Good Things Come To Those Who Share Their Cheese

She looked at me for a moment, thinking. 
"I don't know...I mean, there would probably be rice." 

I reassured the Lorenzo de'Medici advisor that I didn't need anything special; I was merely curious as to what would be offered at the Welcome Dinner and whether or not I should plan accordingly and eat prior to going. 

She looked up, smiled, and said, "I'm sure they can do something. Just come find me at the beginning of the dinner. We'll get something figured out."

When it came time to leave that evening for the dinner, my two roommates decided that they would rather stay in. I shrugged. It was a free dinner--I wasn't going to pass that up. I started the 25 minute walk across town to attempt to find this restaurant where the reception would be.

It wasn't a restaurant. It was a palace. 

Tables stretched across the banquet halls, full of trays with fresh bread and bruschetta, calzones, and heaping bowls of pasta. I looked for my advisor, but in the sea of thousands of students lining up for free food, she was nowhere to be found. 

I approached the table, and asked the waiter if there was food "senza glutine." He held out his hand, saying, "Wait right there. Don't leave. Don't go anywhere." He disappeared into the crowd, and I stood awkwardly as students pushed past me to reach the baked ziti. 

The server reappeared with a bowl of risotto and pomorodo. 

It was one of the best things I have ever tasted in my entire life. I had five plates of risotto that night--I'm still dreaming about it. 

I ran into one of the advisors, and mentioned that I was looking for my advisor. When she asked why, I explained briefly, and she insisted on helping me, even though I was perfectly satisfied with the risotto. She was determined, and led me through the crowds to the kitchen, where she spoke in rapid Italian to the chefs. They told me to return to the kitchen in 15 minutes for my own personal pasta. 

As I waited, the tables were cleared and dessert was served. Flan, trifles, and puddings galore. I recognized a panna cotta, which we had made in our cooking class a few days ago. I had been able to eat that, so I filed in line and scooped some on my plate. A waiter passed me, and I thought, better safe than sorry. I asked him if it was gluten free, and he left to inquire with the chef. He returned with a horrified look on his face, waving his arms shouting "No! No! Don't eat!" 

I set the plate aside as if it were poison. 

Then, I heard another girl in line ask if the dessert was gluten free. The server she asked assured her it was, and she heaped some on her plate and walked away. I looked at my discarded plate, thought about the contradicting reviews on the dessert's glutinosity, and thought, Well if she's going down, I'm going down with her.

Yeah, there was gluten in it. 

But it was delicious. Fruity and full of caramel and amazing. I regret it, but it was nice while it lasted. Sin is like a snowflake in a river. Pleasure for one second, then washed away.

I went back to the kitchen to inquire about the status of my pasta. The waiter said it would be another 15 minutes. I told him it was no trouble and that I had eaten risotto and didn't want them to go to great lengths. I thanked him and turned to walk away, but he motioned for me to stay. He disappeared, only to reappear with the largest platter of mozzarella I have ever seen in my life. It took all the waiter's upper arm strength to hold this platter. I looked at him quizzically. He smiled and said, "For you!" 

"Oh, okay...wow, thanks!" I picked up the fork to take a piece in appreciation.

"No." He shook his head. "The whole thing is for you."

I looked at him, shocked. "What am I going to do with all this mozzarella???" 

He shrugged, passing the platter to me. "Share with friends," he said. And then walked away.

I stood there, dumbfounded, with the world's largest plate of cheese ever. I waded my way through the crowd and found a table where I could set my treasure. I wasn't there long before I heard someone demand, "How did you get that mozzarella?" 

I stuttered at the group of girls who surrounded me. "I...don't know...they gave it to me." Then I remembered what the server said. "Here!" I thrust the platter towards them. Before I could think, I heard myself say, "Be my friend and have some cheese!"

The BEST risotto...ever

The girl who had demanded information regarding the acquisition of my cheese just looked at me, but her friend grabbed a handful, saying, "Don't mind if I do" as she shoved it in her mouth. She covered her mouth with her hand as she munched, and said in a thick Dutch accent: "So, where did you get this?" 

I began to speak, then stopped, too tired to explain in depth. "Oh," I shrugged, "the waiter gave it to me because of my food allergies."

"Oh, what allergies do you have?" She was genuinely curious.

I sighed. "It's called Celiac."

Her eyes lit up. "Shut. Up. I have Celiac!" 

So, we were best friends for the rest of the night. We talked about our diagnoses (she received hers at the age of 2), how we cope with it here in Italy, and what happens to us when we eat gluten. 

When you talk to another Celiac about how your symptoms manifest themselves, it is quite fascinating. You start to sound like a group of young Little League boys comparing their baseball cards:
"Well, I have extreme nassau and diarrhea."
"Oh, cool! I get bloated beyond belief and extremely cranky!"
"No way! I get really disoriented easily and sometimes I even faint!"
"I just sleep a lot."
"Ah, man, I wish I could trade you! I would love to just sleep a lot!"

As we talked, she mentioned how hard it was to participate in some of the social functions that had already been offered, such as the cooking class. I nodded in agreement, but said that I still enjoyed the cooking class because they prepared me my own plate of pasta. 

"They did?" she asked.

"Well, yeah," I said. "As soon as they knew I was Celiac, they organized the whole thing. And I even got gloves to wear to make the pasta."

"Oh." She looked down, disappointed. "I didn't even go. I figured there would be no point.

I stood there, with my huge platter of cheese and belly full of risotto, thinking about all the accommodations people had been kind enough to make for me. I felt blessed, and at the same time, like a bit of a burden. However, by making my condition known and not letting it keep me from going to restaurants, cooking classes, and food tours, I was able to experience so much. I felt proud of myself for putting myself out there and trying to do what everyone else was doing. I was proud for trying to get the most out of my experience. 

After about 20 more minutes of talking with Giorgette (my new Celiac friend), we looked around to see the hall completely abandoned. We were the last ones, with the exception of the staff, who were scooping up discarded plates and wine glasses off the floor. We laughed at the fact that we hadn't even noticed everyone leaving. We grabbed our purses and prepared to depart. 

"Wait!" I turned and looked behind me. Standing there was a waiter, grinning, holding a huge plate of pasta. 

"For you," he said, handing it to me. "Gluten free?" 

I looked down at the plate, and heard Giorgette from behind me say, "Shut. Up."

Celiac Selfie!

"Oh," I said, taken aback by their kindness. "Wow, um, thanks!"

There was no fork. Giorgette and I stood around this plate, eating the delicious gluten free pasta with our hands in an empty palace, enjoying the fellowship of someone who finally understood. 

Good things come to those who share their cheese.

Pasta...for two!

My Italian Recipes

I want to cook.
I NEED to cook.
It feeds my soul...and it is one of the only ways I can feed my body.

The first meal: gluten free pasta, spinach cooked
in olive oil, fresh tomatoes, chicken breast, garlic, and onion, all
tossed in a pesto cream sauce

So, I have decided to frequently update pictures and 'recipes' from what I create with: what I happen to pick up in the Mercato Centrale that day, and what I find in my pantry.

Of course, there are recipes I won't bother blogging. Like a little gem that has been a personal favorite/lifesaver since my arrival. It is very simple and is sure to please every time...although I have just exhausted my supply and will no longer be dining on it's exquisiteness: Reese's Cups.

Or, another personal favorite, Thai Kitchen Rice Noodles (on the stove this very moment).

I will say, this is the most finicky stove I have ever seen. Even our landlord admitted that the gas stovetop was "difficile" to ignite, and my roommates and I have on more than one occasion had to open the windows to let the gas out of the kitchen. The trick is turn the gas valve, hold the gas on until the flames ignite, then continue letting gas leak into the kitchen for approximately 5 seconds before releasing your hold on the knob. Otherwise, you let go and the flames disappear.

Resourceful cooking for dish 2:
Leftover pesto, spinach, chicken,
and tomatoes mixed with brown rice
and quinoa.

Getting the flames isn't the hardest part, though. It's finding that balance between scalding and dead cold. The pans will scream from the heat, but even budging the knob with the lightest touch to take it down a notch will result in the entire stove top going cold.

Thus far, I am the only tenant who has successfully used the oven (see the granola/apple dish). My roommate lines her frozen tortellini on the heater to defrost them. Not having a microwave is a complication. But, I've found some creative ways to get around that! (see my ghetto double boiler)

I steamed this artichoke in a clay pot...
I didn't know how it would turn out,
but it was the meatiest and most tender artichoke
I have ever had! I definitely underestimated the
 amount of time necessary to steam an artichoke,
so I was eating this little guy at about 10:30 at night. 

I crumbled a gluten free granola bar,
sprinkled it with sugar, cinnamon, and
a leftover apple. Baked in the oven for
about 20 minutes. Delicious!
#whoneedspastries

I refuse to be the person who walks around Florence with a PB&J because I cannot indulge in the powdered, cream-filled croissants. I refuse to not explore cooking simply because I'm not allowed to enroll in the cooking classes or cooking clubs here due to my allergies.

My 'double boiler' used to melt butter: a teacup with butter,
held in the water I steamed the artichoke in!

Speaking of allergies...one shout-out to the best mother ever who purchased me "toaster bags"--an innovative way to place my gluten-free bread in a glutenous toaster (or, in my apartment, panini press). It is an adorable heat-resistant plastic bag that perfectly seals in your bread, preventing any chance of contamination. I tried it today to make a caprese panini, and it worked like a charm! I have lovingly named this little doodad..."The Bread Condom."

Ladies and gentlemen..."The Bread Condom"

Fun fact about the panini press...it has a special European plug that only plugs into certain outlets. Our apartment is equipped with 2 of these special plugs, one of which is in the bathroom. So, yes, I made my panini in the bathroom. No shame. None whatsoever.

An Answer

I was sitting here, Skyping with a concerned friend who had heard that I was struggling. And I started crying as I relayed to him the frustration I've been feeling from the past week. I explained how this society revolved around food, and how it had always been my dream to travel to Italy and indulge in the best of the best, and now I couldn't. I apologized for my endless rants and complaints, and said how much I hoped he didn't think I was just being a whiny baby about this. 

I cried and said, "I just wish I knew. I wish I knew if this was God giving me a challenge for my personal journey, or if this is just an unfortunate diagnosis I received at a really bad time. I just wish I knew if He had something to do with this or if it's something He didn't plan."

Literally, as I said these words, my phone signaled that I received a Facebook message. I picked it up, read it, and my heart stuttered. It was from a good friend in my school Christian organization. It read as follows: 

"I love you and you're in my thoughts and prayers. I know you're having a rough time, but God wouldn't be having you go through it if it weren't for a good reason and purpose." 

The message continued for a few sentences, wishing me well and encouraging me to find a good church, ending with more "I love you"'s. 

I have never felt God telling me something as much as I have in these past few days. I have never felt His presence as much as I do now.

Never again will I think that this is not a part of His plan. 

Sure, I will still get frustrated time and time again. But this new knowledge--that this is in God's plan and that this is to strengthen me--will carry me through all trials associated with having Celiac. Especially having Celiac in Italy. I am overwhelmed with the abundance of His love and mercy, and hope to share with others what has happened and will continue to happen for me. 


Nothing is going to happen to me that the Lord and I together can't handle.

Cooking 101

Today was a complimentary cooking class. I love cooking-I am beginning to find my way around the kitchen, and have been having fun watching myself progress from "burns a granola bar in the microwave" to "can crack an egg with one hand" and "can make raspberry cheesecake gluten free coffeecake." Certainly not a pro yet, but getting more competent.

I've been nervous about cooking in my apartment, even though I have my own separate cabinet with cookware and utensils. My poor roommates have to remember not to dip crackers directly into the communal Nutella, to dollop the marinara sauce on the glutenous pasta without letting the spoon touch, and that the green and yellow sponge is the "gluten free sponge." They have also kindly tolerated me running around the kitchen with cleaning wipes every time they cook. 

My first few nights, I was resourceful at the market, purchasing an onion, fresh fruit, garlic, tomatoes, artichoke, and spinach. I made pesto chicken pasta with spinach, onions, garlic, and cooked tomatoes, and quinoa and brown rice with chicken, cooked spinach, and fresh tomatoes. I also steamed an artichoke (the best artichoke of my life thus far) last night, and successfully melted my butter in a makeshift double boiler (using the steaming pot and a teacup) due to a lack of a microwave.

I awoke early this morning from a nightmare that the cooking class would not accommodate my allergy and that I couldn't participate in the pasta fest. I was nervous as I made my way from mass at San Lorenzo to the meeting place at Ponte Vecchio. 

As we arrived at the restaurant, I approached the chef and whispered, "Sono celiaca." He smiled and said, "Ah yes, we are all ready for you!"

Gloves for pasta making 

We made a potato soufflé with "angry" sauce (a spicy tomato sauce), and fresh egg pasta. I was given gloves to wear so I could handle the pasta. For dessert, another group made panna cotta with chocolate syrup. 

Potato Souffle

We went to the restaurant below to eat, and the chefs brought me two heaping plates of gluten free pasta--one with the angry sauce, and one with a white sauce full of chicken, turkey, veal, and endless flavor. I had two of the potato soufflés, and shamelessly ate both plates of pasta (enough to feed 4, easily). I then had 2 of the desserts, and the girls around me laughed as I kept packing food in. But I didn't shy away. This was the best gluten free meal I had ever had (next to Ciro & Son pizza!), and I had been food deprived the past week of my stay. 

I am definitely investing in a pasta maker when I arrive home, as I have now made fresh pasta twice and loved it both times. I may drop out of college and go to a culinary school...I think I should open a gluten free bakery and cafe here in Tuscany. What a life that would be!

My personal pastas

A New Start

Mommy and Daddy wanted to Skype. I don't blame them for being worried. 

All they had heard from me for the past week was that I was hungry and losing weight, I was crying in the middle of the Italian markets because I couldn't find things to eat, the ATM rejected my card, and my best friends who were going to visit me for my birthday could no longer come to Italy. And all I had heard from them was that my little brother was in the ER with a virus and that my cat (AKA my baby) was in the vet and rushed to the ER for an ultrasound. 

They talked me through things. Pleaded with me to not worry about the extra cost of good food. I am truly blessed and fortunate to have parents that are so supportive and so giving. At the same time, I am far too frugal to go to Ciro & Sons every week (I'm a Jew...it's in my blood). 

I received encouragement from others on Facebook after posting about my frustrations. Unfortunately, a lot of the feedback was along the lines of "Do more research and you'll get it." I did approximately 11 hours of research prior to my departure, and have spent around 9 more since arriving researching. However, I will persevere. 

After talking with my parents, I put aside my "Gluten Map," as I've begun to call it, and went to mass at the Duomo. I knew I would have to make this journey about God, not food. This journey iss about finding food for my soul, not about food for my body. 

I was nervous to go to mass. I'm not a Catholic. I'm not familiar with the proceedings of mass, and all I know of the prayers from my time in the Episcopal church as a vocalist vary from the Catholic prayers. But, I walked down to the Piazza Duomo to the Cattedrale de Santa Maria del Fiore, and my breath was taken away by the grandeur of the marble columns and the frescoed ceilings.

There are times in your life when you know God is telling you that He hears you and knows your struggles and is there for you. 

I've never heard God speak to me--something that used to bother me, but I eventually learned that His silence is not a lack of presence, but a part of my walk with Him, and that He loves me whether I hear it directly or not. But there are times He speaks to me in other ways--through people, events, a beautiful sunset I happen to see, a smile from a stranger, a number 12. 

This mass was one of those times. I knew He wanted me to be there in that cathedral. I knew He wanted me to hear the homily about overcoming challenges and focusing on Him, and the assurance that if we can dedicate ourselves to Him, there is nothing we need to despair about. We may still have challenges and frustrations, but if we allow our preoccupations to prevent us from seeing Him and His will for our lives, we will never be healthy. These were the priest's words--"challenges," "health," "dedication," "worship," "overcoming, "focus."

I thought about how I've been living my life thus far. I've worked endlessly and tirelessly to put my life in a neat and organized stack, checking off boxes as I go and treating life as a to-do list that leads to success. I've always thought that if I did things 'right', then I would be successful. If I enrolled in the right classes, did the extra credit, participated in the right extracurriculars...then I would be happy. If I did what would most likely lead to success, I would find happiness.

But I'm so wrong. I've been wrong all along. All the times I've sat on the sidelines and watched life go by, I though I needed to focus on how to make myself happy. When in fact, to make myself happy, I needed to let go and do what I wanted. 

I've operated that way in my friendships, relationships, everything. I see the world from a systematic viewpoint, thinking I can manipulate things and control things. But I'm not happy. I'm stuck at a college I don't like, I'm in programs I don't like, and luckily I can say that I've made steps towards changing that. I got out of toxic environments (The Music Department, Greek life, etc.) that were no longer making me happy, and followed God's call to this country of happiness and love and disorganization and disorientation and culture and history and sainthood. And gluten. 

But I don't need that. That's temptation. That's Satan telling me, "You need this to be happy. Everyone else can do something you can't do, and it's a huge deal. You will never be happy." 

And yes, it's hard. Food is very social--you never notice until you go through a change like this. Food is at the heart of communication, especially here. Every meeting, outing, excursion includes some aspect of food. But that's okay. Because food is everywhere here, but God is everywhere too. And He's so much more present, so much stronger, and He is with me, not out of my reach. I'm not allergic to God. I don't need any of the other things.

I'm ready to stop trying to do what I think will make me most successful and do what God is calling me to do. To live a life dedicated to Him. I don't know what that looks like yet; it may be going on a mission, becoming a minister, being a housewife who teaches her children about God, working for nonprofits...being more conscious of what God wants of me and professing His name in all I do. I don't have to have the specifics of what this will look like (my occupation, etc.) figured out right now. 

This is a spiritual journey, and the Celiac is a challenge. The hardest challenge I've ever had to face, the most temptation I've ever had to face, but bitterness, jealousy, and temptation is sinful and unhealthy. Taking in the Holy Spirit is the best thing I can do. And, if I follow God, there is nothing that could better guarantee my happiness. No one ever followed God and regretted it. With God there is joy and peace. And I am ready for joy and peace. God is much better at planning life than I ever could be. So I need to sit back and let the pro do it. 

Following mass, I signed up for a youth group for international university students. The priest announced that confessions would be in confessional 12. I've never gone to confession before, and can only receive a blessing (not absolution). However, I felt called to do it. I tried to quietly ask the youth group leader what to do, and a friendly young woman overheard, came over and said, "It's really easy and you will love it. Come on, I'm heading over right now. I'll stand in line with you."

Sammie and I spent the next few hours together. She is passionate about the Lord, and I was relieved to finally find someone to share my faith with. We got coffee and talked about God, travel, and Italy. As we said goodbye, she said, "It's been such a blessing to meet you. I think we're going to be good friends." I gave her a hug, knowing God answered so many prayers in one day. 

A Very Hard Week

As the title suggests...it's been a hard week. A very hard week.

After my first night in Florence, it became clear that a solid majority of the students were there to drink and overindulge. I wanted to force myself to be more social and introduce myself, but after a majority of the conversations with others began with: "Oh, hi! Did you go out last night/are you going out tonight?", I realized that maybe Italy would be a good time for me to focus on myself. And, when a friend I had made on the plane (ironically originally from Walnut Creek) stopped texting me when I mentioned I really wasn't about the party life, I could see that this was going to be like Freshman year all over again.

Granted, I will enjoy a glass of wine here and there. Or even two glasses. And maybe an occasional fruity concoction. But I don't think getting 'smashed' and losing your senses in the streets of any city, let alone a foreign one where Americans already stick out as obnoxious sore thumbs, is a safe decision. Or a classy one. I strongly believe in decency, and if that makes me isolated, then so be it.

Nevertheless, I remembered the struggles I had the first year of college when I would refuse to go out, and I thought that perhaps exploring the night life wouldn't be so bad as long as I was sober and kept my wits about me.

So, I begrudgingly joined my roommate and some of her new friends on our second night in Florence. They had researched some classy lounge on the south side of Florence, and I was excited to go. Instead, we ran into some other girls in the hotel hallway, who were heading to a bar, and the other girls exclaimed, "Oh, great! We can go there instead!"

These girls were already drunk. I could smell the alcohol on their breath, and as we made our way to the bar, it became alarmingly clear that they had no idea where it was. So, one of the sloppiest ones had the idea to approach a man in a dark alleyway and ask for directions. I was shocked.

We found the bar-a little hole in the wall overrun by Americans. A male student immediately offered to buy me a drink, and made fun of me when I declined. I hated this bar. Flashing lights, girls in crop tops, American songs about shots and sex blaring through the speakers. It was without a doubt the lamest thing I had ever seen. And the fact that these students, fortunate enough to be studying in the most beautiful and culturally rich city in the world, were in this dump and thought it was amazing, made it even lamer.

I left. I made my roommate walk me back. And I finished the last of my Reese's cups and went to bed.

I lived off of gelato and Reese's cups the first three days. There wasn't much else for me to eat. Even the gelato was difficult to find. I was turned away by some 10 gelato shops due to my Celiac on the first night. We finally found a place, Grom, that had gluten free facilities (no cones). It was a little expensive and not the best gelato, but it did the job. And, frankly, I was so excited to find somewhere that didn't make me leave. Ellanora, the server, spoke to us while my friends and I ate, asked about our studies, and told us about her life in Italy.

The number of times I was dismissed from food establishments rapidly increased from there. As I walked down the streets lined with pizza shops, cafes, creperies, and panini shops, my heart felt heavier and heavier. Powdered sugar-covered canolis dipped in chocolate and filled with fresh ricotta cream and fruits, crepes topped with nutella and filled with vanilla cream and strawberries, waffles baked fresh with gelatto on top. Pizza you could order by the slice. A cappuccino and chocolate filled croissant for 1 euro. None of which I could have. Girls walked down the street sipping their coffees and munching on a fresh pastry, and I stuck my hand in my purse for another handful of stale pistachios I had brought for the plane ride.

Cannellini beans at a pizza restaurant

Grom's tiramasu and chocolate chip gelato

I still pushed myself. I wanted to meet people, so I went on a free food tour. A panini shop, where everyone got wine and a free panini (I got mozzarella covered tomatoes, which were okay but were contaminated and made me ill the next day; not to mention they let the wine go straight to my head), a pizza shop where everyone got a free slice of pizza and limoncello (the waitress felt bad for me and gave me a double shot of limoncello since I could have nothing else; I didn't finish it as I was still feeling a little tipsy from the wine and had nothing of substance to absorb it), and gelato (I was able to take part in this one, as it was one of the few places I had found that would serve me with special red utensils). 

Prepackaged gluten free sticks
and rice cakes from a sympathetic waiter
at the food tour's fancy Apertivo

This night was when I realized my biggest mistake: in researching being a Celiac in Italy, I had found amazing reviews of the abundance of restaurants and food joints to order gluten free. However, these reviews and journals were written by tourists, who could afford to sit at fancy restaurants every night and order gluten free. Which, yes, most restaurants are wonderful for Celiacs. But it comes at a hefty price. On the food tour, however, when I wanted to step away for a moment and find something to-go at a corner cafe and then meet up with the group again, I realized that I couldn't. And it hurt. A lot. Because these other students are like "Ohmigod, I'm vegetarian." "Ohmigod, my friend doesn't like gluten, either!" "Ohmigod, I can't have avocados and it makes me want to kill myself!"

Mozzarella and tomatoes...
compliments of the panini man 

I was turned away from about 15 restaurants that night.

The next day was our "Survival Tour" given by our study abroad program. Our tour guide began the tour with the following: "I don't really want to give a tour today, so we will just make it quick and go to a cafe, okay?"

All the hungover girls were overjoyed with the news. I was not. I wanted to know how to survive in Florence. Do you barter at the market? Where do you buy stamps? Is it legal to buy from the men who sell purses on the street? All this pasta in the windows looks great, but where can I buy pasta I can eat?

No. We went to a cafe. Everyone got their cute croissants and their coffee. I couldn't--they served one of Italy's specialties: a coffee infused with barley. So all the machines were contaminated. My roommate didn't like her croissant--it had too much cream in it. Please. There's no such thing as too much cream in your croissant. Just eat the damn croissant.

My program has tried to be helpful. They provided me with a list of some of the best gluten free places in Florence, but again: these are sit-down restaurants with a cover-charge/sit-in charge, no to-go options, and a hefty price. Or they're tree-hugging vegetarian/vegan/bio-friendly places where I can't get meat. I don't want a ball of rice on a bed of bland lettuce. I want meat. And bread. And pastries. And I want it in a convenient spot that's not on the outskirts of town and that comes at an affordable price.

But, there was a place I heard of...on the outskirts of town. So, I got off my pity pot and headed across town to find Deanna Cafe. That's when the heavens decided to open up on me, and I was stuck in the middle of this piazza without an umbrella and with no sight of this cafe I had read so much about. I stopped in about 3 shops and inquired about its location. None of them knew. Finally, I slopped my way into the information center, dripping all over the floor. I asked the workers, and they informed me that Deanna is closed indefinitely for restoration.

The remains of Deanna Cafe

So, I've spent the week bent over maps, placing little "X"'s on the certified restaurants that offer gluten free selections. I've asked locals where to go, travelled to every corner of the town, and have had some interesting experiences along the way.

My North Canton friend

I met a woman in the grocery store who was staring unhappily up at the same gluten-free shelf I was looking at. Stale bread and rock hard pasta for twice as much as the delicious regular stuff. She didn't speak English, but I told her I was Celiac. I don't know what she said, but I know from her eyes and tone of voice that she said, "I am too. I know it's hard, but it will be okay." She walked away after we shared an understanding look and I nodded.

Me, Franco, and Sem at our new favorite
 cafe in Piazza San Lorenzo

I met Franco and Sem, two Celiacs at our new favorite cafe. Franco provided me with a list of his favorite places, but he sympathized that it is more expensive. I met the baker at the gluten free bakery just outside of Florence. She didn't speak English, but was patient as I decided which overpriced pastry to select.
I met a group of actors from England who were sitting beside us at Ciro & Sons, the #1 rated gluten-free pizza restaurant in the world. One of the girls was gluten free, and we had ordered the same thing. In overhearing my conversation with them, a woman a few tables back told me she was also from North Canton.

Ciro & Son "Before"

Ciro & Son "After"

I met the head chef of a local vegan and gluten free restaurant on the other side of the river after I was turned away from a chocolate shop he was sipping coffee in.

So, it's been hard. And frustrating. But I've had some good experiences, and I hope to focus more on those. A quotation I saw the other day that really helped was: "Don't let what you can't do get in the way of what you can." I can't eat gluten, the foundation of all food in Italy. But I can travel, explore, worship the Lord, meet wonderful people, learn, study, and find adorable cafes with non-caffeinated hot chocolates.

Ciro & Son gluten free garlic bread and creme brûlée--I broke the bank that night

And none of those barley drinks. Seriously, people, come on. It's coffee.

From ARRIVEDERCI to ARRIVED: My First Day

I have arrived. 

As the plane descended, I kept thinking, "There's no way it's that gorgeous"...But it is.

After flying from Cleveland to Chicago to Frankfurt to Florence, I met with the people holding the "API" sign. I'll never forget the look on their face and their first words to me: "Oh, you lost your baggage?" 

Me: "No..."

Them: "Oh...you packed light."

My arms didn't agree with them. But, I am pretty weak.

My first act as an American tourist in Florence? Doing what I never EVER want to do...smacking some poor airline passenger in the head as I take my carry on out of the overhead compartment.

...Did I mention that I'm weak?

After a short bus ride from the airport to the Grand Hotel Baglioni (a 4-star hotel that is absolutely GORGEOUS), we were given a few hours to roam the city before our evening meeting and first dinner as a group. I acquainted myself with my new roommates, and we set out on the cobblestoned streets of Florence.

I was proud of myself for already knowing several things that others on the trip apparently didn't. Like, don't trust that a car will stop if you're crossing the street. Don't speak English obnoxiously loud. Don't stay on your cell phone the whole time. Don't acknowledge the beggars. Walk like you have a destination and a purpose, even when you don't. At least make an attempt to speak the native language--they know that you're American, but they appreciate that you tried. And, don't let the first thing you do in your experience abroad be go into the cheap corner grocery and buy wine to bring up to your hotel room, which strictly goes against API regulations (yes, someone actually did this). 

I almost got frustrated with the number of immature people who could only talk about their plans to hit the town that night and get drunk. I almost got frustrated by the abundance of pastry shops sporting fresh crepes, waffles, and canolis. I almost got frustrated when the room started spinning because I accidentally ingested a truffle three days ago that contained traces of barley. 

But then, I remembered: I was here, it was special, and it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And I saw the Duomo, and tears came to my eyes. 

My roommate and I walked for close to an hour and a half, and I swear, I was keeping track of where we were. Turned left down the small alley, stopped at the base of the cathedral, turned left again, walked about half a mile, turned right, then turned right again. But, when it got dark and came time to backtrack, I did what I knew I would do and what I will undoubtedly do again. I got lost in Florence. 

I knew that we could ask anyone for directions back to our hotel. But, there is the danger that the individual you ask will follow you back to your destination. So, we went into a McDonalds. I asked the man at the counter (in choppy Italian) if he spoke English and if he could direct us to our hotel. He couldn't understand which hotel, so I pulled out my key card to show him the name on the card. He looked at the card for a moment, and said "Ah, Baglioni. Left, left, right, left." 

More like left, left, reaaaallllly long walk, right, reaalllllly long walk, left. But, the McDonald's Guy saved the day. I acknowledge that. 

Getting lost in Florence was a breeze. Dinner was what I was most worried about. API was bringing us all to a local fancy restaurant for some true Italian cuisine. They gave me a little red card to put on my plate to signal that I had celiac. 

First Italian gluten free pasta

Everyone got salad. I got salad. Everyone got fresh bruschetta. I got to smell and look at the fresh bruschetta. Everyone got pasta. I waited. And waited. Then...I got pasta. And it was the most delicious pasta I have ever had.

Then, the waiter gave everyone forks for the dessert. I didn't get a fork. They started dishing out tiramasu. I didn't get tiramasu. I sat, and waited. And waited. And then...I got lemon ice. No tiramasu,...but who am I to complain about Italian ice?

Of course, I was still hungry, so when I got back to my hotel room I ate an entire bag of Reeses cups. 

No, I am not ashamed. 

My high school French seems to be coming in handy already. I am able to understand what most signs say just by guessing. And, you don't need to speak Italian to know what "-70%" means in a sale window;) 

This evening, as we were settling in, my roommates were complaining that the shower had no hot water. When it came for my turn to go in, I looked in the shower, and asked them, "Did you turn the knob that said "C" or "F"? 

They both said, "Well, C means cold, doesn't it?" 

"C could be similar to "Chaud" in French, which means hot. And F could be similar to the French word for cold..."

They took another shower after that discovery. 

It was a hectic, exhausting, but rewarding first day in Italy. I will obviously have to get over the gluten cravings, get myself healthy again, and continue to improve on my skills in ignoring the Italian beggars and men who call out to women as they walk by. But, I look forward to learning. 

And maybe improving my upper arm strength...that poor German girl's head.

Io Sono Celiaca; Senza Glutine!

   Linguistic proficiency (or at least an understanding of the very basics)--it's essential when traveling to a new country where the language is just as foreign as the cobblestoned streets. 

   You begin with the phrases that mean the most to you. For most people, that's something along the lines of, " I'm lost", "Help", and "Where's the bathroom?" We all have our "first sentence" in mind. We ask ourselves, If I were going to a foreign country, what would I want to know how to say above all else?

   Refer back to the title for mine: Io sono celiaca; senza glutine!

   Sure, it's not what I imagined my first Italian phrase being. I thought it would be something along the lines of "Do you know where to find the nearest opera house?" or "How many dresses can I buy with this?" But, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. And it appears that my bread hath been taketh away. 

   "Ah, poor me, I can't have gluten! Let me talk about it nonstop with everyone who will listen!" That's how I'm starting to feel. And my friends will have to forgive me. But, it is a HUGE life change. No, it doesn't mean I stop eating bread and pasta and move on with my life. I stop eating anything with any traces of wheat, rye, barley, oats, and soy (which is in basically everything, except raw meat, fruits, and veggies). It's in a lot of salad dressings. Soy sauce. BBQ sauces. Marinades. Soup. Beer (not an issue for me). It is absorbed in pans and plates. Cross-contamination makes restaurants (and, despite my mom's best efforts, even my own home) a risky place where nothing is safe. 

   And, newly diagnosed Celiacs find that their intestines have been harmed so much that they temporarily can't process dairy. So no dairy for 2-3 months, either. (I learned this after seeing spots and almost fainting after eating a 4 oz. cup of yogurt). My lipstick, shampoo, and conditioner are no more, as well.

   Every day, more and more people are receiving their Celiac diagnosis. And it's no fun. Because you then need to say, "All this food I used to eat and was fine is now going to make me cramp and throw up if a crumb of it touches my food."

  Really, I cried of relief when I got my diagnosis (this was a short-lived reaction, believe me). But I was relieved because, for once, I finally understood. After years of doctors pricking me, drawing my blood, forcing disgusting weight-gain shakes down my throat, and questioning me about whether my mother was feeding me adequate amounts of food, I had an answer. After all those visits, all the bouts of pneumonia, mononucleosis, hand-foot-and-mouth disease, and chronic fatigue, I knew why my immune system battled diseases like a soldier with a noodle for a sword (a gluten free noodle, of course). After all the jokes from family and friends who would take me to buffets just to watch me put away plate after plate (my college friends call me Four Plates--my average intake those first few years in the dining hall), I knew why I was able to eat so much. No, it wasn't that I was blessed with a fast-acting metabolism. It was that I was allergic to literally everything I was eating and my intestines couldn't process it. I was slowly poisoning myself, and we didn't even know it. 

  My biggest reason for crying when I got my diagnosis? I now had another way to combat my anxiety: stop eating gluten. Because, believe it or not, gluten intake when you are a Celiac (which I have been my whole life; the title is the only new thing) is detrimental to your mind too, causing you to struggle with emotional stability and distinguish the rational from the irrational. My battles with OCD, anxiety, and depression are far from over, but I now have a leg up in the battle: I stay away from gluten. I didn't believe it, until I accidentally salted my green beans with seasoning that included wheat, and a few hours later I was bawling because I dropped a stack of papers on my dorm floor and realized I was a failure in life, bound to be a crazy cat lady in a hilltop house with no friends, and even my cats wouldn't like me. As I lay in the fetal position on the floor of my room, clutching the papers and bawling my eyes out, I stopped and thought, Woah. Shouldn't have had those green beans.

   Of course, I've cried a few other times. I cried when I was in the organic grocery store with my mother, who was selflessly loading the cart with overpriced items. A 9-inch gluten free pizza crust priced at $11.95. You can get a glutenous pizza crust in the Walmart freezer section for anywhere around 5 bucks, easy. I also cry when the servers roll their eyes at me when I ask for a gluten free menu, because they're sick and tired of people coming in saying, "I'm gluten free!" and then proceed to take "just a bite" of their dining partner's chocolate lava cake. 

   I cried sitting in the candlelit church on Christmas Eve, as everyone filed out of the pews to take communion and eat the gluten-filled-Body-of-Christ. It was my first time not able to take it. As I sat in the pew while my family went to communion, I teared up. It was okay that I couldn't eat cake. It was okay that I couldn't eat at my favorite restaurants anymore. It was okay that I needed my own pots and pans and a separate pantry in my own house. It was not okay that I was allergic to the best supper of all--The Lord's Supper. 

  How am I going to go to Italy, land of pasta and pastries and pizza?