La Mia Scuola

Whats up whats up people? Ive been meaning to do this particualr post for a while and heree it is! This post is dedicated to the building in which I attend class everyday. For those of you wondering what Im learning about (other than the invaluable life experiences that come with living abroad), I am studying Italian theater, i.e. Pirandello, Machiavelli, Umberto Eco, etc. Interesting stuff. look it up. 
Anyways, I go to school in a palace. 


Not a joke. 


no really, I mean it. 


I literally walk up to a centuries old baroque palace, go in through the door of the palace, walk up the stairs of the palace, and attend class in. the. palace. capisci? 


Unfortunately there is no matching prince that comes with the palace. 


As there is no longer much need for palaces, this one has been converted into a library. It is so beautiful and picturesque, I cant even think of how to begin to describe it. so I just took a bunch of pictures!

time-worn marble floors

my favorite place to study 

stone door frames

 little statues like this litter the place - like, "Oh there's just another beautiful, priceless artifact on the floor. Oh, there's another..."

no this is not the Uffizi. this is the ceiling in our classroom. 

I love this shot! thats Matteo teaching 612 in the background. 

view from the terrace on the 2nd story into the courtyard.

the gate to enter the building; although a historical site, its closed to the public. I have to ring the doorbell and say a secret password to get in. Whats the password, you ask? its the fish flies at night. i can tell yall because there is a rather large ocean and rather expensive plane ticket keeping you from abusing this knowledge. also, if anyone got that super obscure reference to one of my favorite television shows, you will win my eternal love. tempting, I know.

the wall of my school - those busts are about 5 feet tall!

ceiling in the stairwell

the door leading out to the street

another shot of the wall - the window in the upper left corner with the open shutters is my classroom!

view of the 2nd story terrace from the courtyard. 

More of Florence.

Ciao lovely readers! here are a few more photos from my trip to Florence! xo, kels

My trip to Italy has spurred a new obsession with bell towers - they remind me of fairy tales; Europe is just crawling with them!

intricate iron light fixture at the leather school

this pop of pink is so happy! (ps everything grows SO WELL here, there must be something in the water...)

another bell tower

the elaborately carved wooden doors of Basilica di Santa Croce

front facade of Santa Croce (ps sorry for the vertigo - Im experimenting with angles)

translates to "School of Leather"

the next time you're in Florence, you must stop by - its immediately behind Basilica di Santa Croce and was one of my favorite parts of the trip. 

work station

he's making a belt for someone!

annd sweet Caroline made a purchase - a be-a-u-tiful black textured leather handbag. 

zipper detailing - I suggested that a gold zipper (instead of black) might be an interesting touch and Caro loved the idea! The man helping us said that would not a be a problem, that he would custom make it for her... Ok then, that works just fine! 

And then he offered to stamp her monogram on the inside in 22 carat gold. for free. ummm YES please and thank you. 

remember me?

FIRSTLY. 


let me extend my sincerest apologies for this hiatus. i have broken the cardinal rule of the blogosphere – never not post. yikez ok so Im going to try to make it up to you with an uber long post today and at least three more this week! i triple dog dare ya not to forgive me.


allora. 


Many of you are probably wondering what gibberish is written above... well people, prepare yourselves, because allora is my most favorite word in Italian. A-LLOR-A. ahh the way it rolls off my tongue seems so natural, like I’ve been waiting my whole life to find a word such as this. I use it like a crutch, I cram it in every sentence that I possibly can, I love it, I want it, I need it, alloraalloraalloraALLORA. 


ifwomanandwordcouldmarry. 


allora. what, pray tell, does allora mean? lucky for yall i speak a little italiano. 


According to wordreference.com:
Allora: then, thus, so


but from what I’ve gathered from a slew of dictionaries + cultural experience with the natives, I’ve decided that allora can mean almost whatever you want – its a great way to start a sentence. and end one. Allora, why not just stick it in the middle while you’re at it?


now for the next order of business. 


those of you who stalk me regularly on facebook (something I pretend to hate, but, like any other human being, I love. so stalk away people), know that I recently went to Florence. Now I know what you’re thinking – wow, Florence, what a cool city, what a cool trip, cool cool cool, yada yada yada. And that would be totally correct had this not been better than that! i.e. THE MOST AMAZING WEEKEND EVER. seriously, however cool a trip to Florence would normally be, multiply that times a million. 


***disclaimer – Im a huge fan of hyperbole; accordingly, I exaggerate too much a lot. So, its best if one divides the magnitude of everything I say by approximately 3. Per esempio, instead of mutiplying by 1 million in the above paragraph, one should simply mutiply by 333,333.333***


Allora, Florence was ah maz ing. It started off on a not so good note – during our train ride leaving Rome, I received a phone call from our hotel saying that they had made a mistake and that there was no room booked for us. Allora, at this point, Carolina and I are literally on the train heading to a foreign city in a foreign land with NO WHERE to sleep. I responded with the natural next few steps.
1. small panic attack. (would have been a large panic attack had I not been incased in the tiniest seat in the most miniscule train on the planet).
2. denial. (I am Cleopatra, queen of _______)
3. PRADA.


one of these things does not belong which the others…. thats right, how did Prada get mixed up in that list? This, people, is the point at which our luck began. Short of everything we touched turning to gold, nothing went wrong for the rest of the trip. 


allora, back to Prada.


As our train is rumbling along, I heard the voice of an angel the conductor through my blaring headphones, saying the word Montevarchi. This probably means nothing to yall, but Montevarchi is the tiny Italian town about 45 minutes outside of Florence where the Prada outlet is located. I looked at Caroline. She looked at me. Simultaneously, we shot up out of our seats and started running around like chickens with our heads cut off. Caro sprinted down the aisle looking for a conductor train-man thing; upon finding one, she simply enunciated, “PRADA?! IL NEGOZIO DI PRADA? PAH-RAH-DAH?” Cearly, the conductor train-man thing had experienced the starryeyedamericangirlwithlimiteditalian,blindedbyherunrequietedneedforluxuryitalianleathergoods. He smiled and said, Si. That tiny little word went off like a gun shot. A surge of adrenaline swelled through my bloodstream like a jolt of electricity. Caro and I careened back to our seats, leaping over luggage and small children. I lifted my 35 lbs suitcase like a piece of tissue, grabbed my handbag, and evacuated the train, all the while explaining to our group where we were going by repeating PRADA over and over. 


mind you, this was all in 4 inch tory burch carmel-colored combat boot wedges. the fact that I did not stumble, much less smash my face on the sidewalk answers an important question:
do wedges + archaic cobblestone streets equal a shameless invitation to introduce face to said cobblestones OR a sartorial success, silencing that faction of uninspired persons who maintain a non-negotiable policy of comfort over class (i.e. the horrific skirt/sneakers combo)?


cobblestones 0. Kelsey 1.


now for a quick soap box moment:


people, people, the unsightly union of sneakers and skirts may fly on the sordid streets of NYC to and from one’s place of work, but people. show some respect for the homeland of pradaguccimiumiuferragamo. grazie. 


Anyways, having successfully departed the train, we promptly hailed the nearest cab. Again, we said the magic word, Prada, and took off. We drove for about 20 minutes into the Italian countryside. LITERALLY in the middle of no where. I was starting to feel a little uneasy when I beheld an enormous, sleek, geometrically-shaped- wearhouse type thing. People, we had arrived. 


An Haiku to Space*
Space, how I love you.
You exist in the boonies.
But you are worth it. 


*The head honchos up at Prada HQ decided to call their outlet by a different name, Space. They also do not advertise. Apparently, some people deny its existence (I believe these are the same people who deny the existence of unicorns and Hogwarts). Allora, it appears that sale merchandice does not exactly equate with the aura of unparalleled luxury that Prada wishes to exude. 


Okay this is getting to be a bit long so I’ll cut to the chase [get back to my place…..ha]. Space was miraculous – rooms upon glorious rooms filled to the brim with Prada and all of its sister brands (HELLO MIU MIU!). Bejewled turbans? CHECK. Leather totes in every color under the sun? CHECK. 7 inch platform mary janes with french blue satin patterned with snow white sparrows? CHECK. Neon yellow, perforated patent leather wallet? CHECK. I could go on forever, I could live there, can I live there? Will they let me? Please, let me lie on a bed of Prada purses, I – WOAHH ok so sorry I need to stop. 


I did end up buying a pretty little something.

s p a c e

pretty pink box

Prada has their own sticky notes

bellissime scarpe!

l o v e.

t-strap kitten heels with studs and green gems + 50% off = perfection. 

SPACE = SUCCESS

After wandering through all the pretty, shiny, silky, lovely littly luxury items, we hopped back on the train and continued Florence. 


ummmmm come si dice reality check ?


OH RIGHT, WE HAVE NO WHERE TO SLEEP TONIGHT. after contemplating a return to Space, we decided to call our original hotel and have them try to make us a reservation somewhere else. What ensued was probably the biggest communication struggle OF MY LIFE for the following reasons:
a) the lady on the other end of the line spoke zero english. ZERO.
b) the lady on the other end of the line spoke a very thick dialect of Italian.
c) I did not speak this dialect
d) miming is impossible through the phone


Fortunately, the 3% of what she said that I actually understood was that yes, she made us a reservation, yes it was the same price, and his name is Roberto. 


uhhh who’s name is Roberto?


and btw, I’m still curious about that other 97%.....


to recap: Caro and I are now 20 minutes away from Florence. Were supposed to meet a man named Roberto. All we have is an address, two suitcases, and a beautiful pair on unworn Miu Miu kitten heels. 


Well, we found Roberto. In a church. There was about a 20 minute period of time where I thought I would be sleeping on a pew. 


Turns out Roberto is a priest in Florence who owns 3 apartments in the building next to his church. He’s a sweet guy really, about 75 years old, maybe lost a few marbles along the way, you know. Anyways, he led us up five flights of stairs, and with each step, my anxiety increased ten-fold; we had ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA what kind of living sitch this would be. 
He opened the door to our room, and, ALAS it was adorable. crisis averted. 


BUT THEN.


HE. OPENED. THE. TERRACE. DOORS. AND THERE,


50 YARDS AWAY FROM MY FACE,


WAS. 


THE.


DUOMO.


THATS RIGHT PEOPLE, BRUNELLESCHI’S DOME WAS RIGHT THERE OUTSIDE OUR BALCONY. 


Naturally, Caro and I proceeded to take probably 1 trillion pictures to prove that this actually happend. And so, I present to you, proof, in the form of a photograph. (and yes, its an awkward solo shot…)

here is the Duomo at night; I could barely fit the whole thing in the frame! – che bellissima.