Monalia's World

Here I sit in Florence, in my hotel room overlooking the Arno river. I can see Ponte Vecchio from my balcony. I pinch myself. Am I really here?

Zia Fiorella and Zio Roberto picked me up from the airport, we dropped my bags off here at my hotel, then they whisked me away to their house, where I spent several hours chatting with my aunt, reminiscing old times. She made a great, simple meal. She looks great. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I could easily mistake her for my grandmother, Nonna Gina. She is in fact, the same age as Nonna Gina was the last time I saw her. And when I think about it, I realize that I am older now than my Zia Fiorella was when I went to school here as a kid. Age and agelessness. I think I’ll move on to other themes now…

PHOTOS OF ME WITH ZIA FIORELLA AND ZIO ROBERTO:

HERE ARE SOME OF MY COUSINS:

Coming here to Florence I realize how lucky Mark and I are to live in Barcelona. There are not many green spaces in the downtown area of Florence itself (unlike Barcelona), and there is now an oppressive Berlusconi induced political climate in Florence where it is even prohibited to hang your clothes outside in view of the street to dry, you can get a stiff fine for laying down on a public bench on a hot day, (even tourists can get fined, or warned anyway), and the government is attempting to micro manage all aspects of city life. Even bicycles get fined for chaining themselves to a post or rail downtown. This would never happen in Spain – even if they passed such laws no one would honor them. After so many decades of Franco, the government has no power to enforce petty laws because Spaniards reject any signs of oppression. Technically it is against the law to smoke in restaurants and bars in Spain but the law is ignored. Technically it is illegal to sunbathe naked on the beach, to take your dogs on the beach, to stick your feet in a public fountain on a hot day … but these laws are not enforced – there would be a chaotic revolution if they were enforced.

Here in Italy it is illegal to sell alcohol after midnight. I cant imagine this ever happening in Barcelona. Also, there used to be lots of tiny fresh produce stores wedged in between the heavily trafficked downtown area here in Florence, but now there are only one or two.

Italy is also suffering from a sexist climate, where women on tv are all bimbos. There are quite a few prime time television shows featuring bikini clad women being interviewed by men who clearly think themselves superior. It makes me mad. I could not live here. I did not know this until this trip, in fact I’d had a secret fantasy to move back here someday to be near my Italian family, but now I know that Barcelona is close enough, I can visit anytime – the plane ride is only 1 1/2 hours and not expensive if you book in advance.

Last night I watched Silvio Berlusconi on tv, talking about the garbage problem in Naples. I almost took him seriously, until the camera pulled back and showed a bikini clad woman just sitting on a chair, for no apparent reason. She just sat there, posed like a barbie doll. Weird. There was no reason for her to be on stage like that, she never spoke a word and for the most part the framing was a close-up of Berlusconi talking to the people of Naples, encouraging them to recycle, to do their part in keeping the city clean.

Stefano tells me Berlusconi is a mafioso, and I believe it. I like my aunt Fiorella’s summary. She says, “I’ve never voted for Berlusconi, and indeed he is probably backed by the Mafia, but to his credit he does get things done. For instance, he created green spaces in Milano, something he would also do for Florence if the local government wasn’t communist”. Fiorella says, “The problem with Florence today is that unlike the Milanese, Florentines are mostly Communists, and communists are full of ideals but they don’t have the money or focus to get thing done.”

PHOTO OF ZIA FIORELLA:

I’ve had many “first time” experiences here in Florence:

– First time alone for a year (boarding school) – and first realization of just how alone in this world I am. It was also my first taste of independence.
– First time I ever felt accepted and loved unconditionally (my Italian family – lots of cousins, grandma, great-grandma)
– First kiss
– First time driving a car (my crazy uncle taught me to drive when I was 10)
– First time I ever played tennis (I took fortnightly lessons at my boarding school)
– First time jumping horses (I also did that at boarding school)
– First time on TV (I was chosen for a Christmas special about Christmas around the world, where I had to recite a Christmas carol in Engish (representing Christmas in America). They wanted me to sing it but I was so terrified all I could do was barely, almost inaudibly recite the poem/song about the 3 wise men. It was a very traumatic being on the spot like that, cameras and lights, standing on a stage with people in the audience who I could not see because of the lights shining on my face, reciting that absurd poem i couldn’t even relate to.
– The first time I accidently walked by a pervert (I was 10, walking down the big via that leads from my school to the city and there was a man behind a bush jacking off over a magazine). I ran the rest of the way down the hill.
– My first real boyfriend (no sex involved, but lots of kissing and heavy petting)
– My first disco dance (age 16)
– I saw my first 007 movie, and years later was surprised that 007 was an American film, for I had taken the dubbed over version as the real thing.
– My first rock star meeting (I met the Beatles age 11)
– My first modelling gig (age 17)
– The first time my life ever spun out of control (age 18)
– My first press (when I was 22 I attended a classical music program in Verona on a partial scholarship. I was a conducting major, and there appeared an article in the Verona newspaper about me and my conducting aspirations.

I love the aroma of the Tuscan countryside. Its like breathing in mother’s milk. The scent is a balm
for my spirit. I drink it in, pinch myself – yes, I’m still here.

I am feeling very loved today and am basking in the glow of being loved. Here in Firenze I am so popular that it makes me beam. Its not some story, some fantasy Monalia that I’ve come up with over the years, the Monalia Fiorentina. I am pretty much 100% Florentine somehow, I think. Not sure how that happened. My family is here. Not my mom and dad, but my extended family who I have spent so much time with over the years, especially as a youngster.

Yes, of course my immediate family lives in USA and indeed I am an American citizen and have American political roots, awareness, a house in Hollywood even…but the unanimous, uncomplicated family love all resides here in Florence. My heart flourishes, I have come here to find myself, the Monalia deep within and indeed I have succeeded.

I miss Mark, I miss Barcelona, but am basking in the warmth of my final 48 hours in this city.

My cousins and I have hilarious memories of being mischievous kids together. It was way fun to reminisce:

From my balcony view of the Arno I watch as people canoe by, the exact same way they did over 40 years ago when was a kid here. Only in those days the public was allowed to drive their cars down to the bank and people would walk along the banks. Nowadays you have to belong to chic club with the card to swipe to make it past the gate. They have canoe races here, and canoe teams row by, 8 men rowing, plus one at the helm.

I love this city, even though its currently teeming with tour mobs of 20 to 30 people following a flag. I had forgotten just how impressive, graceful, detail laden Florence is. The vibe has changed, but the city itself hasn’t. In fact, many of the roads are the original cobblestone that you don’t see in Bcn anymore. You really have to watch your step, especially on some of the “short cut” streets.

So its back to Barcelona with me today, being Friday the 19th. Goodbye family! Good by city of heritage!

GOODBYE FAMILY:

GOODBYE FLORENCE

GOODBYE TUSCANY

Italy is fantastic – my relatives really love me here. I return to Barcelona with a big warm glow from feeling genuinely loved. Next time I visit Florence it will be with Mark, to spend Christmas with my big, charismatic family.

My mother was born and raised in Florence, Italy. My father was an American soldier of Italian and French descent, He was stationed in Florence at the end of WW2. They met at a school dance put on to entertain the American troops.

Although I myself was born in Hollywood, I was asked at age 9 if I wanted to go to school in Italy for a year, to a boarding school in the hills of Florence called Poggio Imperiale. I jumped at the the opportunity, knowing it would please my mother. I would get to know my great grandmother, who she cherished. I didn`t like being a kid in L.A., there were too many mean kids around. So at age ten I went off to boarding school in Florence where I fit in immediately. After my year in boarding school,

My aunt, Zia Fiorella is my mother’s younger sister, and has the same whimsical, playful sense of humor as my mom. Zia Fiorella became my surrogate mammina that year. I would spend every other weekend staying with her. I would also spend some weekends with my other Aunt, Zia Vera, who lived down the street, but she had a more severe personality. We never became close, though her son, my cousin Stefano has always been my soulmate. Our already strong bond was cemented the year, a few years later, he came (alone) to spend the summer with my family.
Zia Vera had a great garden, and a dog named Dingo. My seven cousins (between the 2 aunts) all became my best friends. Both my grandmother and my great-grandmother were still alive. Life in Italy was a lot like how Fellini depicts it in his film Amacord. We would go to the local church on Saturdays, which would transform itself into the cinema that day. I saw my first James Bond movie (zero-zero-sette) dubbed over into Italian in the neighborhood church in Florence. The pews were uncomfortable, but they actually sold bags of popcorn. It was all a fun and funny way to see such classics for the first time, surrounded by cousins, friends, grandmas, families…little kids squirming on their uncomfortable pews. I remember “Questo Pazzo, Pazzo,Pazzo Mondo”, the slapstick comedy called Its a Mad Mad Mad Word in english, I believe. At age 10 I was speaking fluent Italian within three months.

I will be going to Florence in about ten days, to visit my family and to kick around old haunts.

It was this year in Florence that I began having adventures on my own.

Here is a photo of me taken in my Poggio Imperiale school uniform:

And this is a photo (from over 40 years ago) of my great grandmother, Nonna Lina, sandwiched between my aunt Zia Vera and my uncle, Zio Roberto:

THIS IS A SHOT OF ME TAKEN DURING FESTA MAYOR

Men dressed in revolutionary attire carrying big guns start off the fiesta this morning with their huge bangs at 8 am.

The opening of Fiesta Mayor is unique. The devils and the drummers start marching down the streets, some devils are in red, some in blue, some wearing black. The dragon is there too. A lady rings a large brass bell to warn everyone that the dragon will start spitting fire, and would then raise its head in the air, would spin around and explode.

The devils all take turns gathering in the middle of PlaçaTaulet. The red devils first. They gather around one crouching devil who holds the fire. The red devils all have long metal sticks with explosives on the end and the crouching devil lights them all. Then a huge spinning screaming smoking chaos of fire starts as the devils run around with their flaming sticks not caring if sparks shower on the gathering crowd, (typical Catalan professional devil – with so many festivals a year these devils are good at their trade). The drummers then make a huge drum circle and the devils dance in the middle.

Everyone assumes that everything happens at night but from 9:00 am on there are all kinds of random events going on. We encounter a big presentation in the Gitano neighborhood, guys with mics are saying things and people cheering. Then we see our first giant puppet. This one looks just like a person, a big fat Catalan, and it dances around to the bagpipes and a drummer. Very cool. They start marching up and down the streets and eventually end up in our very own Plaça Taulet. We follow them and hang around Plaça Toulet hoping something would happen. It does. A Lithuanian marching band plays out-of-tune Robbie Williams covers. Ha!

It is a blessing that our street is not decorated this year. Last year, of all the decorated streets competing, ours was the cheapest looking. Not much imagination went into our street. But the decorations in the Gitano neighborhood were absolutely phenomenal. A lot of talent, team work and hours went into their construction. The same energy went into that neighborhood this year. Our street is selling out to a new verve of expats pretending to be Spaniards, but the Gitano (gypsy) neighborhood (4 blocks from us, and the barrio where Mark takes flamenco guitar lessons) has retained its original integrity. This Festa is a big deal to them, and they take great pride in making the 4 square block gitano barrio a total multi-eye-candy event. Through our musical ties we are bonding with the gitanos.

Here is a casual photo of Mark with his gitano guitar teacher Antonio, who is one of the patriarchs of the Gracia Gitano community:

I took an afternoon bike ride with my camera to share some of the streets decorated this year, so click on any of the thumbnail photos below for a closer look at any one photo:

THIS MIGHT BE THE BEST SHOT I TOOK DURING FESTA MAYOR, CAPTURING THE INNOCENCE AND CUTENESS OF THIS FESTIVAL. Festa Mayor is an extremely mult-generational 1 week long party. The doting mom and also the abuela (gramdma) were also shooting this same photo, from their angle.

HERE ARE MORE SHOTS TAKEN FROM MY BIKE RIDE THROUGH GRACIA:

The action is near Plaça Taulet. This street has a giant corn head in the front end of the street and in the middle of the block is a stage with a Catalan electronica band playing with virtuosity and elàn. Catalan eletronica, wow! They are good! The singer is great, jumping around the stage (moving like Jello Biafra and sounding like The Wall of Voodo singer). But the backing music is all computers with a big digital video screen behind them showing videos timed to the music. They also have a live guitar player who is accomplished. And they are pure Catalan, they all have the lovable goofy look, a bit like John Belushi.

Then we go to another Plaça where a huge crowd has gathered. It’s a very mellow and friendly, just a fun and nice grouping. It has a big stage and a Catalan heavy metal band is playing. The singer is a fat-ish guy in a Mexican Wrestling mask and leotards, the rest of the “musicians” are just hair-swinging Catalan heavy metal guys. Smoke machines and lights and wah wah guitars.
All Catalan. Very impressive!

I don’t take any photos at night because I want to be free to dance. One night we happened upon an excellent Hip Hop band that happened to be Italian. They were great! Another night an incredible cuban salsa band had me dancing like an idiot. What fun!

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Mark and I have been having a blast all week, dancing our pants off on quite a few nights, showing friends around the hood on other nights. Lots of memorable moments. Tonight we were home from our night of dancing and roaming the streets, sitting on our couch, out of steam. It is around 3:00 am. We are fairly speechless and breathless, when we hear a lovely and haunting sax melody coming towards our place. I can hear it approaching from the top of our street. I grab my melodica and begin playing along, opening the front grate that leads to the street. As I do I lean against the corner, halfway in the house, half way on the street. I continue to play along to her melody. The girl on the sax is enchanted. Once she reaches our place she stops for awhile and we exchange licks and melodies, until Mark comes out with his guitar and plays along too. As we are about to run out of ideas Mark medleys into a rocking blues progression and this girl, who proclaims not not be a blues player, plays beautifully. The three of us riff off a standard blues progression for about 15 minutes before we end the song. A small gathering of passersby clap when we finish. She bows to me, I bow back, and her friend (who also has an instrument in a case but he never busted it out) comes over and kisses first me, then Mark, on both cheeks. We hug the sax lady and they continue off down the street, passing musicians in the night… This little improvised musical jam interlude was for me the most magical moment of this year’s festa mayor.

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