A Room with a View

la vista dalla mia camera

In hindsight, I think I was a little overconfident about finding an apartment right away in Florence...I didn't realize it was a lot like New York City - everything is tiny and expensive. It shouldn't have still been available (two people had already booked a viewing), but I found a perfect one bedroom a block away from my school. The first person was delayed because of her flight, and I ran over to meet the landlords, Carlo and his sister Clara, before the second person had confirmed their appointment. It's a little more expensive than I was planning on, but it is cozy and perfect. I even have an intercom! This makes me feel a little bit like Carrie Bradshaw as I pile my hair on top of my head and immerse myself in books, and writing, and fashion.

I also feel safe in my neighborhood, Santa Croce, and my building is in between two churches. There's a big square with a daily market surrounded by cute shops and cafes about a block away. On my move-in day, I'm pretty sure I looked like a six year old on their way to their first sleepover as I walked over the Ponte Vecchio with my pink suitcase and matching pillow tucked under my arm...so much for blending in with the locals. My place is on the third floor, without a lift (it took me about thirty minutes and two water breaks to lug my suitcases up). Ninety-two steps, and each one tells me not to go to the gym.

questa è la tua stanza se mi visitate

la mia cucina

mia camera da letto

il mio armadio

e il mio bagno

All of the TV channels are in Italian, but I'm hoping this will advance my communication skills. And tonight I have an informational meeting about how to get adopted by an Italian family who will help me temporarily put aside my American ways as I fall in love with this beautiful culture.

La Vita Nuova: Firenze

Disclaimer: I didn't take this photo. One day I will...

“We do not accept FedEx envelopes for the application, only USPS. Leave!” And with that, the middle aged Italian woman turned on her black high heels and shut the door to the Italian Consulate, leaving me on the doorstep with no time to explain that I only had one day in San Francisco to apply for my student visa. I was fresh off the plane from Costa Rica with two large suitcases, a de-activated cellphone, and no car. The consulate is only open for two hours once a week, and the long line of people outside leaned away from me as I took the walk of shame towards the end of the block.

I’ve never seen an episode of ‘Survivor’, but I’m pretty sure that the way I avoided panic and pared down to life essentials in the middle of this unforeseen crisis would totally qualify me for the next season – I packed my camera and my laptop into my shoulder bag, and parked my two suitcases by the building (mentally saying goodbye in case they weren’t there when I came back). Sprinting up the almost vertical streets of San Francisco made me realize I should have done more cardio in Nosara, and I only paused to ask random people if I was going the right way towards a post office, any post office. I found one about fifteen minutes away, purchased the required envelope for my visa application and sprinted back. After standing in line again, I presented my paperwork at the door for the second time. The inspector said, “You only have the original acceptance letter from your university. You need the original AND a photocopy. Leave!”  Sweat trickled down my spine to the waistband of my skirt as adrenaline carried me back to the post office. When I returned in a pool of sweat with the necessary copy, the office was only open for fifteen more minutes. The girl at the front of the line must have been an angel holding my place and watching my luggage because she motioned me to step in front of her and go inside.  My nemesis at the desk raised an eyebrow as I approached (maybe because my hair still thought we were running), and she begrudgingly stamped and filed my papers for processing.

This was the beginning of my Italian adventure. When my visa came back only a week before I was supposed to leave, I began to feel a little nervous and anxious about how the rest of the story would go – my dreams had Italian women in black high heels at customs saying, “Leave!” Close calls, and unforeseen events make for great stories, but they seemed a little stressful without a traveling companion to help carry them. But everyone that I have encountered here in Florence since my arrival on Tuesday has only been welcoming, and it’s made me realize how passive it is to sit with stress and fear. I want to stay in love with where I am in this moment, and cultivate trust for the rest. Anne Voskamp says that trust is work – intentional and focused. Anxiety and fear keep our lives small, and the combination of trust and love is the remedy. “Trust is everything.”

I feel overwhelmed by how happy and grateful and alive I feel here…and I’m secretly relieved that “Survivor: Florence” never made it off the ground. 

Carmen Sandiego

I don't know where it came from, but when I was taking photos for this post the theme song from the old game show "Where In the World Is Carmen Sandiego?" began running through my head. I loved this game. It took me all over the world and to Mt. Kilimanjaro several times in hot pursuit of V.I.L.E. henchmen...and yes, I am a slightly nerdy child of the eighties. Anyways, for those of you wondering where in the world I am, here are some photos of my surroundings in Nosara, Costa Rica:

My studio apartment: Color Champagne

My "driveway" for Reggie, mi bicicleta

Mi casita bonita

Poufs are my new favorite - they are furniture, yoga props, pillows, and comfort all rolled into one place

La cocina

El comedor

And mi cuarto

Ending early morning practice with fresh coconut water

Staff meeting huddle :) Mi familia de Nosara Yoga Institute

Staff lunches make my day. I don't even mind that I have a food baby.

My days lately consist of editing and organizing photos that I took during the trainings (more to be posted here soon!), teaching yoga classes, offering pranassage, beach walks, studying with some of my teachers here, and reading (right now a couple of books on Laughter Yoga and Restorative Yoga). Nutshell life update. And I'm coming home to the state of Washington in two weeks! Unless Carmen steals the Cape of Good Hope, then I'll be in South Africa...

Present Tense

“Some people have a hard time being happy because they see the past as better than it was, and they see the present as worse than it is.”

My stomach flipped when my whirling torso came to a stop, and the room continued to spin in my head. “Again! Again, Aunty Rachael!” two voices chanted in unison. A camouflage-slippered cowboy rode my back while a hot pink tutu clung to my front. I receive gold stars of achievement for a being a human tilt-a-whirl when I am with my niece and nephew. They never tire (unlike their aged aunt), but I rallied more oxygen for a final round. “Ok!” I warned, “Last time, guys!” We gathered speed and harnessed momentum. As the living room furniture and lights around us blurred together, giggles erupted from both sides. When we began to slow for a smooth landing, my two-year-old niece tilted her blond fountain top back and yelled, “I am happy!”

New Year’s Resolution #1: revive a childlike enjoyment for the simple wonders surrounding my present tense. 

Monday, October 24th - Stretch For Freedom!

True-faced

I have a restaurant serving voice. It’s higher in pitch, a little more breathy (comparable to Enya), and very accommodating. It doesn’t miss a beat to sweetly say, ‘Thank you” when a large party leaves a fake thousand dollar bill imprinted with a verse about riches in heaven in place of a tip. And it always sings, “No problem” when all twelve people at one table need last minute separate checks. A week ago when one of the bussers overheard me direct a customer to the bathroom, he laughed and said, “What was that? That’s not your voice.” His comment made me think about whether my Italian restaurant persona was a part of my personality or a cover. Sometimes after spending generous amounts of social energy on a table, the tip on the check seems like a report card – if the customers like me and think that I’m funny then they leave twenty percent, and if they don’t “click” with me then they leave less (or occasionally nothing). When the latter is the case, it’s comforting to think that they weren’t rejecting the real me, just the server wrapping.

A few weeks ago when I was working a chaotic Saturday night, a gentleman at one of my tables snapped his fingers in my direction and then lifted his eyebrows as well as his empty beer glass. I dropped the five things I needed to be doing, walked over to him, and I calmly asked him in a lower tone, “Did you just snap your fingers at me?” He shifted in his plastic deck chair. I gave him a half smile and continued, “Maybe your mom didn’t tell you, but it’s rude to snap at people as if they are animals. Would you like another drink?” I felt liberated as I walked away – using my voice in that moment cleared away any concern for whether or not I had failed in his estimation. When I went to reset their table later I found a generous tip, perhaps an unspoken affirmation for speaking from a place of authenticity (even as a waitress).

Different people and places bring out the diverse aspects of a person, but multi-faceted in this respect should be like the many shapes and colors in a stain glass window – all illuminated by the same light within. 

Transitions and Turtles

 

I went out to coffee with a dear friend last week, and while we caught up on life she told me that she might be approaching adulthood because of two recent developments: she had become an early riser, and she was journaling regularly. I silently calculated how the first point might make me doomed to an eternal childhood, and then I told her how happy I was that she was writing everyday. “You should start a blog,” I said. “Oh, I don’t know,” she responded, “I’m not sure if I’m ready for that yet. I would just hate to be one of those people that start a blog and then don’t stay with it.” I let her words seep into the table beneath our coffee mugs and watched her face as she connected the dots that I had started a blog while in Costa Rica, and I hadn’t updated it in over a month since returning home. Her facial expression seemed to waver between a sheepish, “Well, I didn’t mean you!” and a mischievous, “If the shoe fits…” I laughed and promised on my soy latte that I would not be “one of those people.”

In January I was on a blogging honeymoon where the beaches are white and everything seems new and exciting, and now as of April I have moved back in with my parents in Wenatchee where my surroundings are familiar and comfortable. But the end of the honeymoon is really just the beginning – it’s a transition into the nitty-gritty glories of real life.

Confession: I hate transitions. They are uncomfortable and too slow for my liking. I much more prefer hurtling through time and space to get from point A to point B. In one of my evening yoga classes in Nosara, the instructor asked us to give as much attention to our transitions between poses as we gave to the poses themselves. It was a lot harder to move through the flow with deliberation and awareness in place of speed and momentum. After class was over, everyone dispersed toward their housing that was only a few blocks away, and I was alone in the dark with only Betsy the bike and a 30-minute ride on the beach to my house. I was exhausted and would have given anything to skip over the next half hour to the time where I would be blissfully falling into my bed. As I began to pedal forward, half of a shell caught on my front tire, letting out all the air. Feeling as deflated as my tire, I was hosting a black-tie pity party for myself when something coming out of the ocean caught my attention. It was almost a full moon, and a huge sea turtle the size of a barrel was crawling out of the waves towards me. It was magnificent. And I almost missed it.  

So here I am, back home and trying to embrace the large areas of unknown in my life right now. The turtle might just be the tip of the iceberg of things that I speed right by without a glance of wonder and appreciation. And yes, I just used turtle and iceberg in the same sentence.