Episode 23: The Waiting

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!

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!

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!

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!

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!

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.

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!

Episode 16: Unification Celebration

March 17th, more commonly known as St. Patrick's Day and adamantly referred to personally as my niece Miriam's birthday. However, in Italy, the celebration, parades, marching bands and other forms of general merry making is not for either of these momentous occasions, but for another non related yet equally important event. Unification Day.

Today, on March 17th, while my beautiful niece is blowing out her first candle and Irish people everywhere are raising their glasses, all of Italy breaks out in lavish celebration for the 150th year reign of them being a unified country.  In the year 1861, (cough, 150 years ago) amid other general political and military chaos of the 19th century that was Europe, the Kingdom of Italy was formed, no longer under the rule of either the French or Austrian.  I say most because two of the states were still under foreign control: Rome was still under control of Napoleon III and Venetia was still under Austrian rule. Prussia gave Italy Venetia for their help in their war against Austria, and French troops were pulled from Rome so Italy just marched in and reclaimed it unopposed. All except the Papal State, obviously.

Though there is a whole of other components to this politically charged history, like most historical stories, today is the celebration of Italy being a whole.  Though each region has kept their own dialectic and the Italian language only became spread over all of Italy and become the common language everyone spoke when television was only broadcast in Italian.  Yesterday night was the pregame to general festivities.  Store shops decorated with white, green and red accents.  Lights shown on buildings in the same color palate. Flags hang from windows and various other decorations zigzagged above in the city streets.  A vicious soccer game was played in traditional costumes (meaning doublets and such), and fireworks were set off from Piazza Signora.  Though rain is still joining the party in intermittent waves, the streets were filled and are still.  So I will have to announce an official protraction of a previous statement that said there was no traffic in Italy. Today, there is.

Tonight I will hang out with my remaining roommates before we depart on all of our adventures for spring break, celebrating Unification, Saint Patrick's Day, the completion of midterms (one of which I am presently awaiting critique for), my niece's birthday,and life in general.

Until Next Time!
Ciao!

Episodes 15: Let the sun shine in

The sun came out today.  After days of rain, and then cold, then rain and cold, layered together, one on top of the other, like a soggy cake.  In between the down pours and the sprinkling, the sky took a coffee break and the sun came out.  Pools of water still existed in the divets and crevices of the sidewalk, just enough to get the hem of my jeans wet.  But the sun felt good, warming my face, brushing aside my frustrations with a gentle caress of its radiant hands.  Soothing the wrinkles from my rain soaked mind.  Cultivating radiance that had been forgotten, buried deep under the layers within people, more of which were smiling, but I don't know if they were smiling because of the sun, or because I was smiling too, or I just thought people looked happier since I was smiling.  Nevertheless, it was a nice break.  Others were enjoying the sunshine too, sitting along the winding streets whereever the sun snuck around the corners of buildings or peaked over the roofs, or where it danced openly in the wide piazze. 

The sun is a common thing, and a seemingly silly thing, but I feel my joy is still justified, especially since so much has happened in this world that is nothing compared to a few days of rain or miserable piles of snow. How can I find joy in having a roof and walls when there are those whose homes are no more?  How can I find joy in food when there are those who are being fed rations, if anything?  Even this moment, typing on this electronic document, I can't find completely joy for coursing through this machine's veins is electricity.  I can't help but feel twinges of guilt for having them if I find joy with them.

But I can find joy in sunshine.  Not in objects or food, but in something common.  Something silly. Something that doesn't need translation.  Something we all share no matter where we are.  And maybe if I find joy in it, they will too, and so will you, and we can share this moment together, and remember we are connected no matter what the boundries. For this world needs all the joy it can get.

My prayers are with you.

Until Next Time.
Ciao!

Episode 14: When In Roman Holiday

(This one is longer than most, but it describes a three day weekend in Rome.  I think that allows for some grace. And there would have been pictures, but my camera is being very silly right now.  I might have a whole other blog dedicated to the pictures.)

In being a student through my particular program, it was mandatory for me to attend a three day weekend in Roma, or Rome as us English speakers refer to it as.  Though I only have to pay for a few meals I have suspicious that the trip and passes into or tours of various historical old places was paid for through part of my tuition.  My suspicious have thus gone unconfirmed, but at the moment I really don't care to look into the matter.

As initially excited as I was at the prospect of seeing the eternal city, I was not looking forward to the prospect of getting up for a 6:30 am departure.  And I, as usual, woke up later that planned luckily through the prodding of my roommates who were also going, throw stuff into my backpack and allowed them to lead me through the slumbering city to our meeting point. But, the pain was all rewarded by our first stop at Tivoli where we spent a good hour and a half exploring the Villa d'Este.  Actually, the garden surrounding the villa is what makes the place well known and widely traveled because honestly, the building itself isn't that grand to look at.  But the garden is known as The Hundred Fountain garden, for as the name suggests, it is a maze full of beautiful statues and fountains.  Maybe there actually are a hundred.  I'm not sure.  The fountains were dormant until about eight years ago, and the most amazing thing is that they are still using the original plumbing from when they were made in 1550.  Yeah, you're mind was just blown, I can tell.  We then were treated to a light dinner at an olive grove consisting of bread, a dish of pasta, then a dish of potatoes and meat, and more bread.  Light dinner.

Saturday was when our walking tour of the city was scheduled, but mother nature also scheduled rain.  When people ask how it was, I have conflicting emotions, because I was overwhelmed at seeing, touching, and being amongst historical monuments I had only read about and admired from a distance through pictures in history books. The Colussium, The Pantheon, The Trevi Fountain, the Arch of Constantine, and a bunch of other important historical buildings I wasn't as familiar with.  However, the rain made it utterly miserable.  Walking around Rome for about 4 hours straight soaking wet is not as fun as it sounds.  Just ask my legs and my once white now blue tennis shoes.

Then in my four hours of freedom a few friends and I decided to trek to the Vatican. Weaving through the masses through the obilisk lined street, we came upon the state within a state and a huge line of people.  Joining in line with some friends we saw, who ended up leaving the line for this special tour deal, and in twenty minutes we made it pass security and into the pope's casa.  Though we had no tour guide and didn't exactly know the exact historical significance of what we were looking at, we ventured through the tombs of the popes and then the St. Peter's Church.  Like every church and cathedral in Italy, it was beautiful. The Basillica S. Pietro can't even be described with pictures.  I took a few as proof that I was here and that I was seeing what I was seeing, but I stopped even trying to take pictures that would be adaquate in relating all that is this building.  I was not able to go into the Cistine Chapel, for I made it there too late for admitance into the museum.  I'm really sad about that, but I only had an hour left of my free time and that wouldn't have been enough time at all.  Maybe I will go back if I am able to.

Sunday we had a bus tour, much to our relief from walking around the Eternal City of seven hills.  And the sun was out.  After a mad rush to get spots at the top of our open roof tour bus, we listened to an automated tour person as we moved through the traffic, seeing each of the hills and more ruins and the place that Ben Hur was filmed but unfortunately I was unable to run around it and do a self re-enactment (Sorry Aleah).  My new friend Jenna asked me once why I was so quiet, but I didn't know how to explain the feeling of being there.  I feel I keep mentioning this over and over, but my mind can't compute being here.  And more I think about it the more I feel as though there are more deserving people who should be here.  After our tour and time to eat, we traveled back to Florence, giving us time to finish homework and catch up on sleep.

That was the shortened, condensed abridged version.  If you would like to hear more, shoot me an email.  I would love to converse with you electronically.

Until Next Time!
Ciao!

(Everytime I send my post saying "Until Next Time" I feel as though I am ending a radio show.)

Episode 12: Playing Hard to Get

In going to a different country, one has to assume that there will be things you were used to having that aren't anymore. Most of what is mentioned below are food and things I can obviously do without, but I thought I would add them to this list based on my high appreciation of these items and the irony I find in it with this place being a food mecca. Some are things that are here but just rare.  I could keep on explaining but I think it will just be more beneficial if you just read.


1. Reese's anything:  Peanut butter candy does not exist.  Instead, hazelnut candy is available in a plethera, and I find it very scrumptious.  However, there are moments when I just need a piece of that peanut butter goodness that not matter how much hazelnut chocolate I consume the craving just won't go away.  But what to expect from a country where Nutella is king, it's not surprising peanut butter candy has been exiled, and peanut butter exists but very expensive.

2. Mike and Ike's and Sour patch kids: I decided to lump them together since they are very similar. I know I have Haribo Gummy Bears, which are amazing, but sometimes a girl just wants

3. Cheese Pringles:  Now I thought finding cheese pringles was hard in my parent's house, but it is impossible in all of Florence.  They have Original, Multi Grain, Paprika, Sour Cream and Onion, Salt and Pepper, but they do not Cheese.

4. Cheddar Cheese: Not that cheddar cheese is the best, but sometimes it is the best cheese for say, dip, or quesadillas, just eating, and it is the only cheese that is not made in Italy. The Parmaggiano Reggiano cheese (parmasan cheese) is amazing, and so are other cheeses, but every once in a while you just need a good bite of sharp cheddar.

5. Children:  At least in Florence, it is called an old city not because of the architecture, but because the age of the general population is older.  There are many factors that go into this reality.  One is that people are waiting to have children.  Another is there are strict regulations on ways outside of good old fashioned copulation to have children.  Clinics do exist for invetro fertiliztion, but they are only allowed to make three embryos and it is extremely expensive.  Sperm banks, frozen embyos, and even surrogate mothers are all banned and illegal.  So when I do run across a kid that's Italian, it always surprises me.

6. Parking Spots: Not that there were available parking spots at Northwestern in any way, shape or form, but here it is a completely different story.  When I do come across a car driving the first thought I have is wondering where they are going to park when they get wherever it is there are going.  I just believed the limited number of spots that are never available was the reason most people walk, ride bicycles or take public transportation.

7. Traffic Jams: With the limited number of cars buzzing around, this lessens the amount of traffic.  Though, there are plenty of vespas and these are always lining the streets, there is very limited traffic.  But you would think that this would limit the amount of smog, but Florence has the worst smog of any city in all of Italy.  However at night, you can still see the stars if you are standing in large piazzas, so I think Florence beats all cities in the U.S.A.

8. Honeycomb: This food comes in second place to Reese on the craving-food-meter.  Most of the cereals here bran flake kind of cereals, which is very good.  But every once in a while, a girl needs a bowl of Honey comb.

9. Delivery: In a culture whose culinary experience thrives on not only the taste of the wonderful food, but the smells and sounds of the environment in which they are breaking their bread in.  This is one of the main reasons why Italian meals are much longer, they like to take their time and experience all the encompasses their meal.  Pick up is available in some places, but if you are eating pizza at your home, it is more Digiorno than delivery.  Not that this is a bad thing, for it forces people to leave their dwellings and be a part of the world.

10. Cats: Of all the things I haven't seen, I have yet to see a cat.  I see dogs everywhere.  Big dogs, little dogs, dogs, dogs, dogs.  There are no cats in sight.  Maybe they are at home or maybe they don't exist.  Perhaps I should one of these days ask an Italian, Dove i gatti?

Until Next Time!
Ciao!

Episode 11: Put on your red shoes, and dance the blues

So, you think you can dance?  Well, eat your heart out Tony Wilder and other dance enthusists, because I just had a dance experience that will blow your mind.

Being a writer for my school's monthly newspaper has it's benefits, including a discounted multi-day entrance pass to Danzainfiera, an international trade and show dance exibition, from February 24th to the 27th.  Four days packed full of workshops, auditions, and shows from 10 in the morning to 9 at night, located at Fortezza da basso, a fortress the Medici family funded the building of (since they clearly didn't actually build it themselves, they just had the money to sponsor everything) and was used for their protection in case of violent outbreak in the city.  Obviously since the Medici empire is disbanded and a fortress is so last century, the space is now used for conventions and other major events.

I was only able to go Saturday and Sunday, and since the program I was given was in Italian and there was twelve buildings to chose from, it took me a little while to get myself situated.  I first walked through the main convention center, finding rows of dance companies and dance products being advertised and sold. Dance heels, tap shoes, point shoes, bear claws, tango dresses and tutus.  If it has any imaginable connection with the world of dance, it was here.

Then I ventured upstairs.  And thus the mind explosion begins.  Free lessons.  Workshops.  Continously being encompassed by music, movement, and little girls with leg warmers and high tight hair knots.  Each room is full with these dance workshops or audtions, seeing classical, hip hop, modern jazz, argentine tango, comtemporary and caribean tango.  Going from that building to the next I stumble across a dance competition and others simple dance exibitions (where you need to sit down right away or a guy will come and sternly talk to you about sitting down in Italian).  It was like RUSH, on crack.  Or steroids, minus the negative health effects.  And not only were the costumes cooler and the moves , but in one of the competitions they got these huge trophies like glass tornadoes, for each of the different categories of dance.

Occasionally someone would randomly supply a boombox and people would break out in break dancing, speaking a language everyone could speak.  One of my favorites was a crew battle event. The house was packed, to such an extent that I had to sit on the ground just outside the ring of dance crews.  Though I didn't get a real seat, I considered it the best seat in the house being that close to the action.  I decided it is like slamming without words.  Exchanging one thing for another, taking the moment and the music you are given and making something of it.  Crews of all sizes, gender, and age attended with moves that would put Alex Menning to shame.  I witnessed a crew with members of the average age of 27 go against a crew whose members had the average age of ten.  Not only was it adorable, but it was awesome.

Though I didn't have the gall nor the qualification to participate, it didn't mean I wasn't a part of it.  Not just as an audience member, but it moved me that real dancing still could exist in such a thriving nature and that people would love it.  That two women could dance onstage together in a beautiful contemporary dance and people wouldn't see it as a display of lesbianism (if that is a word) but as something beyond who the dancers are.  That we are more than the sum of our parts. That the message doesn't have to be explained for it to be understood or beautiful.  And that it could connect us together.  Like a flamenco dancer I saw, and though it really just seems like controlled stomping, there was something about it that was enthralling.  There was this sense of idenity, connection between the crowd who adored this man and his dancing.  A common beat between his feet and their hearts.

And I am still trying to catch my breath.  From all of it.  From the crew battle to the classical ballet.  Neither one better or greater than the next.

Until Next Time!
Ciao!

Episode 10: These are a few of my favorite things

In honor of my eldest sister who turned a grand total of 32 years yesterday and birthday cards not existing in Florence (no seriously, I don't think people get old here, so all the old people had to have been imported from some where) and I also cannot send her 32 things in the mail since that would be bloody expensive, I decided today's blog would be the 32 things I would do with my eldest sister Melissa if she were here in Florence for a day (minus jetlag and all that nasty business)

1. Head on down to the central market, where we would buy kiwi or dried fruit and these magically delicious muffins filled with nutella for breakfast or morning snack.
2. Rub the nose of the boar statue and put a coin in his mouth for good luck.
3. If it is raining, we will say no to the men who suddenly appear selling umbrellas in the streets who will swarm us.  Or you will can in and buy one, only to be cursing its pathetic existence moments later when it breaks.
4. Make faces back at the nymph and water sprites statues who are stationed around Posidon.
5. See how many pictures we can be in the background of.
6. Eat gelato for one euro at La Carreria, a gelato place across the river.
7. Buy Cioccolata Calda, hot chocolate that is literally melted chocolate in a cup.
8. Buy seven postcards for one euro (I'm all about the one euro), address them to ourselves, stamp them, then give them to complete strangers who look friendly enough and ask them to send it to us.
9. Take Bus 7 and ride out to the top of the hill that over looks all of Florence.
10. Go into famous museums, one of which has the real David, where we will question the propriety of his nudity with him being such a well known Biblical and historical figure.
11. Go see the Surprise Movie that shows at Teatro Oderon, hope it's in English or has subtitles, and sit fourth row in the balcony drinking libations of grape origins that we got from their concession stand.
12. Sit on the bridge eating either a panino or more gelato, watching the mirky green river move past us and the current of people strolling behind us, and return again at night and notice how the river has been transformed into a mirror, reflecting the inky black sky.
13. Late at night, we would sneak to the secret bakery, waiting very quietly outside for a chocolate croissant.
14. I would show you Prof. Agostino Dessi's shop and introduce you to him, a famous mask maker.
15. We'd eat pizza at GustaPizza, one of the best pizza places around.
16. Wander the streets, getting lost in its magic, and maybe actually getting lost. Or at least almost hit by a vespa.
17. Stop by a little bakery and buy a couple pieces of chocolate, and a cup of coffee (if you like coffee... at the moment I can't remember. I don't think you do, but if you do, I will).
18. Go to Teatre Verdi and see a performance of either a stage play or an orchestra, both speaking words we may not understand but nevertheless we will bask in the presence of its beautiful nature.
19. Get bread and chocolate and people watch in random piazzas.
20. Rent bikes and ride out as far as we can go.
21. Go to the club called 21, and dance, pushing away all the men who will want to dance with us because they are kinda sleezy and only really want to get into your pants (and because you have a boyfriend and I don't want one since I try not to do bi-continental relationships).
22. I will skip class and go kickboxing or zumba.
23. Invest in a bag of confetti and toss it about, in the air and at each other, dancing in the kalidascope of colored paper.
24. Find the peace protests that appears every once in a while about the situation going on with the Prime Minister and the want for the image and views of women to change and join it, marching through the streets of Florence.
25. Join in playing with a street muscian (if he will let us.  If he doesn't, we will find one that does).
26. Find the guy who wears a long orange coat trimmed in fur who I see randomly riding about on a bicycle, chase him down, and get his picture.
27. Spend a chunk of time window shopping.
28. Go to church at the Duomo, standing in awe as the music of voices and organ join together, and we'll close our eyes and for a brief second we will almost hear the voices of all the other people who were there before that the bricks absorbed in its memory.
29. We'd buy a pair of rain boots each and go puddle jumping, splashing in every puddle we happen across.
30. We'd go graffiti hunting, looking for all the graffiti and creating a map, marking the spots where the graffiti is the coolest.
31. Climb the scaffolding outside my apartment window up to the top and look out across the red tile roofs, but not climb on the roofs because the red tile is gross and not very secure.
32. Ride the carousel in Piazza Repubblica when it starts getting dark out until he closes the ride down.

Until Next Time!
Ciao!

Episode 9: But Never Doubt I Love

My room roommate Jordan found this trip through a student travel agency that was hosting a one day tour of Verona during the annual Verona in Love festival.  Being the evident romantic suckers that we are, with a few of my other roommates, decided to go and experience the notorious city of love.  During the orientation we recieved after signing up, the guides were telling us of all the things we could do or that is special for couples and love, one of which is you can buy a stone at Juliet's house for a discounted price of 49 euro (the orignal price being 99).  This stone is then placed at the house of Juliet and is to symbolize that the love between you and your whoever will last forever.  I then mumbled under my breath "Yeah, until you commit suicide," to the mortification of every one that heard, I immediately disovered by the number of heads that turned my way was the whole group.  I decided to then slip out before they decided to tar and feather me for my insolence - I don't think my international health insurance will cover that.  I recounted the story to my roommates who reacted with equal amount of mortification, and then later forbid me from referring to Verona as the city of love and suicide.

Three hours on a bus and we arrived to a foggy and damp Verona. However, weather did not dampen the spirit or the passion at Verona’s festival of love.  The place was packed.  Clutching an umbrella in one hand and wielding a pink heart balloon in the other, throngs of people filled the cobbled streets, sandwiched between red hearts hanging above their heads and plastered at their feet. In true Valentine’s Day fashion, snuggling lovebirds occupied every bench, arms were linked and fingers intertwined.  You could even occasionally spy a couple macking on various street corners or from Juliet's balcony, which was open for free viewing with it being the off season and Valentine's day weekend (and FYI, Juliet's house is not how the movie Letters to Juliet protrays it as). Piazza Signori housed venders stationed at stands in a heart shape around the statue of Dante sold various wares. A temporary wall hosted numerous notes of love, the most original awaiting a prize. An abridged version of Romeo and Juliet, performed in Italian. Various shades of pink and red light were cast on buildings as darkness fell and people gathered in Piazza Bra’ for Soffi D’Amore, when the sky showers down confetti hearts, or for Un Cuore di Baci, the one minute kiss on the Palazzo Barbieri’s steps. (and yes, I did steal this from the article I am writing for the school magazine here)

In our tour of the city, our guide informed us of another tragic love story connected to Verona, the story of Corrado and Isabella.  Though I couldn't exactly understand or hear the story, the basic jist is, Corrado accused Isabella of being cold, she said she wasn't that she was as cold as the water in this well, Corrado then jumped into the well, and she jumped in after him or something and they both died (which I think should allow me the freedom to call Verona the title I gave it.).  Then I went and stood in a Roman Collusium which was used for gladiator fights and then theatre and to this day still holds opera festivals (which as we all know probably have terrible sound problems).

But all in all, it was a good day.  I mean, there is much potential for a single person surfing through crowds of affectionate people to get depressed, but it wasn't.  Weirdly, the festival had a way of restoring the hope of love, that though it doesn't exist now in the coupley sense, it will some day.

Yep.

Until Next Time!
Ciao!

Episode 8: Leaning Tower of Pizza

Where can you go in Italy for £5,80 one way?  To Pisa of course, the origins of tilting architecture and tourists poised in goofy positions.

Now there were three very specific things I wanted in Pisa: to push the tower, the bite the tower and to eat pizza.  The first two, though out of context may seem a tad strange, are completely normal if not mandatory things to achieve along side fifty other tourists doing the exact same thing (but I like imagining I'm original with the biting idea).  The later one is not because Pisa is known for its pizza - no, that's what Naples is known for since that is where pizza originated, however you cannot go there for £5,80 - but for the novelty of being able to say I had pizza in Pisa.  Or Pisan pizza.  But be careful how you pronounce the second one because if you mispronounce it or get misheard, people may either laugh or be vilely disgusted. Just so you're aware of the risk.

So my roomies Michelle, Griffin, Jordan and I, along with our friends Lindsey and Megan travel by train and wonder in through the city without a map, just a general direction of where we need to be going, kind of.  But we get there, we have the pictures to prove it, and discover with it being the off season for tourists that admission into the Church free.  Ceasing the opportunity we venture through ordinate door posts depicting various biblical scenes and into the cathedral.

Words cannot even begin to describe the wondrous and overwhelming beauty.  Paintings that were sponsored by wealthy benefactors, statues of saints whose names I did not know, bones of some very important person in a box whose name I can't remember.  Candles lit in prayer and arches stretching to the golden ceiling above.  Every inch of this magnificent building is soaked in significance and meaning, and though I am unaware of what that is I can feel myself basking in it.  And my ignorance makes me self reflect and internally monologue.  Will the art I create just be forgotten like the faces of whose statues I stare at? Will the stories I make just fade from the minds of men and rendered useless, shelved in the dusty stacks of some library somewhere?  Because if this can happen to a piece of art that is huge and concrete, what will stop it from happening to something as temporary as paper or as intangible as this blog?

I don't know, and I'm not seeking an answer because there isn't one. (Wow, way to end on such a depressing note)

Until Next time! (aka tomorrow)
Ciao!

Episode 7: International Waffle Experience

From the moment I got here I was told I needed to get a waffle with nutella on it.  Two weeks had gone by without too much trouble on my part in abstaining from the waffle pandemic.  But after several mentionings from a few of my roommates and then outside waffle references, I decided to see what all the hullaballo was about.

I walked out to Piazza della Repubblica and took a left, wandering in the masses of multi national people, mingling and weaving, like a hive with no queen.  In this meandering my eyes and nose find the first waffle place my path crossed with.  However, this stand did not have any nutella, but being too embarrassed to back out since the waffle lady had already started warming up my waffles, I got chocolate with nuts instead.  After a few minutes she handed me this warm, golden crisp of a wonderful chocolate waffle sandwich.  With each bite chocolate oozed from the sides of my checkerboard patterned deliciousness, sufficiently dosing my napkin and eventually finding my lap.  And there I sat in the San Lorenzo Piazza, my skin drinking in the warm Italy sunshine, children next to me playing with little trains, and enjoying this my little goodie.

But I came across an amazing discovery. As delicious as that calorie loaded sandwich was, it tasted just like waffles in America.

However, I was willing to give it the benefit of the doubt until I got one covered in nutella, as was prescribed to me by a majority of the waffle fanatics I encountered.  Also, I was under social obligation when I confessed my discovery to my roommates.

Days floated by with not much hoopla, until, in going to the open air market for some fresh and cheap produce, I spied with my little eyes a waffle/gelateria that had nutella.  Scampering over, I immediately ordered one (after some elderly women ordered gelato) and again had a very delicious culinary experience from the streets of Firenze.  

(As seen in photo, my victory in finding a nutella waffle)

Yet again, I will have to conclude that waffles in Florence taste just like waffles in America.  Well, maybe not all waffles, so let me specify.  Good waffles in America.  But it's all about the experience, right? It's £14 later, and I'm still debating it.

Until next time!

Ciao!

Episode 6: Watch Your Step

Because it might just happen as you're walking along the cobbled roads and sideways, admiring how such a minute detail such as the texture cobbling affects the aura of the scenic city streets, and not really paying attention to wear you are stepping.  For in this revelry the elaborate jigsaw cobbling pattern may drastically change in some manner, such as miniature grand canyon or like a puzzle piece that has been chewed on by a three year old and now doesn't fit perfectly.  This change then comes in contact to your unassuming foot, and you proceed to stumble or try to walk on the sidewalk with your face.

Or, after this obstacle whether or not you've fallen prey to it, your ignorant and, again, unassuming foot could find something softer.  And warmer.  Your foot (or feet) will discover Christmas came early this year and a canine (or pigeon) friend has left a gift.  You will then proceed to scrub and scrub and scrub, and then throw your shoes away, thankful they were only five bucks at Walmart.  However from then you will eye furry beast being walked suspiciously.  Or flinch when a pigeon flies your direction, not because you've recently watched Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds or read the short story, but because you know what their digestive systems are capable of.

Or, whether you've chosen doors one and two or avoided both completely, you may in the continuation of your walk and general admiration of Firenze not realize your pants are longer than your legs (because your feet obviously don't know anything).  This then causes trendy wearing and tearing turning your threads into threads.  Your now holey hemline is hanging on by a thread.  However it, very unlike your feet, does know what is going on and manages to find the only bolt in the entire sidewalk.  It catches it and holds on, though your inertia is pushing your forward, sounding out a loud rrrrrip noise.

:D
Until next time!
Ciao!

Episode 5: Charlie and his factory ain't got nothing on me!

Just when I think Florence is as good as it's going to get, it gets better.  Now you're already trying to figure out exactly what has transformed a beautiful, archaic city rich in history and art into the next level.  Some may think it's a boy.  Some may think it's theatre.  Some may be thinking just get to the point.

For those who know me pretty well, I have just two words for you: Chocolate Festival.

For those who don't know me that well or are confused, let me explain.

If I could marry an inanimate object, I would marry chocolate.  And it truly would be a marriage that would last till death do us part because either I'd run out of chocolate to eat or I would die from a heart attack - not because I ate so much chocolate but because my heart exploded from all my love.  Chocolate is one of the main reasons I value originating from the Americas, because it wouldn't exist in the rest of the world if it wasn't for us.  And for us being discovered.  And by us I mean the natives of South America, such as the Mayans and the Aztec who were the first ones to understand the glory of the bitter cacao seeds, whose scientific name Theobroma translates into all languages as 'food of the gods.'  However, whereas the people of Central America get the honor of the original cultivators of this tropical rainforest plant, the Europeans get the honor of perfecting its consumption.

So I walk amongst the tents, weaving myself through booth after booth of cioccolata.  Lollipops, chocolate covered dried fruit, hazelnuts, almonds.  Chocoate in the shapes of ducks, owls, cells phones, wrenches, anvils, vise grips. White chocolate, dark chocolate, powdered chocolate.  The aroma seduces my nose, doing an argentine tango with my olfactory sense, kicking Pavlo into gear and making my mouth water.  I don't care how big or awesome you're chocolate factor is Charlie and Mr. Wonka, you've got nothing on this place.

I called my friend Cami who I was going to meet and tell her to come and see, though truthfully I knew I would need help leaving. I was simply biding time before I bought something.  But before she got there, I caved in.  With 2 euros I bought cioccolata calda classica, translated means the best cup of hot chocolate I have or will ever have.  It was literally melted chocolate.  Not powdered or a chocolate substitute, but pure steaming hot chocolate from a container that had to continuously stir the delicious contents, and they even give you a spoon with to help you devour that much wonderfulness.

Cami ended up getting, after persuasion from me, a pure chocolate lollipop that had a few rice krispies in it probably to help biting into it.  I warned her that I was the worst person to go chocolate shopping with, because I will most always say to get it. Because you should.  Because it's chocolate.  Especially here where the chocolate has no perservatives or weird after tastes. 

We finally left, mostly because our stomach were growling and we knew we should fill them with real food.  However, the best part of the Chocolate Festival isn't that day, but the fact this festival will be going on till the 14th, and I am determined to eat a chocolate bolt or hammer.

Until next time!
Ciao!

Episode 4: Ciao bella

Every wonder why people talk, communicate?  I do, all the time.  I wonder how people do it, how people connect.  I wonder why it is easy for some people and not others.  I try and actively remember why I tell people the things I do, because that's what I do.  I think too much, about everything.

So the reason I have a blog is to not only inform you about what I am doing but so you can learn about Italy.  Which is why I am writing this specific post and I need to let you know exactly why I am.  I didn't really want to, afraid my parents would freak out (please remember I am smart and I can handle myself).  It's so if or when you travel, and you is specifically to my friends of the female gender, you can be safe.  I luckily was provided this information during our orientation and I want to make sure you know this information in case you are not as lucky as I.

So I am not going to lie and say I didn't have preconceived notions of what or who Italian men are, about the dark features and the romance language, because I did.  But one thing I did not equate was the stereotype they had about me, a woman and especially an American woman.  They are very vocal at expressing 'affection' to a beautiful woman, very similar to catcalling, only they are much more persistent.  Men will yell "Ciao bella!" which can be flattering, until it progresses to kissing noises and "Sexy. Pretty sexy lady. Lady pretty sexy." The lady Alessandra who spoke at orientation said they talk at all women, but especially American women because no matter how Italian we could look, if we are not used to it we will respond by looking or talking back, and that will open a door for them. Which is potentially bad since because of our wonderful media, American women are deemed as easy.  All of us.  So what Alessandra said was to do what Italian women do - don't look at them and walk right on by.  To quote her, "Italian men, they could go and crawl in a hole and die, and we would not care." 

Not that you can or should just avoid eye contact with all men, but you shouldn't hold eye contact and you especially can't smile.  A friend of mine was in Prague before being in Italy, and not knowing she smiled at a guy walking by her on the street.  The guy turned around, went up to her, and asked her "Do you know me?" She said no.  He said "Do you want to f***?"  She said, NO.  Then he asked, "Well, then why did you smile at me?"  Luckily when she told him she smiles at everyone, he left her alone, but that could have been potentially very bad.

I am not saying all Italian men are bad.  I am not saying that at all!  I have met some very nice Italians of the male gender and they are wonderful human beings, but the same thing applies here as it does back home.  There are bad guys in the States, so there are bad guys here.  There are also good guys back in the states, so there are also good guys here.  People are the same people every where, we just speak different languages.  Profound thought,  I know.  But something we need to know.  That what we would do in the States will be seen differently and be responded to differently than expected.  Like coffee.  Having a cup of coffee with a guy friend you've just met is just a way we use to get to know each other.  Here though, Alessandra made it especially clear and said don't invite them over to your apartment for a cup of coffee because to them that means you are going to have sex.

I want you to explore and see the world and met new people, but you also need to be conscious of the culture in order to have the best experience possible and avoid the bad.

I promise my next post will be happier.

Until next time.
Ciao!

Episode 3: Of Construction, of stories

Though I'll try not sounding like a politician when I say this, but I promise to install some form of regularity with my blog posts.  There is construction of some sort going on on the top floor of our building but sounds as if it is right above us and that at any moment the ceiling is going to cave in on me creating a Becca Sandwich, making me a human pancake for the rest of my life, or at least until the Oompa Loompas can put me back together again.  It is this construction, however annoying it is, that makes me reluctant to leave because I hate being in their way.  If I don't wake up before they get there I wait till they go on lunch break at 1.  I miss half the day but I avoid very awkward situations.

Any apprehension I had about taking classes in a new place with new structure and new topics evaporated.  Tuesday nights I take a Food, Culture, and Society class, and after learning a brief but very instructive history in Italian gastronomy we made crepes.  Spinach and ricotta cheese crepes.  Our professor taught us the best way possible: by throwing us in.  I remembered once a long time ago, as in sometime in middle school I believe, when I tried to make crepes.  Now I understand everything I did wrong.  I know how to mix the batter so it doesn't have any lumps, to flip a crepe without making it fold, and how not to burn the olive oil on the pan. So much goodness.

Wednesdays I have Contemporary Italian Literature, and then Italian again.  Almost everyone has read all or excerpts of Dante in my lit class.  I feel as though I have missed a very important memo.  But I am still really excited for it, reading literature from the minds of a nation set free from 20 years of harsh dictatorship.  A place that was once the mecca of art could grow and return to a portion of its former glory.

Then on Thursdays I have my final class, the one that stimulated most of my school anxiety: Photojournalism.  I felt way out of my limit.  I'm not a journalist or a photographer.  I'm a story teller, that's what I do.  That just shows how little I knew about photojournalism, because one of the first things my professor said was that photojournalism was about telling stories.  When we each had to say why we were taking the class it made me discover I am surrounded by people who were majoring in either photography or journalism. I confessed honestly the limited knowledge I had in digital photography since my previous knowledge was based on my father's 35mm Pentax and that I was a writer who loved telling stories.  This made me realize by the expressions of my classmates that I was one of the only ones who had a film based background, making me feel smaller.  But my professor commended my history in film and my background as a writer, for he told me writing is a wonderful gift and the ability to write well and take good pictures was rare.  This made me realize I am in the right place, not that I have both of those gifts but I can learn what it will take to have both.

Well, I think this blog is long enough.
 Until next time!
Ciao!

Episode 2: First Classes and Lack of Trees

I don't think anyone realizes how cold it is.  Every morning I lie snuggled in my nice warm bed, not because it is 'comfy' or I don't want to go to school.  It's because I live in the perpetual fear that if I get out of bed Jack Frost is going to rip my limbs off.  You may think I'm just being irrational in my dream addled mind, but I am speaking the reality of the situation.  It is cold.  I know most of you guys have snow and freezing temps, but you also have a working heating system in your houses that provide an anti thief protection against the cold stealing your warmth.  Cold has become my newest and most unfriendly roommate. I shouldn't be that upset because the less heat we use the more energy we save. Not that I'm concerned about trees too much - I mean, I love the earth, I do.  I want to savor it and to protect it, but at the moment if there were any available trees I'd cut it down and build a fire in my room.  The situation is that if we go over our electricity bill we all get charged, and with seven girls, a hair dryer and a straightener, we are bound to go over.  Of course, I've gotten to the point where I don't even bother with my hair.  I take one good look at my poofy mane and think, I don't try too hard with you for American boys, why should I give Italian boys any special treatment?

Yesterday marked the official first day of classes and my first class was Florence Sketchbook, that is, after I peeled myself from my lumpy (but warm) mattress and sent scathing mental curses to our seemingly dormant heater.  Within the first hour I came to realize I am surrounded by mostly art history majors. However, within that same hour I also realized either I was just the only one willing to be vocal or I knew more about perception and vanishing points than they did.  Either way, good job Mr. T. Intro to Design has stayed with me all these four years.

And though I don't know the rest of my professors, I think my Italian professor might be one of the coolest ones here.  Five minutes before class started, he walked in and turned music that was a mixture of American classics, then sat on the table at the front of the class.  Now most professors usually lean against or sit on the edge of the table.  No, he climbed on the table and sat on his knees, flipping through his binder, humming to the music.  Then as class progressed, and we were practicing speaking the few phrases we worked on as a class, at one point his head leaned from no where to listen to our conversation.  I do believe I am thoroughly going to like this class.

Sunday we decided to go out to a restaurant.  After looking at several menus posted outside, we decided on the restaurant with the cheapest menu.  It had a whole menu of American food with Italian twists.  The place was completely delightful.  The music was a mixture of more classic songs, with a random techno song that featured something that sounded like a goat.  At one point David Bowie's song "Heros" came on, officially making it one of the better restaurants just for that singular fact.  Being adventurous, I ordered something called nachos with ranchero sauce.  It was chips and salsa.  I guess the three euros should have tipped me off, but it was still enjoyable.  However, I heard from my roommate Jordan that Il Gatto e La Volpe had a fire in it and we won't be able to go there again for a while, which made me sad because that restaurant was becoming a favorite.  No one was hurt ( she was actually there when it happened) and there were no flames just smoke, but it will take a while to fix up.

Until next time!
Ciao!

Episode 1: I am Here

(Almost a week has gone by and so much has happened.  I will try fill you all in, but this is basically the first day reflection.  I'm glad to finally be on board. )


In accordance to the laws that make up good birthdays, mine should have been the worst.  Hours crammed on a flight with a pillow no bigger than a thought.  Girls prattled on about something menial.  The pushing and shoving and shuffle of unloading and the utter chaos of fighting to get a place around the belt to get luggage. Waiting, and waiting, and waiting with heavy bags and tired feet, to get rushed to the student congested sign in office only to wait some more.  Then being dropped off who know where with the simple instructions to go up to second floor and turn right, but the keys don't work.  Standing cold, tired and a little wet, with luggage, lost and knowing very little useful Italian.  Carefully scraping together enough to say "Dove due?" to a nearby construction worker, he lead me to the third floor (which is the second floor) and I finally arrived, now cold, exhausted, wet and aching from traveling, and starting to get sick.

But I guess the rules don't apply for me, because not one moment do I regret for each moment lead to the next moment which lead me here.  In Florence, Italy.  A place I had only believed existed in my dreams and not ever in my present reality. And though I knew nothing of the city I was already in love.  I felt myself not being overwhelmed but being encompassed by everything like a hug or a good coat. In moments I found myself giggling: getting a packet of Happy Mix filled with pretzel hearts and cracker heads; looking out my airplane window and seeing the snow kissed terrain of Switzerland; watching the cars, people and vespas pass by, a constant strand of motion; standing in the congested hallway after getting my orientation packet; investigating the cupboards of my apartment.   I am here, the thought that danced over and over in my head.  I am here. I am here.

After discovering it was my birthday, the three apartment mates (Michelle, Griffin, and Jordan) who had arrived abandoned their unpacking in favor of celebrating at a restaurant called Il Gato e la Volpe, which means The Cat and the Fox, or something of that nature.  Each of us got a different dish.  I got a spinach and ricotta filled tortellini in a walnut sauce.  To sum up the experience in as few words as possible, I don't think I will ever completely enjoy Olive Garden ever again.  We even went crazy, getting two pieces of dessert seeing as today was a special occasion.  And not once did I trip on the roughly cobble stone streets there or on the return journey home, which is quite and achievement for someone who trips over invisible things.

And though my body still registered it as 3 in the afternoon, I comfortably fell asleep, still only half unpacked, exhausted, cold and completely happy.