This is the last week. The final moments are ticking down, running through my fingers, but I'm not trying to stop them. I have no desire to stop them, each grain of sand must pass through my cupped palms because that is how it must be. I will not regret moments I have wasted, things I didn't do, things I did do, for that will cause me, even in its briefest measure, to waste more time. It has happened, being here, studying abroad, meeting new friends, finding more outlets for me to fail in and others to shine if only in minute increments. I have learned so much, not only through school or reading, but about myself and people.
I feel as though I have been walking through a haze. I see things clearly, but it all happens so slowly. Yet I found myself searching through the city, staring at the detailed lamps and the fickle cobble stone, attempting to imprint them in my memory lest I forget. And I went searching for ideas, making sure I thought all the thoughts I needed to think, even catching myself pondering how and why reflection works, why the water can reflect something so clearly and wondering the purpose of that function.
I might be grasping at straws, but this is my long winded way of saying I have loved each moment here, maybe not liked or enjoyed, but appreciated for it got me here, to this moment. But I am ready to move on. To take the next step. To close this chapter of my life and preceed to the next one. Not because I have no choice and I'm begrudgingly marching onward, yet neither am I sprinting towards it. I am ready because it needs to happen. It is what comes next. I must turn the page. It's exciting, and terrifying. I feel as though I have just starting planting my roots and become comfortable here in Florence with my new friends, and now I have to leave, and start all over. Again, trying to replant myself while still retaining who I am. But that's the hard part. Not the replanting, but finding acceptance for who I am.
But for now, I am waiting, wading through the seconds and the minutes, to the next day, and the next, and onto the next chapter.
Until Next Time!
Ciao!
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Episode 22: Easter Surprise
With Italy being a predominately Roman Catholic country, evident with the Vatican situated at its center, Christian holidays are pretty important around here. Holidays such as Easter.
There are typical things, like hollow chocolate eggs that may or may not have something inside or an easter bread in the shape of a dove with chunks of candied oranges inside, topped with sugar and almonds. And then the general consumption of chocolate, with each chocolate shop busy for weeks trying to fullfill and prepare for the demand. Yet there is more than food to mark this auspicious occasion. Every region of Italy has its own traditions and ways to mark the event special and unique to them. Florence is no different, and the way the Florentines have decided to make Easter special is with funky costumes. And explosions.
Il scoppio del carro is the offical name for this particular festivities. An ordinate cart is pulled around the city by a pair of white oxen in a procession of musicians and flag bearers, each dressed in a doublet and hose with the poofy pants (now before you start making fun, it should be known that it is a great honor to have one of these positions and I think I even heard it was passed down, but I'm not sure). This parade marches through the streets followed by families and tourists taking pictures, bringing them to the front of the Duomo where everyone goes in to do Mass.
After the Mass is done, everyone begins singing and a mechanical dove is released from the altar which flies out to the cart. Once it hits the cart, fireworks shoot out, along with colored smoke. The better the display is the more prosperous the year will be. And people are pushing and shoving, trying to get a look at the shower of color and see something truly magnificient and special, for how many times will you be in Florence on Easter.
I, unfortunately, did not see this. All that I have narrated is what I saw in the after effects as the dressed up men and oxen pulling the cart processed away from the Duomo or from the stories of my roommates who were able to see it. I was asleep, my body worn out from the hiking of Cinque Terre from the day previous and had decided to not wake up to my alarm. Sigh.
Well, I can't change the past, but it was still an event being in Florence. And now as I am residing through the after math of Pasqua (Easter) I have joyfully noticed less tourists. Hopefully this pattern will remain till I leave in (gasp!) 16 days.
Until Next Time!
Ciao!
There are typical things, like hollow chocolate eggs that may or may not have something inside or an easter bread in the shape of a dove with chunks of candied oranges inside, topped with sugar and almonds. And then the general consumption of chocolate, with each chocolate shop busy for weeks trying to fullfill and prepare for the demand. Yet there is more than food to mark this auspicious occasion. Every region of Italy has its own traditions and ways to mark the event special and unique to them. Florence is no different, and the way the Florentines have decided to make Easter special is with funky costumes. And explosions.
Il scoppio del carro is the offical name for this particular festivities. An ordinate cart is pulled around the city by a pair of white oxen in a procession of musicians and flag bearers, each dressed in a doublet and hose with the poofy pants (now before you start making fun, it should be known that it is a great honor to have one of these positions and I think I even heard it was passed down, but I'm not sure). This parade marches through the streets followed by families and tourists taking pictures, bringing them to the front of the Duomo where everyone goes in to do Mass.
After the Mass is done, everyone begins singing and a mechanical dove is released from the altar which flies out to the cart. Once it hits the cart, fireworks shoot out, along with colored smoke. The better the display is the more prosperous the year will be. And people are pushing and shoving, trying to get a look at the shower of color and see something truly magnificient and special, for how many times will you be in Florence on Easter.
I, unfortunately, did not see this. All that I have narrated is what I saw in the after effects as the dressed up men and oxen pulling the cart processed away from the Duomo or from the stories of my roommates who were able to see it. I was asleep, my body worn out from the hiking of Cinque Terre from the day previous and had decided to not wake up to my alarm. Sigh.
Well, I can't change the past, but it was still an event being in Florence. And now as I am residing through the after math of Pasqua (Easter) I have joyfully noticed less tourists. Hopefully this pattern will remain till I leave in (gasp!) 16 days.
Until Next Time!
Ciao!
Monday, April 25, 2011
Episode 21: The Lands of Five
My feet doth protest too much, but they protest for good reason. Yesterday, in light that it was one of the few remaining Saturdays I have left in Italy, I decided to do something. And do something I did. By word of mouth it was made known to me that Cinque Terre was one of the most beautiful and worthwhile places to see whilest in Italy. I said, okay, so my good friend Jenna accompanied me to this lands of five.
I discovered while attempting to find cheap train rides last minute, as I do, that Cinque Terre is not actually a town but the area in which these five towns reside: Monterosso, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola, and Riomaggiore. Travel between these towns for tourists consists of two main ways: train or walking. Now the term walking here doesn't apply to the casual strolling about or even power walking with weights. No, no, here, it means hiking crazy earth and rock paths that zig zag their ways with and through the natural and agricultural elements that dress these costal hills.
We had heard that the difficulty levels of each of the paths varied but that the path from Monterosso to Vernazza was the most difficult and took two hours. Our logic went accordingly: if we start with the hardest first, then the other ones will seem to grow gradually easier. That seems like sound logic, right? As flawless as we thought it to be it still didn't change the fact that the path was still miserable. Twisting and turning. Going up and up and up, down a little, and then up some more, fighting gravity on the way up and fighting gravity on the way down. Sometimes the path would lose a few sizes around the waist line and become wide enough for one barely one person. But as horrible as we make the path of death sound, I never will regret a single step or sweat drop. The view from the top was truly astounding, standing facing the sea that stretched to the far horizon line where it finally kissed the sky, it felt as though the whole world was at your feet. And looking out at the stretch of watery blue with no traces of end you could understand the fear of the first travelers had and you become overwhelmed by the amount of courage it would have taken to dare venture to something you couldn't see.
Also, another cool thing about that particular trail was we met the U.S. Ambassador of Geneva who was on a weekend holiday and talked to her for the last hour of the hike from Monterosso to Vernazza.
When we finished, we celebrated our accomplishment with a high five and never has a high five ever felt more worth it. After relaxing in Vernazza for two hours and getting a bandage from a waitress to cover a scrape I got from a fall (surprise, surprise), we hiked from Vernazza to Corniglia.
Now I would like say that the rest of the paths were closed and that's why we didn't hike them, but that would be lying. And you know what my mother says about lying: save it for special occasions. (just kidding, Margaret Dix is a saint and would have never taugh me something so scrupleless). However, a concession I will make on our behalf is that if we did hike them all, not only would our legs have fallen off but we wouldn't have made our train ride back home. So instead of hiking we took the train and stopped at each of the city, ate some food, but spent most of the time just sitting on the rocks beside the sea, watching overcast light gently caress the waves and the ocean pounding its fists against the rocky coast line, pushing all its weight into each shove yet yielding little gain.
Then, after close calls on missing our two trains back to Florence and being lucky enough to not get fined for not having stamped our ticket with the time validation thing, we returned home. Exhausted, but changed.
Until Next Time!
Ciao!
I discovered while attempting to find cheap train rides last minute, as I do, that Cinque Terre is not actually a town but the area in which these five towns reside: Monterosso, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola, and Riomaggiore. Travel between these towns for tourists consists of two main ways: train or walking. Now the term walking here doesn't apply to the casual strolling about or even power walking with weights. No, no, here, it means hiking crazy earth and rock paths that zig zag their ways with and through the natural and agricultural elements that dress these costal hills.
We had heard that the difficulty levels of each of the paths varied but that the path from Monterosso to Vernazza was the most difficult and took two hours. Our logic went accordingly: if we start with the hardest first, then the other ones will seem to grow gradually easier. That seems like sound logic, right? As flawless as we thought it to be it still didn't change the fact that the path was still miserable. Twisting and turning. Going up and up and up, down a little, and then up some more, fighting gravity on the way up and fighting gravity on the way down. Sometimes the path would lose a few sizes around the waist line and become wide enough for one barely one person. But as horrible as we make the path of death sound, I never will regret a single step or sweat drop. The view from the top was truly astounding, standing facing the sea that stretched to the far horizon line where it finally kissed the sky, it felt as though the whole world was at your feet. And looking out at the stretch of watery blue with no traces of end you could understand the fear of the first travelers had and you become overwhelmed by the amount of courage it would have taken to dare venture to something you couldn't see.
Also, another cool thing about that particular trail was we met the U.S. Ambassador of Geneva who was on a weekend holiday and talked to her for the last hour of the hike from Monterosso to Vernazza.
When we finished, we celebrated our accomplishment with a high five and never has a high five ever felt more worth it. After relaxing in Vernazza for two hours and getting a bandage from a waitress to cover a scrape I got from a fall (surprise, surprise), we hiked from Vernazza to Corniglia.
Now I would like say that the rest of the paths were closed and that's why we didn't hike them, but that would be lying. And you know what my mother says about lying: save it for special occasions. (just kidding, Margaret Dix is a saint and would have never taugh me something so scrupleless). However, a concession I will make on our behalf is that if we did hike them all, not only would our legs have fallen off but we wouldn't have made our train ride back home. So instead of hiking we took the train and stopped at each of the city, ate some food, but spent most of the time just sitting on the rocks beside the sea, watching overcast light gently caress the waves and the ocean pounding its fists against the rocky coast line, pushing all its weight into each shove yet yielding little gain.
Then, after close calls on missing our two trains back to Florence and being lucky enough to not get fined for not having stamped our ticket with the time validation thing, we returned home. Exhausted, but changed.
Until Next Time!
Ciao!
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Episode 20: The Taste of Trippa (aka There's stomach in my stomach)
Tripe, or Trippa. On first hearing this word, one may think it is a type of fish or exotic vegetable. However, in Italy, were you to stop at one of the food stands stationed at various spots around town and order a Trippa Panino, or Lampredotto, you would not find either of these two in the sandwich. Indeed, the white and pinkish cooked meat you would be staring at between the pieces of bread is instead cow stomach.
At this revelation, the instinct of most people is to be repulsed, unless they've grown up accustomed to this being served in dishes. Being unused to thought of consuming organs that were previously used to consume, this reaction is very reasonable. However, with that being said, it also should be countered with the fact that the stomach is just a muscle, constructed from the same molecules as the more commonly consumed muscles, only it's function is slightly different. To me, the eating of cow stomach didn't seem that gross. A little weird, yes, but I decided not to establish an opinion on something before actually tasting it. And since it was mainly a Florentine thing, I felt as if I couldn't leave without eating some either.
So this past Friday came, the day I had dubbed as the honorary first time trying tripe day. My friend Emily took me to a stand near her apartment where she usually went to get tripe. I ordered a Lampredotto, which is not to be confused with tripe. The difference between them is more than just color and texture for those differences are constituted from it. Trippa includes parts of the whole digestive tract while lampredotto is just the stomach abomasum. I waited till Emily had gotten hers before tasting mine, and together we went and sat on a nearby bench. She dug right into hers, while I took a moment to observe mine. Mine was prepared a bit differently being lampredotto, having the look of pulled pork and even smelling slightly like it as well. After a moment of absorbing it, I took my first bite. To my surprise, it tasted like beef. The only real different was the texture and the sauce it was in, but it actually tasted pretty good.
But how did this intestinal delicacy come to be? Well, up until the 1950's, most of the Italian population couldn't afford to buy meat so for the most part it remained absent from the diet. Tripe however was fairly cheap and could be bought once or maybe twice a week in order to fill this small gap in the dietary needs of the poor. Even more common was the production and buying of tripe broth to put in rice or bread. And since it was popular among the poor due to its affordability, the middle and upper classes didn't associate with it. It was only until Pellegrino Artusi, the man who wrote the first Italian food cook book in all Italian called "The Art of Eating Well", suggested it as a dish ordinary enough for any family meal regardless of class. Gradually this idea was accepted. Eventually it came to where it is now, street food sold in sandwich form at kiosks with four wheels becoming Italy's closest version to fast food, though it can be found in a few restaurants. And due to its retention of being easy on the pocket book it is a popular favorite with the locals.
There it is. A complete documentation of a culinary exploit.
Until Next Time!
Ciao!
At this revelation, the instinct of most people is to be repulsed, unless they've grown up accustomed to this being served in dishes. Being unused to thought of consuming organs that were previously used to consume, this reaction is very reasonable. However, with that being said, it also should be countered with the fact that the stomach is just a muscle, constructed from the same molecules as the more commonly consumed muscles, only it's function is slightly different. To me, the eating of cow stomach didn't seem that gross. A little weird, yes, but I decided not to establish an opinion on something before actually tasting it. And since it was mainly a Florentine thing, I felt as if I couldn't leave without eating some either.
So this past Friday came, the day I had dubbed as the honorary first time trying tripe day. My friend Emily took me to a stand near her apartment where she usually went to get tripe. I ordered a Lampredotto, which is not to be confused with tripe. The difference between them is more than just color and texture for those differences are constituted from it. Trippa includes parts of the whole digestive tract while lampredotto is just the stomach abomasum. I waited till Emily had gotten hers before tasting mine, and together we went and sat on a nearby bench. She dug right into hers, while I took a moment to observe mine. Mine was prepared a bit differently being lampredotto, having the look of pulled pork and even smelling slightly like it as well. After a moment of absorbing it, I took my first bite. To my surprise, it tasted like beef. The only real different was the texture and the sauce it was in, but it actually tasted pretty good.
But how did this intestinal delicacy come to be? Well, up until the 1950's, most of the Italian population couldn't afford to buy meat so for the most part it remained absent from the diet. Tripe however was fairly cheap and could be bought once or maybe twice a week in order to fill this small gap in the dietary needs of the poor. Even more common was the production and buying of tripe broth to put in rice or bread. And since it was popular among the poor due to its affordability, the middle and upper classes didn't associate with it. It was only until Pellegrino Artusi, the man who wrote the first Italian food cook book in all Italian called "The Art of Eating Well", suggested it as a dish ordinary enough for any family meal regardless of class. Gradually this idea was accepted. Eventually it came to where it is now, street food sold in sandwich form at kiosks with four wheels becoming Italy's closest version to fast food, though it can be found in a few restaurants. And due to its retention of being easy on the pocket book it is a popular favorite with the locals.
There it is. A complete documentation of a culinary exploit.
Until Next Time!
Ciao!
Monday, April 4, 2011
Episode 19: If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands
One of the things people commonly think of when their thoughts venture to that of Italians, after thinking about the food, the family, and the language, is the talking with their hands. However, it is not as first surmised. We generally associate talking with your hands as nondescript waving arms and motioning of the hands, but that is not talking with your hands that Italians do. That is flailing the appendages of the upper torso while simultaneously moving your lips and issuing out verbal sounds.
No, talking with your hands legitimately means having a conversation using hand gestures (outside of sign language). Usually, this gesturing accompanies talking, but I have witnessed conversation exchange between people using only hand gestures. For example, one of the gestures I have picked up on, and now use, is the gesture for “no” which is sometimes followed by the “Go away” gesture. And I have noticed that the times I am channeling my sister Melissa and using my hands extravagantly while speaking, Italians I walk by or who pass me focus on my hands, which then makes me stop channeling Melissa for fear I am saying something extra that I don’t realize. Do they sometimes wave their arms about? Yea, but I don’t know exactly what it means, but it is always the same. So the next time you see someone trying to portray and Italian and they are flapping their arms about in a manner without purpose, they’re not being Italian. They’re being American. :D
Along with the note on hands, touching is viewed differently and a lot more acceptable. Every single day I see people walking holding hands or linking arms without any homosexual connotation. Men hold hands or link arms with other men as a symbol of kinship, not as a display of sexual affection. Some of them might be, but there is no discrepancy here about that. Also kissing and hugging and just touching are a casual display of friendship between people, again of opposite or same sex. Rules of eligibility in this game can vary, but I became friends enough with this woman who I worked with only twice in the mask shop to be kissed on the cheeks. And it was kind of fun to be that affectionate and loving towards another.
Of course, it all falls under the category of safe touching. There are plenty of touches that are not in the spectrum of friendship that happen, but are generally looked down on.
Yep. That’s all I have to say about that.
Until Next Time!
Ciao!
No, talking with your hands legitimately means having a conversation using hand gestures (outside of sign language). Usually, this gesturing accompanies talking, but I have witnessed conversation exchange between people using only hand gestures. For example, one of the gestures I have picked up on, and now use, is the gesture for “no” which is sometimes followed by the “Go away” gesture. And I have noticed that the times I am channeling my sister Melissa and using my hands extravagantly while speaking, Italians I walk by or who pass me focus on my hands, which then makes me stop channeling Melissa for fear I am saying something extra that I don’t realize. Do they sometimes wave their arms about? Yea, but I don’t know exactly what it means, but it is always the same. So the next time you see someone trying to portray and Italian and they are flapping their arms about in a manner without purpose, they’re not being Italian. They’re being American. :D
Along with the note on hands, touching is viewed differently and a lot more acceptable. Every single day I see people walking holding hands or linking arms without any homosexual connotation. Men hold hands or link arms with other men as a symbol of kinship, not as a display of sexual affection. Some of them might be, but there is no discrepancy here about that. Also kissing and hugging and just touching are a casual display of friendship between people, again of opposite or same sex. Rules of eligibility in this game can vary, but I became friends enough with this woman who I worked with only twice in the mask shop to be kissed on the cheeks. And it was kind of fun to be that affectionate and loving towards another.
Of course, it all falls under the category of safe touching. There are plenty of touches that are not in the spectrum of friendship that happen, but are generally looked down on.
Yep. That’s all I have to say about that.
Until Next Time!
Ciao!
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Episode 18: Walking
Yesterday I walked. Woke up tired, an aching tired resonating deep, and restless. So I walked. Locked the apartment, leaving its shadows and solitude, decending the steps to the outside, with busy streets and people filled sidewalks, turned and walked.
I walked one way, then turned and walked another. I had no map to guild me back if I were lost and not enough language skills to allow me to ask where I was. I knew not where I was going but it seemed my free were never satisfied. Hours, just navigating the streets blind. I was glad I decided to wear my tennis shoes though I was wearing a sundress. My stomach growled but I kept on. My calves ached and my thrighs burned, but I kept walking, wandering, seeking something I didn't know. My callouses on my feet were getting blisters and my blisters were callousing, as if my body was protesting but my feet refused to hear its cries. Yet I kept walking. Not knowing where I wanted to go or what I was running from.
No one bothered me. The benefits to having brown hair and brown eyes. I blend in almost anywhere, not that I particularly look Italian, per say, but I don't stand out. So no one bothered me. Perhaps they did think me Italian. Perhaps they just didn't care.
And I kept walking. Past the cars and vespas. Past men sitting under restaurant awnings enjoying words and a glass of vino. Past waitresses and butchers and cashiers sitting on their respective store's thresholds savoring the slow moments of their smoke breaks. Past the child filled strollers pushed by women, or the men playing soccer. I could feel their eyes, but I kept on by, looking for something.
My feet finally found themselves at the top of this hill, over looking the city with building large and loaming as if they could devour people now as small as a child's hand, nestled at the base of large rolling mountainous hills. The red orange roofs like a permenant sunset, and the white walls holding them up as innocent as a Sunday morning. And people with thought moving around, but so tiny that you couldn't see them.
I stood there, seeing this and breathing. Then turned around, and walked back.
I walked one way, then turned and walked another. I had no map to guild me back if I were lost and not enough language skills to allow me to ask where I was. I knew not where I was going but it seemed my free were never satisfied. Hours, just navigating the streets blind. I was glad I decided to wear my tennis shoes though I was wearing a sundress. My stomach growled but I kept on. My calves ached and my thrighs burned, but I kept walking, wandering, seeking something I didn't know. My callouses on my feet were getting blisters and my blisters were callousing, as if my body was protesting but my feet refused to hear its cries. Yet I kept walking. Not knowing where I wanted to go or what I was running from.
No one bothered me. The benefits to having brown hair and brown eyes. I blend in almost anywhere, not that I particularly look Italian, per say, but I don't stand out. So no one bothered me. Perhaps they did think me Italian. Perhaps they just didn't care.
And I kept walking. Past the cars and vespas. Past men sitting under restaurant awnings enjoying words and a glass of vino. Past waitresses and butchers and cashiers sitting on their respective store's thresholds savoring the slow moments of their smoke breaks. Past the child filled strollers pushed by women, or the men playing soccer. I could feel their eyes, but I kept on by, looking for something.
My feet finally found themselves at the top of this hill, over looking the city with building large and loaming as if they could devour people now as small as a child's hand, nestled at the base of large rolling mountainous hills. The red orange roofs like a permenant sunset, and the white walls holding them up as innocent as a Sunday morning. And people with thought moving around, but so tiny that you couldn't see them.
I stood there, seeing this and breathing. Then turned around, and walked back.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Episode 17: These things just happen
Exactly right. I have fallen in love. It was really only a matter of time, to the motification of my father, and his fears of my going abroad have yielded unmeasureable fruit. A feeling I had only comprehended in literature but never truly understood. Until now.
I have fallen in love with Ireland. I don't believe in love at first glance, but I guess I will have to make an exception. Obviously. It really shouldn't be such a surprise. I'm not sure anyone could go there and not be smitten eventually. The craziest part about it (well, not THE craziest part, but it's up there) is that I only saw Dublin and Dublin port harbor.
(haha bet I had some of you guys going and about gave Dad a heart attack)
After my first two days of holiday were spent in London with my friend Leah whom I met in a mask design class from Agostino, I woke up bright and early Monday morning to spend nine hours traveling, taking train, then tub, then train again, then another train, and then finally a ferry in order to reach my destination. The ferry was a whole new experience; sitting peacefully with a sandwich, observing the sea and sky blend together, and being able to watch the slow process of creeping up on Ireland. And thus I arrived, feet on the ground of at least half of my ancestors, with only a map bequeathed to me by a nice bus driver and no information about where my hostel was. Eventually, I got there, greeted by and older Irish receptionist whose name I can't remember since my Australian friends I met there and I took to calling him Dad. The Irish are known to be witty, and that is very true, for not even two seconds in the room and all the receptionist are having good fun with my name. Luckily, the years living in my family has prepared me for such encounters.
My hostel was situated in the Medieval/Viking section, conveniently located next to the Temple Bar section, where I spent my nights (responsibly) attending pub crawls with my newly acquired friends and making new ones. Tuesday I took a walking tour, getting detailed insight on the history of the country, buildings and people. I spent a good hour in the National Museum looking up most of the family names I could remember, and afterwards I wandering around, declining the urge to buy some Starbucks and making the greatest discovery of all - sour patch kids. Now in a previous blog I mentioned the lack of these delicious treats in Italy, however upon entering a candy shop called Happy Pill (mostly because the store's name made me giggle), I discovered a whole bag of them. There were also Reese's, which I also almost bought, but I made myself choose one and I chose sour patch kids.
The rest of my time I spent just wandering around Dublin, taking my time and absorbing my surroundings, mostly in the various, beautiful parks, doing some homework for photojournalism and sketchbook, and going to a few of the museums including the National Leprechan Museum. It could be viewed as a waste of my time to not have traveled in the country and see all Ireland's glory, but in taking my time, I was able to known Dublin more than just the surface and find some very beautiful spots.
But now I am back in Italy, making chicken broth and eating strawberries, waiting the arrival of roommates and enjoying the remainder of my holiday.
Until Next Time!
Ciao!
I have fallen in love with Ireland. I don't believe in love at first glance, but I guess I will have to make an exception. Obviously. It really shouldn't be such a surprise. I'm not sure anyone could go there and not be smitten eventually. The craziest part about it (well, not THE craziest part, but it's up there) is that I only saw Dublin and Dublin port harbor.
(haha bet I had some of you guys going and about gave Dad a heart attack)
After my first two days of holiday were spent in London with my friend Leah whom I met in a mask design class from Agostino, I woke up bright and early Monday morning to spend nine hours traveling, taking train, then tub, then train again, then another train, and then finally a ferry in order to reach my destination. The ferry was a whole new experience; sitting peacefully with a sandwich, observing the sea and sky blend together, and being able to watch the slow process of creeping up on Ireland. And thus I arrived, feet on the ground of at least half of my ancestors, with only a map bequeathed to me by a nice bus driver and no information about where my hostel was. Eventually, I got there, greeted by and older Irish receptionist whose name I can't remember since my Australian friends I met there and I took to calling him Dad. The Irish are known to be witty, and that is very true, for not even two seconds in the room and all the receptionist are having good fun with my name. Luckily, the years living in my family has prepared me for such encounters.
My hostel was situated in the Medieval/Viking section, conveniently located next to the Temple Bar section, where I spent my nights (responsibly) attending pub crawls with my newly acquired friends and making new ones. Tuesday I took a walking tour, getting detailed insight on the history of the country, buildings and people. I spent a good hour in the National Museum looking up most of the family names I could remember, and afterwards I wandering around, declining the urge to buy some Starbucks and making the greatest discovery of all - sour patch kids. Now in a previous blog I mentioned the lack of these delicious treats in Italy, however upon entering a candy shop called Happy Pill (mostly because the store's name made me giggle), I discovered a whole bag of them. There were also Reese's, which I also almost bought, but I made myself choose one and I chose sour patch kids.
The rest of my time I spent just wandering around Dublin, taking my time and absorbing my surroundings, mostly in the various, beautiful parks, doing some homework for photojournalism and sketchbook, and going to a few of the museums including the National Leprechan Museum. It could be viewed as a waste of my time to not have traveled in the country and see all Ireland's glory, but in taking my time, I was able to known Dublin more than just the surface and find some very beautiful spots.
But now I am back in Italy, making chicken broth and eating strawberries, waiting the arrival of roommates and enjoying the remainder of my holiday.
Until Next Time!
Ciao!
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