Spaghetti Number 9

I could talk about Italy forever- the indignities, the laughable moments- and the things that leave me incredulous- asking, yet again, is this really my life?

I was talking to someone about television in my teens. Mid-way through the conversation, she turned to me and asked if I was a fan of “nove-zero-due-uno-zero.” Initially, I had NO idea what she was talking about. Really. I didn't. I told her, without a doubt, that “we didn't have that show in America.” And she said it was filmed in America- California to be exact; “Don't you remember? ‘Bevedlee Heels nove-zero-due-uno-zero!’” Ha!

Hearing “90210” in another language not only transformed my association with the show, but it slaughtered everything that those simple numbers ever meant to me. It was like seeing my formative years through the Italian language. Or something like that.

As far as the rest of the entertainment industry goes- I’m still astounded by the vast differences between American and Italian entertainment.

I have a love-hate relationship with Italian Cinema. There is no American Federico Fellini- not even close. And for his existence- I am grateful. But, seriously, what’s with all the voice-overs? I cannot bear to watch one more American movie dubbed in Italian. Imagine watching The Godfather where Marlon Brando’s voice is not Marlon Brando’s voice. Or Scent of a Woman, where Al Pacino’s “hoohaw” is more of a “ooohhhahhhh.” Not to mention the fact that there seems to be only a small cluster of big-time “voice-over” actors. Consequently, let’s say for example that one day- you’re watching a Brad Pitt tear-jerker, the next day- the same voice is Batman’s Joker. Then, that evening- you go to watch Sex and the City and Big has the same voice as Batman/Brad Pitt and later, Wall-E. But then- there are the Fellini’s and Benigni’s of the world- and I admit that I can’t totally discard Italians of murderers of the cinematic art.

Of course, beyond the movies, there are plenty of minor differences I unearth on an hourly basis. Lately, I’m finding that certain elements or incidents that used to bother me are transforming into the beloved details of my daily life. Now, having integrated myself into this entirely backwards and loveable nation- I’m starting to appreciate the “stupidagini.” They make me smile- and laugh- not only at the folly, but at the fact that I’m totally starting to buy into it- all of it.

I used to hold the Italian way of doing business in contempt. As an American- no less an American with an MBA, fully aware of ethical methods and “good business practices,” I used to wonder how anyone ever did business in Italy. Now, although I don't totally accept it- I’m beginning to welcome it.

In Italy, everything is negotiable. In Italian business, nothing is concrete. You can only believe a small part of what anyone says- even the most respectable of individuals lie through their teeth. Every number, detail and word is inflated. Whatever is being offered, and whoever is offering it- is exaggerated. The beauty in it is that- once the frustration subsides; one realizes that in Italy, you can be whoever you want to be. “Basta che lo dici”- meaning “its enough just to say it.” Because everyone believes you. You even begin to believe your own fabrications. For the most part.

I know this seems rather extreme but I cannot stress how true it is. I mean, if you go to have a drink at a hotel and a man walks up to you and begins flirting, before long, he will undoubtedly tell you that he owns the hotel. Case in point. When I tell someone that I am from Miami, there’s a great chance that before long- they will present me a laundry list of the best hotels in South Beach- that they apparently own. “Oh this belt? It’s Versace. I’m Versace’s son. Doesn't matter that he was gay. Nice to meet you. And by the way, Donatella’s waiting for me on my yacht with a suitcase full of millions for my summer vacation. Want to come back to my place for a drink?”

And so on and so forth…

Its fun though. In the past, I got frustrated. It made me angry. I was both distrustful and cynical of everyone I met- simply knowing that if they weren’t already lying to me, they would be soon. Now however- I play into it. It’s like a game. Italy is a world where whoever you want to be- you can be. And no one asks any questions.

Another interesting tidbit about Italians and the importance of food in Italy:

Did you know that Barilla pasta is identified not only by type, but by number?

I didn't.

And I got in trouble for getting a number 3 spaghetti as opposed to a number 9.

Apparently, each number denotes the thickness of that particular pasta.

So not only must I remember the type of pasta I have been sent out to buy. i.e.: spaghetti, fussili, linguine, fettuccine, bucatini, papparadelle, tagliatelle, penne, pennette, maltagliati, maccheroni, paccheri, rigatoni, cavatelli, orecchiette (my personal favorite), trofie, strozzapreti, etc… the list is endless, but I now know that I must be aware of the exact thickness of whichever pasta goes best with the sauce I happen to be making.

Word to the wise; never buy spaghetti for an Italian without first consulting a specialist.

Despite conflicts over the width of pasta and a daily dialogue filled with embroidered fabrications, for the first time in a very long time- I can admit, and truly mean, that I am happy. Like…really happy.

I’m actually surprised about how contented I am. Happy to the point that I’m waiting for some tragedy to jump out from behind me and piss all over everything. But in the meantime- before it all comes crashing down, I’m going to bask in my happiness…because as I have learned in my 29 years, it’s not that easy to find.

My life in Rome hasn't changed much, so I cannot attribute this sudden elation to anything specific. Summer has quickly descended upon us with suffocating heat and hordes of tourists- but I can’t help but smile as I walk down the street- dripping with sweat and veering off the road in order to avoid vacationers staring down at their maps- as opposed to who they may be walking straight into. (me).

I spent a few days in Milan. The short vacation kicked off with an evening of Faust at the Scala opera house. I then spent the fourth of July at lake Como- attending a gala dinner at Villa d’Este, followed with a spectacular display of fireworks over the lake- accompanied by an orchestra playing the American national anthem. And as I heard my anthem and my chest filled with pride, I thought to myself, “It’s ok if I never make it back stateside.”

Career-wise, things are finally starting to come together. I’m working on a number of projects- trying to get them off the ground. I’d rather keep my cards closer to my chest right now- superstitiously speaking. But what I can say is that if I am able to fully execute any of these ventures, I’ll be spending my time doing exactly what I've always wanted to do- embarking on a new(ish) career combining writing, business, travel, PR and marketing. So- fingers crossed. More on that later…

However, with regards to all the above- I feel lucky. Lucky to have people in my life to give me the opportunities to do what I have always wanted to do. And lucky to have done everything I have done up until now- in order to arrive at this point.

And if what they say is true, that life is a journey- my journey hasn't been half bad, and the next part is shaping up to be quite a ride. How could I not wake up with a smile on my face? Not to mention the fact that as I roll out of bed for a cup of coffee- all I have to do is look out the window and see views that really, I think one would be lucky to witness in a lifetime. Beyond that, I’m surrounded by amazing people who make everyday an adventure.

I thought, at this point, that I would be bored. I’m not travelling the way I used to- not right now at least. And although I eat at the best restaurants, drink the best wines and am living a life in Italy the best way possible- my social life is considerably calmer than it has been in the past. But as the Italians say- “non manca niente”- nothing’s missing. At least, nothing I’ve noticed yet.

Rain and Reading...and some other news

My days knocking around Rome have more or less all blurred into one long interlude. The hours pass rather slowly but the weeks are pretty speedy- as if a gust of wind blew through the pages of the calendar and left me with only the spine. I graduated from the MBA three months ago and although I have learned more about life in Italy than I care to admit, news on the job-front is slim.

I was speaking to a friend of mine from ESADE and she as good as summed it up in noting that, “In this economy- the MBA is a curse. We’re overqualified and too expensive to hire.” Not to mention the fact that none of us have any savings left- due to the drainage of our accounts during the pricey MBA.

Now, I’m not speaking about everyone. Some of the fortunate (and perhaps previously a bit more ambitious and focused) ex-classmates of mine have found great jobs. Positions including: Product Manager at J&J in Sao Paolo Brazil, Senior Analyst for Yahoo! in Geneva Switzerland, Airbus engineer in France, a one-year rotational program at Whirlpool in Monterrey Mexico, Operations Manager at Amazon in Glasgow Scotland, consulting for Deloitte in Johannesburg South Africa, business development and finance at a television station in the Philippines, Consulting in London, Finance in New York, rotational program for GSK beginning in Philadelphia,  etc…

I must acknowledge that I’m delighted for my friends- I not only love them all dearly, but I have an immense amount of respect for them as individuals, their capabilities and their talents. I know that wherever they are and whatever they are occupying themselves with- they are making the ESADE name, and all their former classmates, very proud.

Then, there are those of us not as lucky: a few ex-students winding away their days on the beaches of Barcelona between job searches and networking events, while some alumnus returned to their homes- or their wives- waiting for news of that scintillating “post-MBA job.” And others, like myself, are taking each day at a time- while nevertheless enjoying the much needed “down time” that the post-MBA unemployment vacuum provides.

The MBA flew by. Just yesterday- I was 27, flying into Barcelona’s El Prat airport and reading a bus map trying to find ESADE. I blinked and then it was over.

On the other hand- these hours, days, and weeks here in Rome- teetering on the edge between “my big break” and “eternal joblessness” has seemed like a lifetime.

There was a period where it rained for almost a month straight. Therefore, the sparkle of my supposed “Roman Holiday” had faded to grey. Have you noticed that when the weather is dreary, everything seems bleak? Job opportunities morphed into empty promises. My beloved walks to the gym became tedious trudges through unceasing drizzle and darkness. Going anywhere- whether to a store, restaurant or café- rendered me a drowned rat- as opposed to chic Italiana.

Then, one day, the rain stopped. The sun came out, Rome twinkled yet again and “La Dolce Vita” recommenced. This time however, a new desire and motivation was born within me- and I got moving in attempts of putting my education to work. ESADE has been, in part, characterized by its “entrepreneurial spirit.” For that reason, I’ve come to the conclusion that instead of sluggishly waiting to be discovered as a brilliant, capable and interesting MBA graduate by some successful company with multiple future opportunities and a huge salary- it is in my best interest to invent something on my own. That is, of course, if I plan to remain in Italy.

So I’ve been networking, devising, creating, brainstorming, establishing, generating, and fashioning an ideal job for myself. And in my downtime…I’ve been discovering more about the Italian mentality, about Italy and about Italians. I am confident in announcing that in my findings, my original assumptions have been confirmed- Italy is one of the most backwards countries in the world- Italians are some of the most indolent and oftentimes insincere individuals I have ever met…but they sure know how to have a good time! And amongst the masses, there are of course- the gems. A good Italian is a rare find- but if you happen to encounter one- it’s worth its weight in Bvlgari Diamonds.

I’ve also been reading. (thank you amazon.co.uk)

I read the Stieg Larsson Series: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played With Fire, and The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest.  Entertaining but maybe a bit disappointing considering the hype. I prefer surprises.

I also read a Marion Keyes series- three books centered around three sisters and their early adulthood experiences: Angels, Rachel’s Holiday and Watermelon. The first two were great. Quintessential chick-lit but a good escape. Beach reading. The last book, Watermelon, is a waste of space on my expanding bookshelf.

And then I read a book on Kabbalah and was all in-tune with my spiritual self for a few days. I, at that point, believed that I had found the link between myself and my religion- Mysticism. But then, a few days later when I began reading another work of chick-lit fiction I thought suited me, Shoe Addicts Anonymous, I forgot most of what I read and Kabbalah became a distant memory.  Besides, it was a book entitled God Wears Lipstick, so how much was I supposed to remember anyway?

And finally, I read Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts. I have to say that this book is without a doubt, one of the most incredible, engaging and inspiring novels I have read in my entire life. It reminded me what I love about literature. It reminded me of the type of writer I have always aspired to become. And most importantly, it transported me to another place in another time but by the last page- the characters were as close to my heart as my best friends and Bombay could have been “my city.” It was one of those books that for a week straight, I stayed at home reading on the couch instead of going out. It was one of those books that made me laugh so hard that my stomach hurt and at points, made me wail with tears- I couldn't wait to get back to the book during the days and at night, it invaded my dreams. It was one of those books that inexplicably connects me to everyone else in the world who has ever read it.

Shantaram warmed my soul and filled me- as a traveler, explorer and writer- a powerful desire to “do more.”

Moral of the story: read Shantaram.

Until next time….

Xx

Morgan

LYMY

Three weeks ago my grandma had a stroke. Yes, the news upset me- but I wasn't too worried. Nana had already suffered a few strokes, coupled with at least two heart attacks and more bouts with cancer than I care to remember. Nana, in my mind, was never really going to die. She was the survivor of all survivors. But then- a week later, she did. My nana died. My Nana.

Nana contracted pneumonia in the hospital, was rushed to intensive care and then her heart just stopped. I didn't get to say goodbye- I didn't get to tell her how much she has meant to me and how much she would be missed. My father however, sitting next to her tiny withered body held up his computer to her empty eyes while I, stuck in Italy, waved and tried to smile while I told her how much I loved her.

Five minutes later, she passed away.

I would have given anything to be next to her, holding her hand…but it all just happened so fast. I was told that she had waited to see me.  Of course my Nana waited to see me- she was my biggest fan- she loved me more than anyone else she had ever met. This favoritism was common knowledge in my family and something she never had any qualms about being made known. The general response when one of the other grandchildren inquired was “well Morgan was the first grandkid, there’s a special bond there.” And I do believe it was that- that I was the first- I don't think I was the favorite because of what I do or who I am- but I took that unconditional overflowing love and did what I could with it, knowing that I would never find another soul on this earth willing or able to love me as much as Nana did.

I could relay her life story or describe how beautiful and selfless she was. I have a million memories running through my head- some of which make me cry, some of which make me smile, and some of which make me roll will laughter. But I think that when someone we love dies, what we need to do is take the lessons they have taught us and move forward in our lives- trying to make them proud- every day.

There were really only two things my grandma would have asked of me in her passing. One: to finally start eating meat and Two: to find a “nice Jewish boy” (preferably doctor) and get married.

It would be easier if nana wanted me to become president of the U.S., win the Nobel Peace Prize, or become an astronaut. Unfortunately, her love was too great to ask me to accomplish anything- I was already perfect in her eyes.

In losing Nana, I lost one of the few stable things in my life. Nana was my rock- my anchor. I always knew where to find her, I always knew that she’d be that person on the other end of the phone elated to hear my voice. She was always proud of me- for everything. In losing Nana, I lost my scrabble partner (although she had been known to cheat), I lost a sense of anxiety- always wanting her to improve her own living circumstances, I lost one of my best friends and I lost an enormous part of my past- of myself.

I could look at Nana and know where I got my nose, my height, my stubbornness and my humor. What I didn't get from Nana though, was her selflessness, forgiveness and her unconditional- I mean really unconditional love. I didn't get her devotion to her family- regardless of how angry they made her at times, and I didn't inherit her ability to see the good in people- as bad as they were. So I suppose that is my lesson- that is what I am supposed to take away from my Nana- try to emulate all the good she brought into the world. Even though, at the end of the day, it’s not what she would have wanted- because like I said, I was already perfect in her eyes.

If I were to truly commemorate my Nana, I would sit around watching reruns of I Love Lucy and The Golden Girls. I would go on a cruise and spend ¾ of my time and all of my money in the casino- feeding coins to the slot machines. I would waste away hours in the kitchen cooking potato blintzes (making a few cheese blintzes on the side for Tyler) and tart tatin for my dad. I would order pizza loaded with onion and garlic (or as nana called it in her Brooklyn accent she never managed to lose, Gaalik) and I would spend as much time with my family as humanly possible- taking pictures of them with one of her disposable cameras that always seemed to have “one or two pictures left,” giving them huge suffocating hugs and wet kisses leaving both crimson lipstick stains and bits of food on the cheeks of those that I love.

I miss nana. My life without her in it is emptier. Palpably emptier. And as much as I tell myself that she is in a better place or that she isn’t suffering anymore- I regret that she never got to see me get married, that I didn't grant her the pleasure of meeting her great-grandkids. I have a million and one regrets and nothing seems to make me feel better.

I just keep telling myself that she really is there on the other end of the phone when I call- she just doesn't hear the ringing because she forgot, once again, to put her hearing aids in. 

Caput Mundi

I walk daily, around the center of Rome, ducking beneath the curved arches of renaissance palazzi and cobbled alleyways teeming with shaded cafés and slices of history disguised as crowded shops and cozy restaurants. I’ve gotten lost in Rome...not lost in the damaging sense- not lost in where I can’t find my way home. I’ve become rapt by this captivating city in the sense that I don't want to turn around and head home. I am lost in the enchanted sense- like Alice down her rabbit hole. This city- the eternal city, Caput Mundi- and the little life that is slowly forming around me- is my castle in the sky. Maybe I’m too much of a romantic- or a dreamer- and I’m simply refusing to look around and see the world as it really is. Or maybe I just got tired of it. Because in Italy—in my Italy- my fantasy world- there is no economic crisis, there is no hunger, no loss, no death and no suffering. The world isn’t speeding towards it's own destruction, there is no war- and with no war- there’s no hate, no anger and no unfulfilled desire or need. I fell in love with Italy almost ten years ago when I stepped off a plane in Florence- and since then, along many roads and paths- I am always lead back to Italy- in one way or another- whether it is in my mind or in my heart. And now I’m here, in body- and this is my life. 

Some days, it’s as if I’m waiting for the bottom to fall out- or I'm waiting for reality to set in. And so I take my camera and try to capture it all before it ends- as all good things do- and as all stories end and glittering fantasies eventually lose their shimmer and turn into the darker and subtler realities.

It’s been two months now- and although I keep looking over my shoulder for trouble- or fate- or duty to come knocking - I’m still here. I’m living a life of hedonistic pleasures that even Cleopatra would envy. And while I wonder when and how it will all end- I’m doing the best I can to bask under the Roman skies that shroud me in their light every morning and grant me the sweetness of dreams that each star filled night brings. 

Enjoy the pics. ;) 

Rome Through my Lens

When I first got my camera, someone said to me, “now you will see the world differently”- as if through the lens- my perspective would change. Or at least the tint of the world. After owning the camera for a full three months- and using it a full three times (not my fault…talk to canon), I beg to differ.

Maybe It’s that I always saw the world with a skewed view- or that I have always looked for the strange and beautiful parts of it- ignoring that which my untrained eye deemed dull or undeserving.

Either way- unlike what I was told, my experience thus far- behind the lens of my camera- hasn't changed at all. Don't get me wrong, I still love the world- I still love what I see and enjoy every moment of seeking out the unexpected and unusual bits- and then attempting to capture them. Although I am still an amateur- I’m working on it. I’m finding myself gravitating towards pictures of old cars and antique Vespas. (not exactly sure why.) And if I were to be completely honest with myself and my camera- I would take pictures of pizza and gelato, pizzerias and gelaterias, people eating pizza and gelato, etc… but I guess that wouldn't be as interesting as everyone else as it is to me.

Here’s Sunday:

p.s. this is my fish (the one that survived), who sits and stares at me all day long:

Alcune Foto di Roma

and an exercise in learning how to use my new camera...

A Day in The (Post-MBA) Life

I wrote a number of articles/posts relating to “A Day in the Life of an MBA Student.” With those, I shared my experiences as an American in Europe, as a right-brainer amongst nearly all left-brainers, as an MBA student during the economic crisis, and so on. Of course, my stories were similar to many other stories that can be found in magazines, books...the virtual universe. Stories of MBA students are abundant- if you know the right places to look. On the other hand, stories of post-MBA graduates are fewer and further between. I think this is due to a number of factors. For one, many MBA students go straight back into the workforce after the MBA and are therefore lacking in free time in order to relate their accounts. Or, they feel that once the MBA is over- their stories are not as significant. Or- the masses of MBAs who graduate without jobs (i.e. ME) may- in some sense- not want to write about the "battle of the job search." Whether they see graduating without a job as a failure, or a hiccup, or even a blessing- the numbers of stories that post-MBA grads have seemingly waned as the new rush of current students begin to tell their tales.

Either way, my story continues. As I have previously mentioned, I began writing this blog before the MBA and I plan to continue it until I feel I have nothing more to say. And looking at my life as objectively as I am capable of, I’m not doing so bad for myself. I’m happy, I’m calm, and I still believe that my existence is interesting enough to write about- with or without the 8 a.m. classes and bag weighted down with accounting books.

With that said- I give you “A day in the life of an unemployed post-MBA graduate living in Rome and searching for jobs when not eating pasta, pizza, roaming around taking photographs, pick-nicking in Villa Borghese and drinking Brunello in fine restaurants.”

For the first few weeks, I woke up around noon. I think I was restoring, mending…I guess I needed it after the past two years at ESADE. As well rested as I oftentimes told myself I was, it did take a good number of weeks with 12 hours a night to recharge my batteries. And then- one day- I started waking up at 7:30…just like that. It's like my body told me; “you're better now. Time to get going.”

So I got going.           

I wake up each morning and stumble down to the café across the street. The baristas know me, they know what I want before I order it, and they greet me in the mornings with big smiles and delicious cappuccinos.

In any city, one can visit as a tourist- but they can also live as a tourist- or an impermanent resident. I’ve been an impermanent resident in many cities. And It’s not a bad thing. It’s nice- the transient lifestyle. A bit too nomadic for this age when everyone seems to be having babies, but better than being a backpacker. Either way, I’m finally beginning to feel like a local. I did live in Rome before- about seven years ago…and although my experience was amazing, I was an ex-pat…I mean, a GLARING ex-pat, surrounded by ex-pats, living like an ex-pat. Now, though, due to certain circumstances…Rome is becoming home to me. And my café is one of the first steps.

Once hopped up on enough caffeine to fuel a small vehicle, I do the shopping. Veggies and fruit from the street market where the vendor hands me something to munch on while I pick out the produce. Meat and poultry at the butcher. Everything else at the supermarket, never neglecting to say "buon giorno" to the crazy man who sits outside yelling at tourists in at least five different languges.

 Additionally, after a painstakingly exhaustive internet search, I found a “Bio” (pronounced bee-o  in Italian. Ha) store about 20 minutes from my apartment. The first time I entered was like Christmas...all over again. I found everything I had been dreaming about since I left England- tofu, quorn, veggie sausages, veggie chicken fingers, soy fillets, veggie burgers, seitan, etc… They even had vegetarian mortadella! (I.e. a smoked Italian sausage made of ground pork and beef and cubes of pork fat and pistachios, flavored with wine and spices). Only in Italy…

As I walk home, people have begun to greet to me on the street- people who know me just by sight. It’s my little community- a place that I love. That I have loved for years. A place that I feel very lucky to be able to call home. And to all these people, I may just be the American girl living with the Italian on Via del Babuino,  but to me- I’m living a life that I have always wanted to live. (minus the job, of course.)

Once home with the daily groceries put away, I get ready for the gym.

I found a gym in Rome. Which was a huge part of my shift to Italy. Through my many lives and the many cities I have called home, I have a basic list of things to find in order to conclude the relocation:

1.     Doctor

2.     Gym

3.     Salon

4.     Supermarket

5.     Café

The gym was the last listed item to be crossed off. Therefore, when I finally, after a tiring and generally disappointing search, found a clean and well-located gym- I was ecstatic. My gym has become one of the focal points of my week- and admittedly, the highlight of many days. Actually, the gym isn’t the highlight- but getting there is. The gym is a gym. However, being that I am in Italy, in the center of Roma, the gym is more like a fashion show…where the men show off their muscles in tiny shorts and skimpy tank tops- and each woman is more skeletal than then next. The walk to the gym, on the other hand, is a daily (or every other day) reminder of how lucky I am to be here:

In order to get to the gym, I walk through Piazza del Popolo and then over the Tiber, with views of renaissance church cupolas above the trees. (photos coming soon).

The only problem with the gym in Italy is the number of pizzerias, gelatarias, and arancinerias on the way. I counted. Final numbers: From home to the gym I pass; 10 pizzerias, 4 gelaterias and one “mondo arancina.” If you don't know, arancini are like this little balls of greasy heaven. Or, in real terms, they are “fried rice balls coated with breadcrumbs, originated in Sicily in the 10^th century, usually filled with tomato sauce and mozzarella.” I mean, seriously, can you imagine anything yummier??? 

Anyways- back to my point. I walk to the gym- in the Roman sunshine-weaving between hordes of tourists, chic locals, Fiats, Minis and Vespas- staring incredulously at the tops of the buildings that don the covers of guide books around the world. And I think to myself- this is really my life. And I smile, and then take pictures with my blackberry hoping not to get run-over by a Cinquecento.

Once home, early afternoon, I make myself a small lunch or I meet friends out for a quick meal to discuss gossip and local politics. I’m sorry but there are things that happen in Italy that would not/could not happen in any other modern country. I love these people, I love their motivations, their mentality and their joie de vivre- but come one- GET it together people!!!  Sometimes Italy is more like a circus than a first-world country in the middle of Europe. Oftentimes, I truly believe that Italians should stick to what they know best- food, fashion, and the restructuring of old masterpieces.

After lunch, my “workday” begins and I get on my computer to answer e-mails, contact potential job-leads, and continue the inexhaustible career search.

Then the fun stuff begins. 

I actually spend a few hours a day putting my MBA knowledge to use- and if truth be told, finding it useful. My boyfriend/roommate is an architect. Recently, he has opened his own architectural studio. Which, I must say, I am very proud of. Furthermore, I am learning a lot from the process…as I would with any start-up business, from the financing, structuring and marketing perspective. He found a great space right next to the Spanish Steps (big smile) and is currently knocking down walls, pulling up flooring and reconstructing the entire space. Being that he has a degree in Architecture and masters in Interior Design, he is designing the entire thing and we have been, for the past few weeks, picking everything from the chairs and lighting, to the staplers and paper. 

Being that I am not currently gainfully employed, I have taken on the position of pseudo-office-manager. I figured, well- I do have an MBA now and I suppose keeping the finances in order is in my best interest, so I may as well set everything up before he really gets going. As a result, I have been compiling information on expenditures, receipts, calls, requests, payments, etc…and have thus far, created everything from daily call logs to income statements to cash flow statements and inventories and expense reports. 

I must admit that all the work I did during the MBA with Excel seemed somewhat excessive to me- but now, well now I couldn't live without it. And the most shocking thing of all- beyond the fact that I am actually capable of doing this- is that I am liking it. I’m enjoying the numbers and calculations and data. I even went so far as to create multiple color-coded-pie-charts relating to fixed costs, variables, overhead, etc… 

One evening, proud of what I had accomplished and eager to show my boyfriend how lucky he is to have an (unpaid) MBA as his office manager, I sat him down and took him through about 10 spreadsheets and a number of related data. The first thing he said to me? “Ma Morgan, perche non puoi mettere tutto su una sola foglia? Sembra molto piu facile.” Translation: “But Morgan, why can’t you put all this information on just one sheet. It seems like it would be a lot easier.” My reaction: I closed the computer and walked away. The second thing he said to me: “Ma Morgan, perche non facciamo tutto a mano invece dello computer? Cosi avremo tutto l’informatione fisso e concreto.” Translation: “But Morgan, why cant we just do everything hand-written instead of on the computer? Therefore, we will have all the information in a fixed and concrete manner.” My reaction: “Lascia stare questo lavoro. Trovi un’altra. Forse dalla vecchia scuola.” Translation: “I quit."

Slowly though, he came around- I think a friend talked some sense into him. And a good number of days later, he caved and said that “tuo modo va bene” i.e. “your way is fine." I know he will thank me in the end. At least that's what I keep telling myself…

Once the evening commences and the workforce begins to spill out of offices and on to the streets mixing with the roaming tourists, I take leave from my “office” and begin the “passeggiata” process. I wander around, stopping for a coffee, or a peek in a store along Via Condotti- hoping that one day soon I will be able to afford the many potential purchases I covet on a daily basis. I stroll, maybe meet someone for an aperitivo (pre-dinner drink) sitting outside in a café in one of the many charming piazzas surrounded by exquisite architecture. As the sun sets, I am always surprised by the light in Rome. It astounds me over and over again- on a daily basis.

And then I slowly make my way home. If we don't go out to one of the many phenomenal restaurants in Rome, friends come over for dinner- complete with wine from the boyfriend’s family’s production and numerous dishes full of fresh vegetables, herbs, cheeses and sauces.

I am learning more about this country everyday- and about myself. I knew many Italians in my life, and although I lived in Italy for over two years in the past…I think I finally “get it” now- and I “get” why I have always been drawn to Italy. And I love it. I hate it and I love it. I love to hate it and hate to love it.

Once the evening winds down and our guests leave, I normally make my way over to the couch, computer in lap, and continue whatever it was I was working on. I drink chamomile tea with honey from the family farm in Campania. I read, I write, I think. And in thinking about how much I need a job- I realized that I have been counting the days. And then I noted that these should be the days I am not counting...because these are the days i'll look back on and wish I had more of.

Oh, and I have a fish! There were two but one died last week.

So, excluding the small death in the family-in my opinion, “a day in this post-mba graduate’s life” isn't so bad after-all.