Firenze Day 1- Boy do I write a lot...

This is for July 6, 2011-

        So after transferring on another train at Prato, I made my way to Firenze, err Florence. From the view getting off the train, the station didn't look too different from when I was there last, albeit it smelled a little more like tobacco smoke that day. I went to stand in front of the nearby McDonald's, because my aunt told me to meet my younger cousins, David and Deo, there. I had not seen either of them in seven years, since the last time I was in the Philippines. I saw the pair, a relatively short, scrawny Filipino boy talking in Tagalog to a taller, older counterpart. I walked right past them, but they didn't recognize me, (granted I'm bigger and darker than I was before) so I had to call out their names. They had no idea what I look like, so it's all good.
        After eating lunch at McDonald's, I followed them on the bus to what appeared to be a random street. Walking close to some construction, in front of a yellow apartment building, Deo rang a doorbell for a seemingly nonexistent door. We heard a voice, Deo responded back, and Deo pushed the wall inward to reveal a basement apartment. This was the apartment of a number of their relatives on their father Tito Danny's side, essentially my in-laws.
        There, we met Tita Met, as well as a whole slew of the pairs' other cousins, aunts, uncles, and elderly relatives. There were Filipino Italian children watching television. A number of women talked in the kitchen. Through the entire apartment you heard conversations in both Italian and Tagalog, and English if someone was trying to talk to me. It was a small, yet bustling place.
        It was at this time Tita Edith called us up. She told me she didn't have room at her place for another person, and that she would put me up in the hotel, but when Tita Met overheard the conversation, she offered me a bed for the duration of my stay. Not having a particular need for hotel amenities, and wanting a more integrated local experience anyway, I took her up on the offer.
        I then followed Deo and David on a bus to Fiesole (watch that be spelled wrong). This was a small town outside Florence, up on a mountain. When we got there, I couldn't help but feel something strange was going on- there were men in tights waving around flags. No, I was not watching a marching band competition, but I was witnessing what was part of a town festival. Towns in Italy have patron saints, and once a year, would throw a large festival for them. I don't know who is the patron saint of Fiesole, but that wasn't going to stop me from enjoying the festival. Next thing we saw was a parade of the town's clergymen disembark from the square in a parade, followed by a marching band, and the colorful men in tights, toward the main church of town... which was right behind us. It wasn't a terribly long parade, but it was cool. They had a bit of ceremony at the front of the church, before I assumed that they would have mass. My cousins, Protestants, didn't care too much, so we moved on.
        We climbed what was a very steep hill, up to the top of the mountain. From there, we got an amazing view, and we could see the duomo, the stadium, and the city in its entirety. It reminded me of a conversation I had with another Semester At Sea girl who, during high school, snuck out and spent an evening walking up a hill to see the sun rise over the entire city. But apparently we weren't the only ones who knew about this spot, a number of people came up and down. I ran into an Italian man giving two Australians and a British woman a tour. We chatted briefly and they wished me luck on my travels. A really tired bicyclist also came up. I took a picture of him with his iPhone, a fitting reward of a profile picture for making his way up the entire mountain. There were also a couple couples who took their time overlooking the city, as well as doing what couples do, except what should be done behind closed doors, thank goodness. I was happy the pairs could share the view together, though it gave me a moment to reflect on what I was (not) doing with my life. There was also a convent up there, but the brothers were down by the church, not that I would make a big deal about seeing monks in their natural environment or anything.
        Hungry, we went back down to the festival, where there were numerous stands set up, selling food, clothes, candy, souvenirs, and some other odd things (spatulas?). My cousins bought donuts and Coca-cola from one of the stands, and as we walked back to the spot I got to take a close look at some of the goods. There were a couple of stands selling what looked like American memorabilia, t-shirts with the Star-Spangled Banner or the bald eagle, and bracelets that they claimed were American Indian. Looking at them, I couldn't help but not be convinced- I knew not of any American Indian culture skilled in metalwork, except maybe the long-gone Aztecs. Besides, one of the symbols had the yin-yang- Though I won't be blunt as to say it was fake, it created reasonable doubt. Anyway, if I wanted American Indian souvenirs, I would just go to the Smithsonian Museum of the American Indian (still my favorite museum).
        Deo and I walked back into town to find Tita Edith, who just got off work. It was a very awkward meeting to say the least- rather than going for a hug like I expected her to, she poked at my arms in astonishment. Honestly, they're not that big, and I've been lackadaisical when it comes to working out, but perhaps they were uncharacteristically larger than the average Filipinos. Waiting in the square for fireworks, she then showed us pictures from the last time I was in town- my arms were much thinner back then, I guess. I did, however, have a camera around my neck in a number of pictures. Some things change, others don't.
        A little later, the fireworks started. A single tiny hot air balloon rose up into the sky and the entire town went dimmed their lights and the people went quiet. And then the sky lit up with reds and blues. What was particularly notable about this firework performance was that they integrated the architecture of the square into it. They set smoke off in the buildings in front of us, and the bell tower behind us, and lit the houses in different colors so that they seemed to come on fire. I never would've thought to have done that.
        After the show, we met up with Tito Danny, who just got off work, and made our way back to Tita Met's. We then had dinner, which consisted of rice and fried chicken. Also, whiskey, Heineken, and brandy were put into my hands to drink, I find it funny I've done more drinking with family abroad than friends. The older people asked me questions about my life in the states and my family. Then I heard the words “American-Negro”- until I told them my mother was Filipino, they thought I might have been half-black or something. Granted, I am as tan as I've ever been, I'm as buff as I've ever been, and my hair is really short, and my beard is really long, and but I couldn't help but be shocked, and perhaps a little offended (not that there's anything wrong with African Americans, their comment just feeds into my identity crisis). I didn't know being Filipino meant keeping a certain look.
        Tita Edith then put me up to play ukulele for them, since I had one in my duffel. I played them a couple pop tunes, Bruno Mars, and Eminem. This one little Filipino Italian girl, Samantha, got upset when I was playing “Love The Way You Lie.” It was a song she really liked I guess. The girl sang along a little bit too, with a little coaxing from the elders. Though I have to say, the odd thing about this household is it doesn't have a guitar, usually that's a staple in a Filipino's house one way or another.
        After people dispersed and called it a night, I went to bed. I would like to describe my rooming situation as somewhere between Bel Air Hall and Harry Potter's bedroom during the first book prior to all the hoopla. It was a room underneath a staircase, though I had more than enough headroom for all the floor space. It was hot, and they made sure I knew it was going to be. I ended up not getting underneath the sheets the first night, and using the fan the second night. I shared the room with what must have been at least a dozen luggages, some laundry baskets, and some shelves. But it was more than livable. And I slept well. (Though maybe my legs would say otherwise, because I have mosquito bites all over...)

Day 1 took two pages, single-spaced in OpenOffice/Microsoft Word. Why do people fear writing essays?