticket to Reggio Emilia, went home, dropped the suitcase, checked the internetz, went to the station... and the brain caught up. My diary is not in my bag - I don't remember taking it out - where is my diary? Left on the train. I asked the personnel as for what to do and was told to go to Rome and ask at Lost and Found.
Here I need to declare that I officially love Ravelry. I called out for help because going to Rome... well, three hours on the train, if nothing else. Fellow Ravellers went and checked - too bad that my diary wasn't found. I suspect the Ms. Mothballs but it might be anyone, after all, it was a diary of 2008. But, the people tried. Things work.
Sunday, 21 December 2008
On the road
I packed my stuff thusly:
1 tube with my diploma
1 camera with gadgets
1 box of chocolates I bought in the adrenaline high after enrolling with no clear purpose
2 huge skeins of cashmere for a friend whom I bought for a Ravelry buddy from Back Home
1 huge skein of wool from Campolmi from Jean,another Ravelry buddy
2 huge skeins for finishing the sweater for my secret Etsy gift swatch and the mittens for Beth
1 huge pannettone for family to eat
5 bars of chocolate (big) for any handy purposes (mental note: get something for the librarians)
1 bag of cosmetics = gifts from grandma I got for me on my own
1 bag of hair polish and hair stuff for my dad (one has to love guys that use things up)
1 bag of various stuff for my mom
1 bottle of fresh olive oil
4 apples
1 bag of dirty stuff to prevent things rattling in the suitcase
some papers.
As the result, I dragged some 20 kilos of food. Could be worse.
I didn't have any tragic travel stories - it was a rare occurence when I didn't meet any idiots. The last time there were those two truck drivers who were truck drivers because they couldn't do anything else who hadn't showered for at least a week and who didn't guess that I might speak their language and talked in a sexually explicit manner about me and the other female traveller, a student from Vienna whom I translated all that stuff. We had a good laugh and the morale of the story is that you never know when Big Brother is listening. This time, I shared the compartment with three friendly and nice Australians and an Indian guy going to some conference to Vienna; the other co-travellers were two American girls going to Prague (or somewhere else en route of Vindobona express), two teenage girls who were teenage but nice, some indefinable folks and a girl who carried five heavy bags and a kitty carrier.
The kitty carrier held a baby ferret so I made some casual remark. I was shown the ferret and the girl was chatty so she explained that the bags suck but travelling with a cello and a saxophone is worse. I asked whether she's a musician and she said no, she was studying veterinary medicine... when a rat emerged from under her hair. Oh, you have a mousey, I said. No, it's a rat, replied the girl, adding And I have a python, too. I laughed, thinking it a good joke but meantime she opened one of the bags and took out a python in a mesh bag. The most interesting fellow traveller ever.
1 tube with my diploma
1 camera with gadgets
1 box of chocolates I bought in the adrenaline high after enrolling with no clear purpose
2 huge skeins of cashmere for a friend whom I bought for a Ravelry buddy from Back Home
1 huge skein of wool from Campolmi from Jean,another Ravelry buddy
2 huge skeins for finishing the sweater for my secret Etsy gift swatch and the mittens for Beth
1 huge pannettone for family to eat
5 bars of chocolate (big) for any handy purposes (mental note: get something for the librarians)
1 bag of cosmetics = gifts from grandma I got for me on my own
1 bag of hair polish and hair stuff for my dad (one has to love guys that use things up)
1 bag of various stuff for my mom
1 bottle of fresh olive oil
4 apples
1 bag of dirty stuff to prevent things rattling in the suitcase
some papers.
As the result, I dragged some 20 kilos of food. Could be worse.
I didn't have any tragic travel stories - it was a rare occurence when I didn't meet any idiots. The last time there were those two truck drivers who were truck drivers because they couldn't do anything else who hadn't showered for at least a week and who didn't guess that I might speak their language and talked in a sexually explicit manner about me and the other female traveller, a student from Vienna whom I translated all that stuff. We had a good laugh and the morale of the story is that you never know when Big Brother is listening. This time, I shared the compartment with three friendly and nice Australians and an Indian guy going to some conference to Vienna; the other co-travellers were two American girls going to Prague (or somewhere else en route of Vindobona express), two teenage girls who were teenage but nice, some indefinable folks and a girl who carried five heavy bags and a kitty carrier.
The kitty carrier held a baby ferret so I made some casual remark. I was shown the ferret and the girl was chatty so she explained that the bags suck but travelling with a cello and a saxophone is worse. I asked whether she's a musician and she said no, she was studying veterinary medicine... when a rat emerged from under her hair. Oh, you have a mousey, I said. No, it's a rat, replied the girl, adding And I have a python, too. I laughed, thinking it a good joke but meantime she opened one of the bags and took out a python in a mesh bag. The most interesting fellow traveller ever.
Thursday, 18 December 2008
Epic win
On Monday, my papers arrived. Weren't it for the strike of state employees, they would have arrived on Friday and I could have signed up for the university on Friday or Monday, the 15th being the deadline for signing up with a minor fee. From Tuesday, the fine is 60 euros. On Tuesday, I wanted to get things done so I went to the general area, the main jobs being paying the school fees at the post office and signing up. And getting the codice fiscale, whatever it may be, if there's time enough. The post office at Via Cavour is open only until 1330, I discovered, around three. I went to the postal HQ of Quartiere 1, somewhere around Sta. Croce (across half of the centre), waited an hour in the queue and got to the students' office three minutes after they closed. In such things, the Italians are very punctual.
I cussed and went home to knit.
On Wednesday, I waited in one queue to get the codice fiscale, there was a line for it in the enrolment form and since the form was already messy enough, I wanted to get at least something right, then went to the students' office to hang there in the queue. I sat, knitted the sweater for my secret Etsy Christmas/New Year swap partner, cussed the system with other Italians when someone shouted at me You're the one who went with me to the Finnish course years ago. Carola. Now, there are around three more people whom I haven't met yet and admittedly, those whom I don't really wish to meet too badly. The world is smaller than expected. We chatted for a while, exchanged phone numbers, then my turn came.
I told the guy that I want to sign up. He took my passport, computered for a while and then said But you're already signed up. It's not possible, I replied. They had me in The System since I was there as an exchange student. Anyhow, the guy read very carefully the papers, stared, said nothing and then went to print my student card. Apparently, nothing missing, no problem, no need to get my tax declaration or parents' birth certificates or a presentation letter from my church minister. I asked how do I pay the fines for late enrollment. The guy gave me a blank look, like, what fines? then checked in the computer and said that The System says that I don't have to pay any. I asked whether for sure, he said For sure and then I ran away. Just in case. I wonder whether the fact that they had my name and stuff in the computer since Pleistocene caused that it thought no fines for me but whatever it was, I seem to have saved 160 euros for the accumulated late submissions of various forms.
I went for a walk and some gift shopping. I planned to get some kitschy Catholic Christmas cards with some nativity scene in way too many colours but I didn't find any such even in the San Paolo bookshop full of religious books and such. I believe such materials are sold only in church sisterhoods to people with a good security check. At least the good old expensive Tassoti had something with awful kitschy angels in more colours than it should be legal so I got a pack of the cheaper ones (they were expensive. The less cheap ones would be damn freaking expensive) for the Completely and Pointless Card exchange, I plan to get those with a penis (this is an insider joke. Don't try to understand) to get the right feeling.
I took a few pictures of Florence but I have to photoshop them later.
I cussed and went home to knit.
On Wednesday, I waited in one queue to get the codice fiscale, there was a line for it in the enrolment form and since the form was already messy enough, I wanted to get at least something right, then went to the students' office to hang there in the queue. I sat, knitted the sweater for my secret Etsy Christmas/New Year swap partner, cussed the system with other Italians when someone shouted at me You're the one who went with me to the Finnish course years ago. Carola. Now, there are around three more people whom I haven't met yet and admittedly, those whom I don't really wish to meet too badly. The world is smaller than expected. We chatted for a while, exchanged phone numbers, then my turn came.
I told the guy that I want to sign up. He took my passport, computered for a while and then said But you're already signed up. It's not possible, I replied. They had me in The System since I was there as an exchange student. Anyhow, the guy read very carefully the papers, stared, said nothing and then went to print my student card. Apparently, nothing missing, no problem, no need to get my tax declaration or parents' birth certificates or a presentation letter from my church minister. I asked how do I pay the fines for late enrollment. The guy gave me a blank look, like, what fines? then checked in the computer and said that The System says that I don't have to pay any. I asked whether for sure, he said For sure and then I ran away. Just in case. I wonder whether the fact that they had my name and stuff in the computer since Pleistocene caused that it thought no fines for me but whatever it was, I seem to have saved 160 euros for the accumulated late submissions of various forms.
I went for a walk and some gift shopping. I planned to get some kitschy Catholic Christmas cards with some nativity scene in way too many colours but I didn't find any such even in the San Paolo bookshop full of religious books and such. I believe such materials are sold only in church sisterhoods to people with a good security check. At least the good old expensive Tassoti had something with awful kitschy angels in more colours than it should be legal so I got a pack of the cheaper ones (they were expensive. The less cheap ones would be damn freaking expensive) for the Completely and Pointless Card exchange, I plan to get those with a penis (this is an insider joke. Don't try to understand) to get the right feeling.
I took a few pictures of Florence but I have to photoshop them later.
Thursday, 11 December 2008
Revolutionary zeal
There's a strike at the university (yes, again) so I have to find out who is teaching and who is not. One way or another, I must kick my ass or something and go to the Riccardiana to check some stuff, I have the credential at hand and... and anyway. But the weather is oh-so-awful, and I feel much better sitting at my cold home and knitting.
I thought that the Italian enthusiasm for street protests will wane with colder weather. Nope, the fight for better future has to go on despite frost bites, cold feet, pneumonia and arthritis. Too bad that nobody cares anymore.
I managed to do three things lately. I trimmed my eyebrows, bought a ticket home and started the sleeve of my striped sweater. The ticket shopping required quite some stamina, my social phobia aggravates in this lousy weather and I just don't feel like talking and the sleeve attachment was a particularly complicated engineering feat of whose success I'm not sure yet. That's why I could use a day for sitting and knitting. I'll see in the morning. Maybe the library is closed on Fridays.
I thought that the Italian enthusiasm for street protests will wane with colder weather. Nope, the fight for better future has to go on despite frost bites, cold feet, pneumonia and arthritis. Too bad that nobody cares anymore.
I managed to do three things lately. I trimmed my eyebrows, bought a ticket home and started the sleeve of my striped sweater. The ticket shopping required quite some stamina, my social phobia aggravates in this lousy weather and I just don't feel like talking and the sleeve attachment was a particularly complicated engineering feat of whose success I'm not sure yet. That's why I could use a day for sitting and knitting. I'll see in the morning. Maybe the library is closed on Fridays.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
