I live on the third floor of my palazzo. Apparently the
older apartment buildings are all called Palazzo, but it just sounds really
swish, no? I share the floor with 3 other apartments, some seem to have any
awful lot of people living in them and others have just one, like the New Guy
and Neighbor Guy. The New Guy just moved in this week and he is from Los
Angeles. Neighbor Guy moved in across the hall from me at the same time that I
did. I didn’t see much of him, but I could hear him come and go. I recognize
him as the monosyllabic person I was trying to have a conversation with at
school the other morning.
The next day, just after I came home, there is a knock on my
door. It’s Neighbor Guy. He’s wondering if I knew how to use the washing
machine on the floor. I haven’t used it, but how hard can it be to figure out? Of course, all the instructions and commands are written in Italian. This terminology isn't something that we have learned yet. "The dog is brown." yes, but "Full rinse and slow spin on high heat"? I'm sure that's next week's lesson.
He has run a load but the detergent didn’t seem to have been used, since it is
all still in the tray. So the two of us watch the washer run for a while,
wondering what to do. Was he using liquid soap? High energy machine soap? Front loader soap? I am somewhat horrified to realize that I have extensive knowledge on laundry and its soaps. Maybe the soap should have been in the right hand side
tray? I scratch the bottom of the detergent tray, trying to see if there is
anything written on it by way of direction. I don't feel any writing and I can't get my head in far enough because the machine is in a closet of sorts. So I suggest maybe pouring
water in it to dilute the soap and run into the wash. We watch the machine for
a few more minutes and then both slowly disappear into our respective
apartments. The whole cycle takes 90 minutes and so I hear him coming out to
check on it every now and then.
The next day at school, I ask him if his clothes came out clean
or are they crunchy from the detergent not rinsing properly, but all seems fine
and he doesn’t seem to be wafting detergent scent.
We keep running into each other and
eventually we have an entire conversation from our respective apartments across the landing through our open doors. In class, I have learned that "Pianerottolo" means landing and "Vicino pianerottolo" means "Neighbor on the same floor", or Neighbor Guy.
As I was coming home today I wanted to put on a load of laundry, but Neighbor Guy beat me to it. He said he wanted to go to the
mercato, so I tagged along, since I had to wait 90 minutes to do my laundry anyway. We walked up behind the Duomo (I will never tire of walking past the Duomo) and into the
tiny streets and eventually ended up at the mercato. Neighbor Guy is a very big
guy – easily six inches taller than I am and so it’s hard to lose him. And this comes in very handy at the mercato.
At the
very first stand, he is already talking to the vendor and in no time I see them
walking down the street to the shop. I follow along. This is not to be missed.
Oscar, the vendor, is showing Neighbor Guy all sorts of bags, briefcases,
messenger bags, portfolios, cigar cases - if it’s made of leather, he is
showing it. A totally unnecessary purse catches my eye and the saleslady shows
it to me and I ask about other colors so she brings them to me to show me. Then
she realizes that Neighbor Guy and I are together – so the price drops. Oh, and
we are foreigners? Take the tax off, too. Cash? And it drops again. And if he
buys the bag too, it drops even further. I’m not sure whether it is because it
is the end of their season or because the bags are really so over priced.
Neighbor Guy declines and so do I. Along we went, looking at the various
stalls. I tried on a pair of gloves. Rather, I was interested in a pair of
gloves and before I knew it, I was whisked into the store, asked a thousand
questions – where are you from, what language do you speak, how long are you
here for, what are you doing here, etc. I completely confound them by speaking
Italian, telling them that I am Canadian and so speak French too. Oh, and I
also speak German – because I look so German. And so the prices drop again.
Wee! This is fun! The glove seller puts a pair of gloves on me – an experience
not to be missed. And then walks arm and arm with me to the full length mirror
to show me how great they look. Really?
A full length mirror. Never mind the arm in arm.
I get my senses back and go out on to the street to find
Neighbor Guy. He’s talking with Shropom (at least that’s what I understood his
name to be) about belts. Shropom is here from Bangladesh working in Florence
and learning about the leather trade. Some days he works at the factory and
other days at the mercato. He looks very out of place, even though he is
wearing an Italia hoodie like everyone else.
And on it goes from stall to stall.
We turn around at the
end and walk back behind the stalls – past all the shops and bars and what is
seemingly normal life taking place behind the chaos of the mercato. We stop by
one last stall, are whisked off to the shop and I have no more willpower and
buy what I said I didn’t need – but the price was so good, I couldn’t refuse,
and they smell so good and they are so gorgeous and the leather is so soft. I’m
sure I will be able to use them lots. Maybe not at the playground or for
playdates or the school run, but maybe for going out for supper. Or to work. Of
course I will have to start working again. Or something.
Neighbor Guy feels bad that he wanted to go shopping and I
ended up spending money, so he carries my bags home for me. He figures it’s the least he
can do.
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