Florence, You Sexy Beast

I wish I could tell you I've been off honeymooning in Fiji for 10 days with Italian pop star Paolo. Or Italian sandwich star Pino.

There would be coconuts! Turquoise water tip-toeing! Exclamation points! And palm fronds gently fanning.

Reality check: no palm fronds. Unless you count the tree branches that decided to assault my face during the last 7 days of unrelenting rain in Nantes.

Not funny, Mother Nature.

Italy? Let's talk about these dang adventures already.

Along with friends K & E, I spent 5ish days in Italy for our Fall break. The break was the longest of the semester, and we booked our tickets for Italy pronto within the first week of arriving in September. Italy was a done deal for us. We had roughly no idea we wanted to do in Italy, except just about everything. Yes, gelato was a big part of "everything."

So what happened? 5 days of abso-freaking-lutely, smokin' hot mess.

Totally not kidding. With a little veritable truckload of help from our friends (new and old), we managed to make organized chaos look nothing short of awesome. After a night's layover in Bologna, it was off to Florence!

It would probably be an A+ idea to tell ya'll that our fantastic time in Florence is deserving of a special shoutout. Longtime pal and Stanford grad M, who previously studied abroad in Florence, sent me the most ridiculously thorough declassified guide to Florence. Monuments, gelato, spectacular sights, tourist traps, declarations of love (and hate), gelato, local gems, and warnings (of fake gelato) were all scrupulously detailed on a Google map. And because he's a gold-medal doofus, there was also a warning command that read, "If you go here, I'll kill you. Go somewhere that is less like a Nightclub version of Applebees." 

Clearly, he's a keeper.

After around 8.56 bajillion miles of walking, we managed to see just about all of Firenze as guided. Including...

Piazza Michelangelo, home of the best view in all of Florence. Beautiful view, meet my best friend 'bottle of wine' and good company too.

Not one, but two melt-your-face-off amazing trips to Salumeria Verdi -- or more fondly, "Pino's". This man makes the best frick frackin' sandwich that will ever meet your lips. For 3,50 euro, you receive a mindblowing lunch AND a new best friend; Pino is the bomb.com and a Firenze legend.

Classy sights like the museum housing the famous David sculpture and a surprise meeting with friend AC.

Followed by a trip to Fiesole, with a sweeping view of all of Tuscany.

Excuse me while I make my way down from Cloud Nine. Unfortunately, we didn't get the chance to have gelato.

Jokes on jokes. Zero gelato? Meatballs are more likely to rain from the sky (that would be cool?).

This was a trip to Vivoli Gelato, which we decided was the best gelato in central Florence. Tiramisu for this kid. Like the gods of Italy decided to throw a double dessert whammy all up in this shabang.

Badiani Gelato. Which must be pronounced with sweeping hand gestures and a boisterous Italian accent that is rolling in the deep. You were right (again), M.

(You're still a goober though.)

Kickin' it with the Medicis in Fiesole.

We're super casual bros.

Hey ho, ya spiffy Duomo. (center of Florence)

Piazza Santa Croce. With colors that look like they splashed off the ground and onto the buildings + sky.

Florence was heavenly. The perfect blend of culture, Pino, history, accidental penthouse apartments, adventure, janky buses, toils of getting pooped on by a bird, beautiful views, carbscarbscarbs, students of all sorts, Tuscan sun, and gelato as a first language.

Like palm fronds and Fiji.

Only much, much better.

-lexi

p.s. Rome to come!

This Couldn't Be Me

I look out the window, and my breath catches.

The freccia train that spryly runs from Florence to Rome beats onwards, whisking through the Tuscan countryside.

Italy.

I want to telephone the higher powers (?) and tell them they have the wrong girl. That this luck should be shared with someone else. That this couldn't possibly be me sitting here.

Softly, I raise the goblet of champagne that has appeared beside me to my curious, smiling lips. I watch the little, wide-eyed Italian toddler as he dawdles through the aisle, staring at the world. I think, this couldn't possibly be me.

I absentmindedly nibble on the Italian  fennel-laced biscuit in front on me. The chorus of Californiacation fills my ears, and my smile grows a little wider with the stroke of happy memories. I hear English, see Italian words, and write un petit essai in French.

I want to tell you that I feel so very lucky and that I haven't forgotten the importance of that. I think of you and me and this endless world we've set out to see.

And then I think again, this can't be me; you must have the wrong girl.

11 Commandments of Italy

Holy cannoli. I leave for a whirlwind tour through Italy with pals K and E tomorrow, and studying for my exam is nearing the point of useless.  We're heading to Bologna, Florence, and Rome in high spirits, in a major state of hot mess, and in pursuit of the ultimate adventure. Excited? I can't even. Ready? As I'll ever be. Forgetting anything? Don't ask.

11 Commandments of Italy

1)   Thou shalt live with infinity as the only boundary. No ceilings.

2)   Thou shalt eat gelato until thou can eat gelato no more.

3)   Thou shalt not elope with an Italian popstar named Paolo. Unless Paolo has 2 gorgeous Italian brothers.

4)   Thou shalt make one Italian friend, be it Pino....or Paolo. What dreams are made of?

5)   Thou shalt live in the moment, every one of them.

6)   Thou shalt keep friends close and good spirits closer.

7)   Thou shalt drink wine like it is water and water like it is wine.

8)   Thou shalt find the grand sights but also the hidden gems too.

9)   Thou shalt embrace pizza as a second language.

10)  Thou shalt remember that one will never again be 20 and traipsing all over Italy.

11)  Thou shalt break all the rules if it makes the rules better.

ciao!
-lexi

My Second Family

Chère Lexi,Nous sommes très heureux de t’accueillir à Nantes.

(Dear Lexi, we're very happy to meet you in Nantes.) 

Late August. I popped open my Gmail to find a note from a woman named Nathalie, who introduced herself as my host mom and told me about the family I would soon join.  Today, it's my pleasure to introduce them to you.

Nathalie, my host mother. 

You are truly a Renaissance woman, if there ever was one. And I rarely go a day without wondering how you do it all. It's the sheer amount of things you do but also the effortlessness with which you do it that renders me in a constant state of awe known as "WHOA DUDE."  You have made me question the American notions of feminism, proving singlehandedly that a woman who maintains the household is far from secondary. In our maison, it's apparent that you are far, far from inferior. You stand at the helm of the home and the family but have mastered the art of being une femme d'affaires (business women) too. Working alongside my host dad and chef of the restaurant, you manage a full-time business operation with a dual presence of skill and grace. You carry yourself with sureness, easily commanding the attention of a room should you choose to do so.

Though I find myself at a loss to truly describe it in speech or on paper, your marriage is one of the most successful I've ever seen. Is this janky to note? Maybe, but it's important. The relationship between my host dad and you both at home and at work is one of impressive equality, even while the roles may differ.

You are an impeccable chef, even if it's my host dad who is the chef of the family. I marvel at how you maintain such a level of fitness, though it seems that life is your main form of exercise. You've raised five children and have hosted 10 exchange students alongside my host dad. Even while I see implicitly the pride you take in your children, you've made it seem like raising a big family is an easy feat. I know it couldn't have been. At home, you cook, do the laundry, sew, organize, email,  faire le ménage (clean the house), and keep things running in order without second thought. And you appear impeccably dressed and beautifully put-together through it all. Much like my own mother, you are a superwoman of sorts.

Pascal, my host dad.

You are the Master Chef, quite literally. After competing on the TV show "Master Chef" last year, you finally decided to quit your old job and pursue your lifelong dream to be a chef. You opened a restaurant bearing the family name in downtown Nantes. You cook with immense respect for the French tradition, while adding your own creative flair to give each dish its personality. As an entrepreneur, you are like my own dad. You work at the restaurant every day of the week when it's open and for every meal at that. I see you only in the mornings; while I wish I saw you more sometimes, I have so much admiration for how you appreciate your craft.

When you are home, we almost always talk about food. With the communication barrier stronger here than with my host mom, food is our natural common ground. I tell you what I know about Napa Valley, and you explain how you make the best dang roasted potatoes on the planet. (Hint: it's all in the butter).  You explain Daylight Savings in French to me the best you can and cut me some slack when I totally mess up with kissing at mass on Sunday. On your day off, you tend to the garden  in the rain, even though it soaks you to the bone. After all, is it not that same rain that gives the plants life?

I've seen plenty of instances of love, but you cherish your wife in a way unlike any I've seen. You treat her with a tenderness that makes me impossibly weak in the knees. It is not in grand, sweeping declarations of petty love but rather, the little things you do. The way you lightly brush your lips in a kiss across her forehead at breakfast. And the way you sweetly reach for her hand on the walk to church. The way you'll cook for her like she's the most important restaurant critic there ever was. The way you simply look at her with inexplicable appreciation. As if her presence is better than all the presents you could ever receive.

She, your family, and your food are everything to you. Forgive me, if you've caught me staring at such unconditional love.

Cyriaque, my host brother.

(Almost) 15. Spunky as all heck. Deserving of his own post before this post  turns into a novel.

Melissa, my sort-of host sister

Amazingly capable of firing back sass at host brother. Hot dang, there's a lot to say on this one. Also deserving of her own post.

So to my deuxième famille, thanks for having me. Like any family, we are not perfect.

But we do a pretty darn good job of making it work. Without second thought.

-lexi

On Beauty & Rainy Day Soup

There's sometimes when beauty just is flat out overrated.

I'm talking about the days when pajamas are looking pretty dang fancy. You're spooning with Ben & Jerry. And you're on the verge of 'intimate relationship' with Netflix.

These are the moments we don't like to capture because, well.....they're just not "beautiful."

Gimme a hot second though. I understand that we naturally gravitate towards beautiful things: people, places, clothes, food, pictures, etc. Especially beautiful things when an Instagram filter is all up in that business.

That plain jane selfie you just took? Yeah, X-Pro II just turned you into a dark and stormy Ryan Gosling of sorts. And Sutro? Well, now hello flannel meets 21st century artsy-but-don't-call-me-hipster. And that completely unimportant cupcake you just ate? LOOOOOO-FIIIIIII to get 'dem colors poppin'. Don't worry though...if something is actually beautiful, we'll just shout #nofilter at the top of our social media lungs to compensate.

But it's kind of a bummer. Those pajama rainy days, solo movie marathons, and ice cream evenings with friends are verifiably AMAZEBALLS. And beautiful or not, I doubt we'd trade them for the world. I'm pointing this out because it I'm guilty of it; because it applies to just about everything (including food); and because sometimes, I wish we didn't crave this constancy of beauty.

Take, for instance, soup. Lentil soup is not one of those things you're supposed to get excited about. It's sort of the the homely stepsister. And who's going to wax poetic about that? Point taken.

This lentil soup, however, might blow your socks off. It's not red-carpet material and likely never will be. But I'll be darned if it isn't near perfect for a rainy day with some crusty baguette and a killer movie. This soup is for the Tuesdays when Sinatra is singing you a tune or two in the background. It's for time simply spent with family and friends who don't give a flying monkey's butt what you do or don't look like. The days when you're just doing you--with #nofilter.

And you know what? There's something souper beautiful about that.

Rainy Day Lentil Soup

This soup is painfully easy rainy day comfort food. And it oddly reminds me of my dear roommate P, who likes lentils like she likes me--without any condition of aesthetics. For the basic recipe, there's only 5 ingredients, including water and salt & pepper, which shouldn't even count. You can get jazzy if that's your jam, or just stick with the basics and call that a beautiful day. 

Ingredients: 1 cup lentils 5 cups water 1 cube chicken/vegetable boullion 1 tsp cumin salt/pepper

Optional (add as many or as few as you want): 1 carrot, sliced 1 cup mushrooms, sliced 1/2 cup bell pepper, diced 1/2 cup potato, diced 1/4 cup parsley or cilantro, chopped 1/2 cup chopped chicken, beef, or ham *pretty much anything goes

Place lentils, water, boullion, cumin, and any optional ingredients to a medium pot. Bring mixture to a boil and then simmer for 45 minutes on low-medium heat. Enjoy, and have a beautiful day.

-lexi

Thanks for Listening

I'm blushing a little, homeskillets.

I was flattered, if not a tad shocked, by the positive response to this post. Thanks for listening while I talk with my mouth full and carry on with janky lingo.

For all those lovely thoughts/comments/kudos--that means the world to me. I love to write, but in truth, I usually keep it to myself thinking that most people wouldn't really care to read it. Sharing it with you is my pleasure because y'all are the definition of spiffy.

Coming up: whirlwind Chateau excursions, the random things you would never guess about France, and PUMPKIN FREAKING PIE.

Sh*t may hit the fan with Fall midterms this week. But we'll have pie, which is basically the instant-win button of life. Get at me world.

Keep it simple stupid. Mo' pictures, less words!

Happy Sunday!

-lexi