Cristina and I went to the art museum. It turns out the museum is not where I thought it was. Or, rather, it turns out that there are three sites for different parts of this exhibition. Good to know. I had been seeing billboards for this exhibit all around town, and was at once excited but also admittedly not expecting much. First of all, the museum was way bigger than I thought. It turned out to be a great exhibit, if more for the thinking it induced than for the works themselves. From what I could tell, all the pieces were by Italian artists or artists of Italian descent/identity, and the collection was entirely from the 1900’s (it is called NOVE100).
I ended up thinking a lot about curatorial distinctions between this and American museums I have been to, and thought about how this might influence me if I were a curator at present. In the US it is normal to have one piece per wall, especially if they are large pieces; one way or another, every piece tends to get a lot of personal space. Each piece has its own little description, sometimes more elaborate than others. Most people at a museum might as well be at a funeral; other than footsteps and sneezes, it is as quiet as the crypt. Here, in the rooms of earlier work (it was chronologically organized), pieces were almost tessellated onto the walls, only a few inches apart. Throughout the exhibit, though each piece had a little placard that identified the artist, time, etc. (but not the medium. Why?), there was one large description of what each room contained, and how or why the pieces went together stylistically and historically. People were not boisterous, but there was banter and chatter and an air of liveliness in the museum. I thought it was particularly interesting that pieces were only clumped together in the chronologically early rooms. At first, I felt like it created a more intimate, gallery-like feel, but then it occurred to me that this might also be to evoke the way that art was originally hung in the galleries of the time.
Another thing I found interesting was just the general idea of modern Italian art. We are used to thinking of Italy as a place of art, but usually that translates into renaissance and the like. What happened next? How did Italy adapt to and adopt subsequent art movements that originated elsewhere in the world? Did it have its own unique art movements? The answers to these questions are unlikely to be found in the typical American art museum, but here they stood before me.
As always, everything is a lesson in Italian. For quite a while I made the effort to read the descriptors for each room, which were of course in Italian. Eventually it got somewhat tiring, but at the same time it is hard to turn down more information. Anyway, indeed, life in Italy is practice, practice, practice. I eventually deduced that the s.t. under several pieces stands for senza titolo, or untitled.
After painting and sculpture there was historic photography upstairs. Then, time was running out, and that’s when I find the prints. Bah. Luckily, we find out that you have unlimited admissions with your ticket. What? Parma’s museums must not be struggling as much as ours. I will certainly be going back, and going to the other two sites to see the rest of the show. (I have since discovered that we will be going on a tour guided by a curator!)
I met up with the rest of the group for aperitivo and Cristina headed back home. She taught us that chapstick is burrocacao, aka cocoa butter. She also found the word chapstick very strange, especially since at first she thought I was saying chopstick. We walked down to l’aquolinea, which Cri had recommended. My host mom had recommended caffè d’orzo to me, a decaffeinated ‘coffee’ made from a grain that isn’t coffee (everyone here translates grain as cereal, which tends to confuse English-speakers), but I didn’t see the point of getting an approximation of coffee when I don’t like it to begin with, but Matt decided to get it. I tasted it, and the only way I can describe it is like rice coffee. Most of the rest of us got Sprizz, and it was met with mixed reviews. The aperitivo offerings were pretty good, some pizzas and paninis; the usual fare but abundant enough. On our way there Ellie had run into her mom, who said she would be out and suggested that Ellie invite us over. So, when we left we made what we thought would be a quick stop at the grocery store to pick up some beverages before heading to her house. This was my first time in an Italian supermarket. Right before we walked in, a security guard chased and seized a guy who had been trying to sneak a bottle of Bacardi out in his pants. What kind of omen was this? We discover that beer comes in 66cL or three-packs of 33s? Weird. Also, they are not in a refrigerated section. Now to pay and leave. Oh. Two unnecessarily slow-moving lines snaked into the aisles. I still don’t know what made them so slow, but I am learning that I generally need to budget more time for things in Italy. We finally get through the lines and realize we have ten minutes before the buses stop and perhaps negative minutes until the last bus goes to Ellie’s house, and she lives the farthest away from the center of town. Thank you, thank you the suspense is the extent of our bus misadventure, and we manage to catch the last bus.
At Ellie’s house we first try to cool the beers just by putting them outside, which is certainly colder than the fridge, but I get impatient and we put them in the freezer. What did we do at Ellie's house? Who knows. Laugh. Margerite tries to call the prontobus for our ride home, but either they keep hanging up or the phone keeps dying. Finally, it gets worked out… we think. Eventually we make our way to the bus stop, and see it rounding the bend. Matt and Margerite run towards where they think is the stop, but it isn’t. I walk to the right place and see the people on the bus laughing. We get taken to the station where we change buses, and eventually eventually we all make it home.
2. 7. 10
Goodness gracious. Getting up at 630 is not easy when you went to bed past one and tossed and turned all night. I did it anyway. I eat a banana and leftover pasta, stash an apple and an orange, and head to the bus stop. I wait. While I wait, though, I am treated to some lovely birdsong. Listening to it kind of makes me feel like a Disney princess, and I wonder whether I should teach the birds a new song or inspire them to gather bits of this and that and build me a car I can drive to the station, instead. I wait. I am supposed to be at the train station at 730 to catch the 754 train to Mantova, and it is 730 when the bus decides to mosy over to my stop, on its own unofficial schedule, as usual. It usually takes about 15+ minutes to make it to the center from my stop, and the station is past that. I am trying really really hard not to panic. Pointless. It turns out that when you aren’t stopping at every block and there are not cars on the road, it takes about seven minutes to get to the station. After that rough start, all goes smoothly. It is a pretty gray day, so I go with my usual mellow travel music. Then, something strikes me, and I shift gears completely. I have enough self-control to not start singing on the train, but that’s where it maxes out, and I spend the ride bopping around in my seat. As the songs grew lighter, so did the sky, and soon the sun was out in full force. My old friend! Where have you been? It turned into the perfect weather for a day trip.
Train to Piadena, change trains, arrive in Mantova around 10. The day is ready for filling when you start so early. We are all a little sleepy or just hungry, and we find a café recommended in Matt’s guidebook. I am usually happy to wander into whatever strikes my fancy, but I decide to go with the predetermined flow. As soon as I walk in I see someone eating a chocolate croissant, and know that that is what I want. I debate getting a cappuccino, but go with water instead. Everyone’s everything is delicious, and as usual Ellie’s adventurous experimentation goes slightly awry. I do learn the word for pomegranate, which I have now forgotten, which Maicol (Michael, Ellie’s Italian tandem partner) tries to describe as an apple filled with grapes. Language barriers make us all think of the world in new ways.
We go to the big church in the center of town. Mass has just gotten out. There is a relic (much contested, my guidebook feels the need to emphasize) in this church. The soldier who pierced Jesus in the side scooped up handfuls of the dirt soaked by his blood and put it in chalices. Those are kept in an underground reliquary at the center of the church, and are brought out once a year. The inscription at the site reads something like ‘come and worship the price of your redemption,’ which I found to be a very interesting and thought-provoking wording.
Next we try to go to the Palazzo Ducale and unknowingly end up going under it and into a garden. On our way, though, we pass through a market and check out some shoe stores and get some delicious local cookies that we are still way too stuffed to eat but unable to turn down because Maicol bought them for us. We find an archaeological museum, and then to the lake. Mantova is mostly surrounded by a system of three lakes. After a bit of tomfoolery we head back and find the house upon which Verdi based the staging of several of his operas. There is a courtyard with a statue of Rigoletto, but we walk inside and it turns out that it is still a real house. With people living in it. So no tours. We find the Palazzo this time, and go inside. They refuse to give us the student price because we are American/not from the EU, but we get in for free thanks to our student IDs, which claim we are art-history majors. I only wish I could have taken pictures, but then I would probably have 500. Grandeur after grandeur. Frescoes after frescoes. Sculpture after painting after tapestry after grand hall. I can’t even imagine living in that space. Holding courtly events and doing whatever nobles do, yes, but having breakfast, playing, no. It was vast. Look up pictures on the internet. I will say that it made me really appreciate knowing the things that I know (even if this statement makes it seem like I don’t know how to be articulate). Really, the whole day did. If I didn’t know as much art history, mythology, biblical content, and church history, I feel like I would not have been as equipped to appreciate everything I saw. Yes of course I can say it is beautiful, but I wouldn’t know the stories behind the images depicted, or know what was superficially being described by the information provided by the museum, or understand the terminology being used. It is funny that seeing ceilings with Icarus or the Trojan horse remind me of being a little kid.
After all of this it was past three and past stomach-grumbling time. The local food is tortelli di zucco, pumpkin-stuffed pasta. Yum. Interesting almost to the point of strange, but nevertheless good. Sweet almost to the point of being a dessert pasta, but cheesy enough to be right. At this point, we had intercepted Mauro, a local Ellie contacted via CouchSurfing, who offered to show us around.
We tried to go to the local theater where a 14-year-old Mozart had his debut, but it was full of fancy-looking people and our Italian companions advised we not go inside. So, I stood outside of where Mozart once played. Guidebooks are getting the squinty eye from me, right now. Next, the Palazzo Te, perhaps where I most wanted to go, after having read about the incredible frescoed dome it has. It was on the opposite side of town, so we started the long walk. We passed the stadium, where a motocross race was underway. I’m telling you, getting to this palazzo was like accomplishing Hercules’ 12 tasks. Just walking there was lengthy enough. Then, when we think we are close, we are confronted by the glittering and whirling of carnival rides. Apparently, in addition to having Oktoberfest on the third weekend of Every month, Mantova has a yearly carnival, and we of course had to get through it. As with so many things here, it was a curious mix of cultures. What is Italian carnival food? Fried things of course, but different. It is like being in a parallel universe, where everything seems the same until you get a closer look. Funnel cakes, but not. French fries on skewers. Things priced by the kilo. A goal-kicking game to win soccer jerseys next to a hoops-shooting game to win basketball jerseys. People in fur coats at the carnival.
At last we made it through and… the Palazzo Te was closed. Three minutes too long amidst the scents and lights and we missed the 30-minute admission cutoff prior to closing time. Alas. Another time?
We walked to the train station to get our tickets back, all the while plagued by indecision about when to return. We decide; we buy. Now what. More indecision. Hungry me + indecisive everyone else = grumpy me + assertive me. I set out on a quest for food and everyone follows. Where should we go? Here? There? No one seems willing to have a definitive opinion. I lead us into a kebab place, and the glow of slowly rotating golden chickens hypnotizes me. That. I want that. Ellie and I split a chicken. At first I try to be civilized, but with a plastic fork and no knife, I quickly toss my fork aside and go in for the kill – figuratively speaking. We end up talking about food qualms, and I say I mostly don’t have conceptual problems with food. By which I mean, just because it is supposed to be weird or gross does not keep me from being willing to try it and enjoying it. People throw about the idea of eating meats like dog or cat, and of course someone asks about humans. Would you?
We take the train back and I take the bus back and it goes everywhere past and around my stop except for my stop, but I make it home and there is more dinner waiting for me and I am happy. When I unlock the main gate, around the corner from our own gate, Jody barks. She has been alone all day and comes to corral me into the house. She circles me and sniffs me and ushers me in, repeatedly turning back to see if I am still there. She wants to follow me downstairs again. She sits at my feet while I eat. Jody missed me.
I am exhausted and planning on going to sleep early, but I get SuperBowl updates via Skype (thank you!) until the half, whereupon I actually go to sleep. At 2. This may very well be the first time I have not seen the superbowl. Can I guess how it ended? I would like to be wrong. (I was!)
Travel playlist excerpts:
Leftovers – Johnny Flynn
My Girls – :Kinema:
Horchata – Vampire Weekend
Boy Lillikoi – Jónsi
Bulletproof – La Roux
Je Veux Te Voir – Yelle
Jarhand – Immaculate Machine
Starstruck – Lady GaGa and Flo Rida
Heavy Cross – Gossip
Houses – Great Northern
From Africa to Málaga – JJ
Find a new favorite song.
2. 8. 10
I had a meeting this morning but was really not motivated to get up. After pressing snooze the first time I put the alarm clock under the covers with me so as not to disturb the rest of the family. Well, that plan worked too well; it didn’t disturb me either. Luckily, I woke up 40 minutes later and not two hours later. I walked all the way to class for the first time, and it was a nice fifteen minutes or so. This optional meeting turned out to be a mostly pointless endeavor, so I didn’t feel too too bad about being late. Then I had about an hour and a half to have lunch and get to the university. I should have just brought my stuff with me and not gone home, but I was not quite so forward thinking (and hadn’t done my homework yet) so I went home. I scarfed down something delicious and fried and nameless and went to catch the bus. The thing about buses is that even if you are early, that won’t change what time they arrive; it just decreases your likelihood of missing them. The other thing about buses is that sometimes you have to take one away from your destination to be able to get on one that goes towards it. Still another thing about buses is that if your first bus is late, your lateness will be exacerbated by the fact that you will now probably be late for your next bus. The only upside to all of this lateness is that it gave me time to do my homework while at the bus stop. At least I can’t stress too much about trying to get there faster, because all I can do is sit. I make it to class a half hour late, fearing that I will stick out like a sore thumb delinquent, since I am the only ‘Pitzer’ student in my class. I am preparing my apologies, and wondering whether it is better to be brief or try to redeem myself by demonstrating a mastery of Italian via an eloquent explanation.
It turns out I am the first to arrive. I chat with the professor, and she shows me Carnevale recipes while we wait. She tells me fried foods (because essentially everything is some kind of fried donut, cookie, funnel cake pastry) are only eaten during the winter, when we want to be fat and warm, and that they are too heavy to be eaten during the summer, which would just be weird. I do not tell her that in America we eat fried food when it is over 100 degrees outside, and that it seems just right. People trickle in and we go over homework and such. We play a ‘game’ of matching verbs with nouns to create compound nouns (e.g. aspirapolvera, vacuum cleaner, literally 'dust-sucker'). I learn that they always become one word, not like the English hanky-panky of sometimes joined, sometimes just together, and sometimes hyphenated, and they are almost always masculine and don’t change from singular to plural. Vocab. This is something I am happy to learn. We bleed into the beginners’ class time and do an irregular pluralizing crossword puzzle with them. Forming plurals is complicated enough without crazy things like masculine singular nouns whose plural forms become feminine but have a singular ending. Either I learned a bunch of new rules or I was reminded of them, but it sure seemed like news to me. I almost wish I could sit in on their class, but I guess at this point I am mostly moving away from thinking about rules and just talking. Still, it was nice to be in class with my friends.
A few classes ago, I learned the word for the @, chiocciola, which is also the word for snail. Looks like one, doesn’t it?
I headed back, spent the usual unpredictable but long time waiting for the autonomous six, and finally made it home. Dinner was an experiment that seemed like it should have been really good but didn’t quite measure up: spinach and ricotta mash on a pizza crust. Ok, that description doesn’t sound that great, but the ingredients are all things I like. There was also another beautiful pineapple cake thing that I wish I could take a picture of, but the idea of taking picture of dinners at home always seems a little odd to me. Davide and Cristina discussed econ/accounting principles over dessert because Davide is studying for a final. Listening to that was like simultaneously listening to two foreign languages that you kind of understand. I was processing the fact that it was in Italian, as well as the jargon and concepts of their conversational content. It’s like brain yoga, or just contortionism.
I had been doing pretty well with the cold weather. I was dressing well and staying warm. It has been ‘warm’ enough that pretty much all of the snow and ice are gone, except for the dregs of a few large mounds. The problem is that I am entering the stubborn phase. I decide that it should not be cold anymore, and I start dressing as if this were true. But, obviously, this doesn’t make it any warmer; in fact, it makes me colder. But I am tired of wearing the same things over and over again. I feel like I should have brought more, but at the time it seemed like too much. What all was it that I brought?
2. 09. 10
My memory is getting confused. I remember snippets of dialogue from Italian TV in English, and I remember pieces of English conversations in Italian. At this point I am not even sure what language I am dreaming in. French tries to make a comeback at inappropriate moments.
Lots of thinking under the surface today. We had to go to the immigration office to do I’m still not sure what. We got there shortly before our 11 am appointment only to discover that people with a 9am appointment were still waiting. No real surprise, there. We sat. We waited. The waiting area was enclosed but for some reason outside. Fun. We ended up next to a Philippino man who spoke incredible English (which he learned while working in an airport, I think?) and I got to witness Ellie-the-people-meeter in action. I learned that he is a tenor and studies music in Parma; he has been here since 1998, and that his whole family, cousins, nieces, etc lives in Parma. And more. This is the first time during my stay that I have been around so many ‘foreigners.’ I see them on the bus every day, but we are certainly never the majority. A side note: When you are surrounded by your native language, it is easy to notice when someone is speaking a different one. When you are already always hearing a language you pseudo understand, it often takes a while to ascertain whether you are just really not succeeding at understanding Italian in that moment, or whether a different language is being spoken.
We started playing charades to distract ourselves from the cold and help the time pass. Well, playing charades while in an Italian line (aka clump/mass) is interesting to say the least. It was finally my (first) turn, and I walked into the office. I got my fingerprints taken, and had a little chat with the finger-placer-woman, dressed in a purple sweater, about why I was in Italy. I think she was pleased with my Italian. It felt strange, though. It was surreal to be in a place that I don’t doubt incurs anxiety and fear in many who visit it. Here I am, a privileged American, with absolutely no concern or sense of consequence of this meeting, having a jolly chat with this woman. I think about what it would mean to be in an immigration office in the US. It’s just a little weird.
Being here in Italy, it is sometimes easy to forget that people don’t speak English (it shouldn’t be, but it is), and I find myself chatting away on the bus and then realizing that I am blatantly ‘otherizing’ myself. I wonder what kind of language stigmas there are, as much for me as for the African men I heard talking the other day, as for the innumerable other languages I hear but can’t identify.
Anyway, after my turn is over we resume the wait and resume charades. Time passes quickly enough, if coldly. We get our second call in, and have to sign something, to which our picture is affixed. Turns out my picture is unacceptable. I am thinking about emailing Scripps to tell them the pictures they provided are useless; every time one has been required and I have tried to use theirs, I have been told I need to acquire another one, pronto. So, I have to go to the photobooth outside and pay 10€ for a 5€ service from a machine that doesn’t give change. Grump grump. At least it’s kind of a nice picture.
Anyway, we leave and it is decision time. Home for lunch? Out for lunch? Straight to class, which has already begun? Skip class? We opt for gelato and being late to class. I get blackberry(?) and cream, and it is a delectable combination. Margerite and I set out for the University, and I discover a new potential way to get to there that does not involve my nemesis, the six. We arrive about an hour before class ends, but all the doors are locked. The building is kind of like a beta-fish tank embedded in your typical yellow Italian tile-roofed building, in that the three classrooms have glass walls separating them, and the outermost wall is glass as well. So, we are able to go around and get someone’s attention and we get let in. Class is class. We stay for a while in the next class, which to some degree I seem to enjoy more than my own. It’s the beginner class, so I don’t know if what I am learning is things I forgot or things I was never taught. Either way, Margerite and I head back and as soon as I get home I get to scarfing. Pasta, and a fish that somehow tasted like popcorn. And more pasta.
Dinner is a particularly good minestrone (rice in a vegetable broth) and this mysterious breaded thing. It is shaped like a semicircle and I wonder whether it is just a different shape of fishstick. It turns out to be full of cheese. So it seems it is kind of like fried mozzarella but with a different kind of cheese inside. Apparently some of them also had prosciutto inside, but none of mine did.
It turns out Leonardo lives near me, so he offered me a ride to XXL tonight. We pick up his other friend, whose name I can’t remember but I think she must be a nurse because they start talking about ambulances and blood and injections. Ook. We get to the club and I see a giant sign that says XXL. My first thought jumps to the Super Bowl I missed, and I wonder whether they showed it here. Then I remember that SuperBowl XXL was a while ago, and that that is just the name of the club. Alas.
Once inside, Leonardo and I start dancing, and he seems much more game to play teacher with me, perhaps because fewer of is female friends are around. He is in a salsa class, and usually they all come together to practice and have fun. I spend most of the night dancing with various people. I get asked whether I am Cambodian. It is interesting to dance with different people, because you start to get a sense of their style, and each person tends to favor certain moves and ‘tricks.’ The thing is just to not start trying to predict, where you will be led, and just feel it when you are directed. I manage to take a break before the switch to reggaeton. I often tend to assimilate other people’s dance moves into my repertoire, but to be honest I hope I do not start dancing like Italians. My style feels a little out of place in the midst of theirs.
Salsa recommences and Leonardo says he will dance the last bachata with me, but in the meantime I wait. A really really short guy, and I say this not to be mean but to be accurate – in heels I was about a head taller than him, asks me to dance. While there is an array of tall people, mostly standing around the walls, I am definitely in the average height of the people dancing, men and women included. After this I sit for a bit and try to watch people’s feet. Some other guy asks me to dance and I figure why not? That’s what I’m here for. He is obviously a really good dancer, even if he is not the best lead. I spend so much time spinning I haven’t figured out what dance we are doing. Eventually I realize that it is another salsa. I tell him to take it easy because I am still learning, and he kind of does but kind of doesn’t, which is fine. He likes to lead with just one hand, which is a little trickier. After this song I sit and see him dancing with someone else, who at least looks as slightly lost as I felt, and this makes me feel better. I also realize that this guy is the guy I noticed earlier with forearm tattoos in Old English lettering. While dance I hear Johnny Castle’s voice in my head (aka Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing) and try to be aware of my frame and avoid ‘spaghetti arms.’ It kind of makes a difference, when I can remember. A really big sweaty guy who is one of the people working the event, with whom I also danced last time, asks me to dance. He is the firmest lead on the face of the earth. It is impossible to do anything but what he wants you to do, and that is fine with me. The last bachata commences and Leonardo appears and we dance. I think it turns out to be two songs. Other than the guy before him, he is definitely the best lead I dance with. Last song, the night is over. Oh wait, there’s one more one more song and this guy appears asking me to dance. Right away he asks me where I am from, but everybody does that. As always, I am never quite sure what to say, but I tell him I am from the US. Oh, he says, I thought you were South American. Well, I am, kind of; I am Guatemalan. Oh! He is Colombian, and thought I might be as well. We switch to Spanish and after my brain’s brief linguistic confusion it is so refreshing to be speaking a language I don’t have to fumble around and rephrase in. I get a pues in there and it is even better.
Now the night ends for real and we head home. I am ready to get out of my heels and into my bed.
..... Photos from Mantova ......
"It is like being in a parallel universe, where everything seems the same until you get a closer look."
ReplyDeleteagreed.