First days in Florence

Yes I know. I read something similar in the Guardian the other day, just before leaving England. I had all the good reasons to leave the country that I cannot claim as mine. Now ten days later, I still think I made the right choice.

But with what cost…

Leaving South England for beautiful Florence causes a lot of envy. My first day here I lived all the reasons causing that envy: beautiful weather, stunning architecture, bohemian life style, good food, staying out late.

That’s all for that. Then real life begins. So I got the job, I got the apartment. Now I have to build the life around them. Being used to England where everything is just a mouse click away, Italy is challenging. The internet speaks Italian here, and does not do things for you… it only tells you about them, if that.... Then the internet stops working… just because, and you, go figure…

I have my little habits. I want to cycle to work. Then I want to cycle to my gym and then I want to cycle back home. Florence simply does not let me do all of that. I have to pick.
My enemies? The incredible traffic, the famous Florentine hills, the stunning architecture (with equally stunning walls around the building resulting in tiny roads of 40 degrees incline, somehow mostly uphill, don’t ask why)
I feel defeated. No way to get to the gym I want… so I visited the local one to accept my fate. My very welcoming host was a huge pumped up guy clearly Italian who clearly had spent far too many hours under the solarium lamp. The inmates of the gym looked rather suspicious. My eyes were locked on this old woman with full make-up on, working on her inner thighs… I could not stop thinking about her potential profession… la Madame? [Ahem…brothels are illegal in Italy, no?]

So that one, rejected… even though I was assured that all the players of the Fiorentina train here (one more reason to put me off).
Maybe I expect too much wanting just to import my old habits into a new environment. Maybe I should just accept that my only sport for a while will be the chewing of the gorgeous Italian pasta I can get everywhere.
Until I find my way around this city, or until this city finds its way around me…

But in the meantime I miss England more than just the anticipated little bit. Not for anything else, but for its ability to accommodate.

The EU Health and Safety Regulations and the sheep

You go one lovely Sunday (or whatever other day your country tells you to), and you vote for them. Then they go to Brussels and discuss things. The newspapers do not write about them, because they are too technical, who wants to read them after all, we want to sell some copies anyway… The Brussels people ask doctors, lobbyists, all kinds or random people full of knowledge.

Then they make a bill. Then they vote for it. Then it passes.

And then I go to work, turn on my computer, and five minutes later a sheep appears on my screen. It tells me: Hey dude, you are working too much, time to do some hand exercises. I press cancel. Ten minutes later it appears again, this time proposing some neck stretches. In the meantime I have lost the idea I am working on. The poor idea is lost in the deep gaze of a stupid sheep. Black, for your information.

And so the story goes. Every ten minutes I get a set of stretches, if put together they would give me a full pilates course.

As if that was not enough, seven and a half hours later the sheep tells me: You worked enough, your time is up! Time to switch of your computer, the sheep wants you to fuck off!

Has anybody informed this damn sheep that I am an academic? We LIVE in front of the computer. We need an Ethernet cable to breath! This sheep works in an academic institution, someone at some point has to teach it some manners!

And so has the EU invaded my life. First in a good way (paying my salary and exempting me from taxes) and then… through the sheep.

Oh not again! Now it is time to stretch my legs.
Farewell!
Baaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…..