if only words could describe colours.

Imagine your most perfect, sweaty summer day and try to put every feeling of that day into something you can only see through your eyes. That is the Amalfi coast of Italy.

Arden and I imagine sirens on the rocks and warriors with tritans, exploring the seas and mountains of the Amalfi coast in the old-olden days. We crave green space, as the regal age of Florence masks its absence. So, we find Amalfi on the map and we go. Throw yourself into some decisions and figure out transportation as you go. Never a dull moment guaranteed! An ideology Kurt calls, “ready, fire, aim!” Where there is intrigue in potential. Dried fruit, nutella, euro store wine and chit chat with a Neapolitan professor slash wine connosuier (sp?) (who was diggin’ our one-buck-chuck) make trenitalia the best place to enjoy. Between getting lost on the island of Capri as 3 of the 15 people on the land, sneaking into the Hotel Luna and eating their hymsumsim sour plants while running around like banshees in front of security cameras, being the topo-map keeper while only getting us all lost at sunset forcing a hitch hike, realizing we were only ten minutes away from our destination, and running into a pack of mountain goats, the Amalfi Coast was the most entertaining and awe-striking place on the whole earth. (only to be enjoyed while wearing the same clothes for 4 days and nights straight).

Naples is disheveled chaos in a baroque background

(with palm trees and plastic flamingoes).

But secretly beautiful, like Baz Lhurmann placing Romeo and Juliet in 1990’s Venice Beach.

Mt. Vesuvius is a reminder of time.

how it passes, where it is given, how its increments are valued by humans.

We take a boat to our playground, the island of Capri.

Accompanied only

by kids in their colorful coats, women harvesting backyard orange trees.

Chilly fishing town by winter, J.Lo’s getaway by summer

glamour’s ghost.

Casas carved into cliffs, that each morning greeted by the Mediterranean.

Villas del Helios.

Each step along our trail, a different view framed by birds.

If someone had seen this sight before me,

it would surely already be in the hall-of-fame of heaven.

Unless they just kept it for themselves, like I do.

Limitless beauty, nowhere but here.

Skin-itching excitement for the view bound a few steps ahead,

Yet feeling permeating through your eyes in the present moment,

so much that all other senses are lost.

Sirens on land

mermaids swim in the sea.

From which earth’s sky models its color.

Aquamarine gold becomes indigo tangerine in sunset rainstorms

that follow us along our walk.

Evergreen, olive trees, ivy, dandelions, orange trees, moss and tropical lillies

all in one place!

Doves.

Pass kissing lovers,

standing where perfection can be infinite but only captured at one moment,

where you want to be held by someone at the same time,

standing in sure perfection with unsure excitement of love and who its with,

content turbulence.

In Positano

Sit the beach in a sweater

listen to seagull screech, watch fish flop in threaded nets.

Find balance of mountain, sea, village.

Allow the pasticceria to bake pastry smells into your nostrils.

You will know the mailman’s hometown.

Quiet, you will see everything.

Then the “Path of the Gods” leads through the center and away from the coast town Amalfi, bambinos play kickball off the cathedral, limoncello is made through the windows. Salmon colored matchbox houses dwindle, lemon trees multiply; stream becomes a river, trail leads upward. Mountain goats’ bells, crashing waves, mountain height. Literally getting lost (even losing your own stomach), only to find a secret 2 mile staircase off the highway near a handwritten sign that says to amalfi. That noone but us will ever find, ever. Hiking sees what you’re not supposed to. Or what no one else has before.

The breath inside of my lungs was replaced for 4 days by the something, I do not know what. Because the awe of the constant scenes of the Amalfi coast is as mythical as the fish I imagine to be swimming inside the colour of diamonds.

Capri, Reina de Roca

en tu vestido

de color amaranto y azucena

vivi a desarrollanola dicha y el dolor- la vina llena

de radiantes racimos

que conquiste en la tierra.

-pablo neruda

(found on a plaque along the hikers trail on Capri, exactly the spot where it was written. most beautiful when not translated.)

i do not think you should

keep track of where you are at each point.

that’s like writing a poem

and stopping at every punctuation,

making sure the flowers still smelled how you describe them,

or making sure that the first time you loved it was real,

that it did feel like an explosion in your mind and body,

a vacuum released in your heart;

but the richest colors exist

in the spark of moment only,

the deepest permeation of sun and sweat and searing sense.

Cin, Cin!

Just a quick city bus ride out of the tall, old, canopy of Florence, our artist professor Matilde leads us to Chianti, a Tuscan region of the famous Chianti wine (the kind you imagine pirates drink, wrapped in bamboo and palms, and of course, Kurt's favorite). Matilde’s friend lives on this farm, and her family makes Chianti wine and olive oil, so delicious that I have begun eating it out of a latle, alone. We hop off the bus and onto the dirt road, mostly inhabited by farmers who still dress in herringbone and fine linen despite almost living outside. The hillsides are covered in olive trees, and that’s when you understand why they mean peace. I think peace happens when the opportunity to feel the sun and move in the wind is had by all, like these trees have. 30 minutes of getting our boots dirty and noses red from the breeze we walked up to a villa as old as Leonardo DaVinci, in fact, he drew this very same one on a map the he drew of the region in the 1400s. Cyprus trees move ever so slowly and regally side to side, and cream colored horses are running everywhere.

Farmers live the best lives, I decided. THEY are the masters of the world.

We gather bread, garlic, tomato, eggs, milk, olive oil, wine and sausage, some oregano here and there, and prepare bruschetta in the open brick oven. Candles light the kitchen and the tiles are so intricate that they look like flowers lost some of their color to the paintbrush that made them. Every piece of machinery in the kitchen is manual, and I am officially the star of the movie Under the Tuscan Sun.

Italian food = Italian style = Italian everything: the essentials. No more, no less. Simplicity done so well for so long, that you forget that the tastes weren’t intricately engineered, but rather just happened. We grate cheese, pour wine and share in a home cooked, home grown meal of bruschetta (toasted break with olive oil, salt, garlic and sausage meat) and spaghetti (tomatos, pasta, oil, oregano and parmesean), finished with more Chianti and tiramisu that we prepared from the eggs found in the chicken coop earlier that morning. The owner’s son even brought his puppy to the table, who was passed around to enjoy like some kind of delicious gravy would be.

And the moment I fall in love with Italy happens: Matilde proposes a toast, (“cin cin” in Italiano), telling us “ze molto importante ting to know en Italia eeeees...” to look each person in the eye as your glasses clink, or else you will have fortuna terribile in your sex life for a whole year.

if i remember nothing else, i will remember this very important fact.

Spezzatura: A Guide

signore, l'ippogriff bookshop; via roma, firenze

Stile d'Italia:

lessons learned from the most well-dressed people in the world,

(and from mr. sartorialist).

being vintage: it is romantic to have that sort of commitment to a way of life.

the quiet simplicity of barbers and tailors is touching.

one of the basic needs of a person is to be understood.

a little goes a long way.

someone must really know themselves in order to communicate great style.

sometimes things are just wonderfully foreign, and that is okay.

old italian gentlemen have more spezzatura than rhianna and bob dylan combined.

"spezzatura" means "swagger" in italian.

the craziest people, the most beautiful people, the most foreign people should all be found in every alley, every street, in every city.

utilize the elements of design: colour, pattern, texture, proportion. all you need.

your look should never be too precious.

women want to show off their newest when they dress, men their oldest.

practice an innate cultural way of looking at fashion.

sometimes certain people are just born with a special something.

jumping on a bike makes everything more romantic.

ciao, Mr. Sartorialist.

The Sartorialist my louver (and Garance Dore) came to visit Florence for Men's Fall Fashion Preview Week (and to sign my book.)

www.thesartorialist.blogspot.com

The Sartorialist Party at Luisa Via Roma:

I am not wearing a purple Armani (or perfect thrift) suit with oxford shoes made of bamboo and patent leather, stitched with the same color as the scarlet red frames of my thick spectacles, so I stand out alot.

My language does not sound like how butter tastes (I am not Italiano), so I stand out extra a lot.

but if you’re inherently not going to fit in for being American in Italy, you might as well go all the way and place yourself among the best dressed in the world. Glamour’s most hidden, finest patrons. In a glass garden courtyard. there lie the masters of the world.

Where the pear champagne flows like pitchers-of-miller-at-charley’s and real Sartorialists are everywhere.

I told Scott Schuman I was from Missouri.

He told me Missouri (St. Louis- Frontenac) is where he got his first Armani. And like an idiot, who does not know how her questions sound when they come out, I meant to ask him how old he was when he got this first Armaaani, and it came out as (so eloquent):

"Oh! How old are you [Mr. Sartorialist]?"

"---How old am I?"

Wonderful.

buona sera, and ti ami carrie dennis.

Via San Zanobi 104 Rosa

Welcome to Florence, Italy, Signorina.

The colors so old and regal that they expect you to use them for your soul.

And to bring them all with you where you go.

Teenage love novels tell lovers to put their locks on the fences of the Ponte Vecchio.

Find all of the gold jewelry that sunk to the depths of the Arno

in the flood of 1966.

You are sure to meet a member of the mafia, at least once per day,

without knowing.

Pasta with tomatoes, whose insides have absorbed more of the basil than the leaf itself, invent a language by which I can understand the Italians, and they can understand me.

But all other times I can pretend I am from Turkey so they do not speak English to me. Soon I will become Italian, I think.

Everyone in Florence, a Bon Vivant,

Whether you live in the Pitti Palace or sweep its marble steps.

Feet and desert boots see the world.

Maps are obsolete.

I have not yet sketched the collection of lost lovers’ padlocks on the fence on the Ponte Vecchio,

I have not been inside the brass doors of the duomo, or touched its moss green tile.

I have not seen David.

But I know that Florence is the place already.

Art does not insist on being correct.

But, Florence is the exception.

It is correct.

Artists are to keep some sort of arms length from their work to avoid the danger of closeness, but it may be impossible not to become your own fictional character while making art in Italy.

Whether you know where you are going or you do not,

you will certainly bump into it without even having that purpose.

Thus inventing a different place.

Spend most of the day getting lost that way,

and finding what you weren’t looking for.

Loving someone is a hobby. Finding a lover is a Florentine sport.

To be in love with the fact, the mantra-

that daily, the necessities of smell, romance, food, company,

(nothing more or less)

are most important,

demand the most energy.

Miles (Davis Junior, Allison and Ada’s best friend),

resident dog of Santa Reparata school of art

wears softer sweaters than I do,

and knows Italian better as well.

Men are so beautiful, that even the hidden stitches on their pressed pant hems

make you want to hold onto the back of their neck and have them press their lips

against your forehead.

Ciao tutti.

write letters to me and i will write you one back.

i love letters.

carolyn wiedeman

c/o santa reparata intl. school of art

via san gallo 53/r

50129 florence, italy

WE ARE MANY

of the many men whom i am, whom we are,

i cannot settle on a single one.

they are lost to me under the cover of clothing

they have departed for another city.

when everything seems to be set

to show me off as a man of intelligence,

the fool i keep concealed on my person

takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.

on other occasions, i am dozing in the midst

of people of some distinction,

and when i summon my courageous self,

a coward completely unknown to me

swaddles my poor skeleton

in a thousand tiny reservations.

when a stately home bursts into flames,

instead of the fireman i summon,

an arsonist bursts on the scene,

and he is i. there is nothing i can do.

what must i do to distinguish myself?

how can i put myself together?

all the books i read

lionize dazzling hero figures,

brimming with self-assurance.

i die with envy of them;

and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,

i am left in envy of the cowboys,

left admiring even the horses.

but when i call upon my DASHING BEING,

out comes the same OLD LAZY SELF,

and so i never know just WHO I AM,

nor how many i am, nor WHO WE WILL BE BEING.

i would like to be able to touch a bell

and call up my real self, the truly me,

because if i really need my proper self,

i must not allow myself to disappear.

while i am writing, i am far away;

and when i come back, i have already left.

i should like to see if the same thing happens

to other people as it does to me,

to see if as many people are as i am,

and if they seem the same way to themselves.

when this problem has been thoroughly explored,

i am going to school myself so well in things

that, when i try to explain my problems,

i shall speak, not of self, but of geography.

-pablo neruda (and ada)

so long, america.

good kar-MA!

"if you go to someone,

some doctor or medicine man

who say something bad,

do not believe them for one second!

you remember that everything will be good.

you must not ever lose this.

good side and bad side like tha moon.

you know both very well.

good kar-MA!"

-k.l. medicine man, painter

karma and mangosteen

i see the moon in your back.

come to my house for jasmine tea

and lotus flowers.

i am in love with foods

and with the fact and mantra that daily,

life sustaining things are the most important

and thus demand the most energy.

selamat sore.

goodbye indonesia.

ubud, bali/yogjakarta, java