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!
Monday, February 28, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
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!
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!
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
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!
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!
Monday, February 14, 2011
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!
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!
Friday, February 11, 2011
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!
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
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!
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!
Sunday, February 6, 2011
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!
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.
Until next time!
Ciao!
Saturday, February 5, 2011
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!
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!
Friday, February 4, 2011
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!
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!
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
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!
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!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)