Cher in Florence

Last week I returned to the United States for a *visit*. I emphasize the word because knowing that I have a return ticket to Italy is a comfort. The culture shocks I usually experience after leaving Italy (spontaneous burst of tears) are not happening. Also, the idea of re-entering with this economy, where prices for food and rents are up, doesn’t make sense. My rent and groceries in Florence are stunningly affordable in comparison (for now). While prices at Brooklyn bodegas were unkind before, they are now downright violent. Everybody is trying to survive.

I have been away for five months. My friends and family have been telling me that it’s been rough (particularly in New York), but now that I am here I see that the issue is pervasive, real, and has affected nearly everyone I know. People are not just depressed, they are a little crazy. On the commuter train from Boston to Lowell, the train conductor spouted off to his “friend” in the seat in front of him—but really to every ear in the train car—that this country is going down the tubes. The MBTA is so bad off, he shouted, that the cheaper rubber they bought for the train wheels *smokes* (I could smell it, too). As the train passes by towns, he said, people call the fire department saying that the train’s on fire. I remember this conductor from years ago; he was always outspoken but never loud like this. Gone are the days of quiet formality. When I handed him the six dollars for the ticket, he said in a very forced, very pronounced, very loud way: “Thank you very much.” But when the dollars slipped out of either his hand or mine and floated onto the torn leather seat, his face grimaced and tightened up as I handed them back to him.

It seems some survival instinct has snapped in people. Boundaries are blurring. A friend who lives in New York told me that the execs at her office openly gripe about the Berlin office in front of their staff. Every few weeks, a couple of the Berlin people descend on the NY office for 24 hours to lay staff off. It’s all against one; alliances are forming in the face of all this uncertainty.

Last week I did some grocery shopping to cook up a nice spaghetti carbonara for the friend I was staying with. Twenty dollars at Associated Market (a good, inexpensive store for basics but never produce) bought me some eggs, pasta, cold cuts, butter, cream, and milk. Then I went to the upscale store in the neighborhood for the produce, pancetta, and the grated parm. Another $20. The guy who buys the cheese for the store told me that five months ago he sold a cheese for $10/lb. but now the price has gone up to $30/lb. so he’s had to stop selling it. He and his family want to buy a house in New York but they may be priced out, as so many people have been. He said they’re considering moving everyone back to Guatemala—where he was hoping to retire.

So, even though I miss everyone here, is it so terrible to imagine not coming back home for good right away?

In Florence, I paid 500 euro for a room the size of my studio apartment in Brooklyn. There was so much space! Depending on the exchange rate, that is about $650. The price included all utilities, including wireless Internet, and a washer machine in the kitchen. There was a patio out back to hang up my clothes. The supermarket was about a ten, fifteen minute walk away and there I could buy my week’s groceries (onions, potatoes, peppers, pasta, fresh mozzarella, sauce, ground beef, salami, coffee, eggs, a couple of bottles of wine, and more) for about 25 euro (about $32). Fresh bread at the forno costs about a dollar. A loaf of multigrain bread at the store about the same. My phone has rechargeable minutes and I pay about $10 a week. I hardly go out; maybe I meet up with a friend for an aperitivo or go out to dinner once or twice a month. Most of my money goes to bills in America. In other words, I live fairly strapped. But here’s the thing: it never *feels* that way. My life in Italy is simple. I never feel like I need very much in Italy. I am happy. A simple life is fantastic. Sure I wouldn’t turn down more money for traveling, and yes, to be entitled to their national healthcare, but really, I’m good.

Imagining the same thing in New York is hard. Everyone always wants to go out. Yes, it’s partly because no one has a big enough apartment to host dinners. But still. I remember going out with friends last year who were struggling writers, working on spotty freelance jobs, who would order $15 hamburgers without blinking. There is such a push in New York to say, Ah, screw it. Just put it on credit! It’s the city’s dirty, now open, secret. The infamous New York energy boosts you up onto this ubercompetitive superfabulous carpet ride (“I saw Ethan Hawke at Whole Foods! I love New York!”) and in the process it’s easy to find yourself—lose yourself—on the fun deluded train going to Debtville. It can be depressing to be broke in New York. You can’t play with the other children.

I’m only visiting, so maybe that mentality has changed now, or at least has been tempered. I also realize that this is my perspective, and that New York is not America (there are many other, quieter, lovely cities to live in). But maybe, ultimately, New York is just not my speed long-term. Place has influence.

I don’t want to sound bitter. I really love New York. But I never drank or spent more than I did when living there. When I was in tune with the city I walked very fast and felt very excited about everything. (New speakeasies that are oh-so-secret!) Now, in Florence, I walk slower, notice much more, and don’t crave what’s new.  When my friend Alberto saw me in December he said right away that he could tell I’ve “found my dimension” in Florence.

That sounds about right.