Seems like I’ve been having a lot of moments of truth lately. Today was the black beans moment of truth. I asked my mom for instructions on Sunday night, planning to make them on Tuesday, but life happens and it got put off until today. Last night, after introducing Cristina to ‘Legally Blonde,’ I set the beans to soak (ammollire). This afternoon, after lunch and lots of hemming and hawing and having forgotten any and all of the details of my instructions, I made some executive decisions and got to cooking. Of course, given that it was all gut and executive decision, I spent the entire afternoon of stove-accompanying fearing that it would all be for naught.
After a couple of hours of intermittent stirring and a quick break for a Skype job interview, it was time for stage two of the bean prep. Leti made the rice for me, and apparently Italians cook rice very differently. They boil the water first, then add the rice, then drain it when it is done. It certainly turns out very fluffy. Afterward, to keep it from sticking to itself, she added some olive oil. It was time to eat and the beans had turned out well. What, in my opinion was completely inedible, through no fault of my own, was the guacamole. The avocados, which were insanely soft on the outside, were just off of yellow and the most insipid thing you’ve never tasted. I felt like I had more condiment than avocado, and it still tasted like nothing. Funny how the one thing I expected to be in the bag was the one thing that didn’t really work out.
Now here’s the deal. When I was little I read a fictional story about these famously delicious latkes, and I won’t retell it now, but I was always confused about what the moral was supposed to be. It seemed like the intended moral was that things are often better in your memory than they are in real life. The other moral I got, though, was that when people use someone else’s recipe, they usually change it to suit their own cooking style, so their food ends up tasting nothing like the original. Well, the latter is kind of what happened, except with the dining experience. It was decidedly Italian. I’ve never put parmesan cheese on my rice and beans at home, though parmesan and black refried beans do work well together in the absence of our quesos. I’ve certainly never had f(r)izzy red wine with my rice and beans.
Partway through stage two of cooking I discovered that Leti had invited her sister and niece over for dinner to partake in the experience. Wow. Glad I didn’t know that earlier. I did not need the additional pressure. Either way, it turned out that they were unable to come. I would have liked to meet them, but perhaps not when my fragile cooking ego was on the table. Again, I was studying everyone for signs of their real opinion about the food, despite the praise I received. Everyone got seconds, though, and by the end there was no rice left; all good signs. And just as importantly, I was pleased with it. Because aside from whether it was edible, I was the only one who would be able to tell whether it really turned out right. At first, I was jokingly accused of being responsible for the impending dissolution of the marriage, to be caused by expected prolific gas emissions that would turn the bedroom into a gas chamber. However, by the end of the meal, everyone was marveling at the lack of gassiness caused by the beans. Are black beans special for not having that quality?, they asked. According to them, if you eat just three normal beans, you puff up like a balloon.
Afterward, the lone black platano was calling to me, and I suggested that I make it for dessert. Paolo said he could eat no more, but Cristina supported my plan, and I got to cooking for the nth time. Everyone, including Paolo, even Jody, dug in.
Later that evening, I was treated to some family videos, and saw a little Davide, a young Cristina, and Scott, the previous dog. Even later, to my surprise, Paolo decided to do some filming. I am now part of the Agnetti family history.
29 April 2010
Onion fingers
Did you know: The discerning Parmesan palate can tell the difference between hand-grated and machine-grated Parmigiano-Reggiano.
For a city full of people who rarely make it to a nearby city, much less a neighboring country, a remarkable number of them profess to ‘♥ NY.’ Today, a cynic bore a different message on his chest. ‘NY doesn’t ♥ U.’ Well proclaimed, sir.
The weekend saw:
Going for gelato with Cristina and Jody. Definitely the best gelato I've had so far in Parma. Jody got some too. Seriously, this dog lives the good life.
Liberation Day on the 25th with an outdoor concert and another exciting Panthers victory, this time against the Bologna Warriors. I sought the perfect pre-game busride music and, in the absence of 'Are you ready for some football?', I opted for CCR and the Black Keys. I needed some hearty American sounds.
Dinner Monday was risotto… with strawberries. It was… pink. I don’t know how I feel about cooked strawberries, but if I avoided the chunks and seasoned it with the recommended black pepper instead of the usual Parmesan cheese, it was totally edible. After cleansing my palate with a copious amount of carrots and celery, it was apron time. A few days earlier I had gotten platanos (plantains) to make for the family (/myself if no one liked them, not that I would complain too much about that; more for me) and it was finally the moment of truth. Leti said it ‘had an effect on her’ to see me there, apron-clad, at her usual post before the stove. Washing, squeezing, peeling, slicing, and lots of frying later, it was actually the moment of truth. And… delicious. I was a little worried that no one else would like them, or perhaps worse, that they would feel obligated to pretend that they did like them, but it was pretty clear that the appreciation was sincere. Leti plans on making them in the future, perhaps as a novelty potluck item. I’m just glad to have been able to leave a bit of Guatemala in Parma, and a way for the family to keep me in mind and heart and stomach after I’m gone. Later, we added mangos to the fruity mix of the evening.
Up next is avocados and black beans.
I also got a new giant citrus, a honey pomelo, which lasted me several sittings. It was definitely more edible than the cedro.
I have now seen everyone’s bare feet except for Davide’s (but I think I would have to stay here at least another two months to see him as much as I have now seen everyone else. So statistically it would have happened by now.). No one has tried to apologize for their unseemly and unhygienic state. I am starting to wonder whether this was overhyped and I could have been blissfully barefoot all along.
I heard some serious revving today and turned around just in time to see a guy popping a wheelie. Purty cool.
A couple nights ago I had a dream of a not-unusual structure. Within some context or another, I am driving a car, and then the brakes don’t work. Sometimes, I can slow down but never fully stop, and sometimes they have no effect whatsoever. Despite red lights and other cars, I never crash, but I never stop. This time, I kid you not, I looked down at my speedometer and it said I was going 1000 miles (or perhaps kilometers!) (or whatever unit of distance) per hour. I remember thinking, wow, I didn’t think I was going that fast. Anyway, this one is easy to read. Time is going by too quickly, and I want it to slow down. Six days. Read that again. Less than a week. Until I leave Parma. Until I leave home. What?
I finally started doing what I meant to be doing all along. Tonight, I learned how to make pasta and tomato sauce, the Italian way. With some mysterious brown on the outside, purple on the inside, white on the inner inside, tear-shaped onions. It turned out well, and Leti actually let me do everything, instead of just showing me and having me watch. Everyone said they were good, and I guess I am not the most confident chef, because I wasn’t sure whether to believe them. But, Cri is a very particular eater, and she seemed earnest when she said it was good. Leti wanted more and gave me a thumbs up when she discovered that there was still some left in the pot. So, either they’re good actors; I’m gullible, or, as I choose to believe, it really was good. I mean, obviously I ate it too, but coming from people who claim to be able to taste the difference between hand-grated and machine-grated cheese, they would be more likely to take up issue with any of my cooking flaws. Paolo did say it tasted different, somehow, and I agreed and was ok with that. I have noticed that no two people can make the same dish really the same. It’s like the flavor of the person goes into the food.
Alina arrived on Monday! That afternoon we got her acclimated and oriented and had some gelato. Tuesday I was free all day so we had plenty of time to spend together. I practiced my tour guide routine, in Italian this time. We went to a panini place and I had a horse sandwich so she could close her eyes and hold her breath and have a taste.
I think at some point early on in the blog I mentioned that I had the desire to go an entire day without speaking English. Alina made my dream come true, or as close to true as I think I will get. We did use the occasional English word, but we definitely did not have any English conversations. We went to the movie theater and saw an Italian movie, but for some reason there was one random character who kept switching back and forth from Italian and English, though he was obviously not a native English speaker. Last week I watched a movie on TV solely because the blurb said it took place in Houston, and I hoped that I would be able to show my family some scenes of Houston. Instead, the ‘Texanest’ things in the movie were a cow phone that mooed, a mailbox painted like a jersey cow, a couple of Texas license plates, and maybe some Tecate. There were also lots of guns involved, but that was relevant to the plot, not Texas. They didn’t even bother to throw in a Houston skyline for good measure. Instead, I later found out, the whole thing was filmed in Los Angeles. I have no idea why they bothered to set it in ‘Houston,’ or felt that that was relevant enough to be included in the synopsis. So, imagine my surprise when, all of a sudden in the midst of this Italian movie yesterday, there appeared a pair of ‘Texan’ characters.
Today Alina did some touring on her own and came to watch my final presentation (I’m (mostly) done with classes and classwork!) and I was fortunate to have her and Leti’s smiling faces offering me silent support. We had lunch at home and took pictures on the infamous Six on the way to her departure.
For a city full of people who rarely make it to a nearby city, much less a neighboring country, a remarkable number of them profess to ‘♥ NY.’ Today, a cynic bore a different message on his chest. ‘NY doesn’t ♥ U.’ Well proclaimed, sir.
The weekend saw:
Going for gelato with Cristina and Jody. Definitely the best gelato I've had so far in Parma. Jody got some too. Seriously, this dog lives the good life.
Liberation Day on the 25th with an outdoor concert and another exciting Panthers victory, this time against the Bologna Warriors. I sought the perfect pre-game busride music and, in the absence of 'Are you ready for some football?', I opted for CCR and the Black Keys. I needed some hearty American sounds.
Dinner Monday was risotto… with strawberries. It was… pink. I don’t know how I feel about cooked strawberries, but if I avoided the chunks and seasoned it with the recommended black pepper instead of the usual Parmesan cheese, it was totally edible. After cleansing my palate with a copious amount of carrots and celery, it was apron time. A few days earlier I had gotten platanos (plantains) to make for the family (/myself if no one liked them, not that I would complain too much about that; more for me) and it was finally the moment of truth. Leti said it ‘had an effect on her’ to see me there, apron-clad, at her usual post before the stove. Washing, squeezing, peeling, slicing, and lots of frying later, it was actually the moment of truth. And… delicious. I was a little worried that no one else would like them, or perhaps worse, that they would feel obligated to pretend that they did like them, but it was pretty clear that the appreciation was sincere. Leti plans on making them in the future, perhaps as a novelty potluck item. I’m just glad to have been able to leave a bit of Guatemala in Parma, and a way for the family to keep me in mind and heart and stomach after I’m gone. Later, we added mangos to the fruity mix of the evening.
Up next is avocados and black beans.
I also got a new giant citrus, a honey pomelo, which lasted me several sittings. It was definitely more edible than the cedro.
I have now seen everyone’s bare feet except for Davide’s (but I think I would have to stay here at least another two months to see him as much as I have now seen everyone else. So statistically it would have happened by now.). No one has tried to apologize for their unseemly and unhygienic state. I am starting to wonder whether this was overhyped and I could have been blissfully barefoot all along.
I heard some serious revving today and turned around just in time to see a guy popping a wheelie. Purty cool.
A couple nights ago I had a dream of a not-unusual structure. Within some context or another, I am driving a car, and then the brakes don’t work. Sometimes, I can slow down but never fully stop, and sometimes they have no effect whatsoever. Despite red lights and other cars, I never crash, but I never stop. This time, I kid you not, I looked down at my speedometer and it said I was going 1000 miles (or perhaps kilometers!) (or whatever unit of distance) per hour. I remember thinking, wow, I didn’t think I was going that fast. Anyway, this one is easy to read. Time is going by too quickly, and I want it to slow down. Six days. Read that again. Less than a week. Until I leave Parma. Until I leave home. What?
I finally started doing what I meant to be doing all along. Tonight, I learned how to make pasta and tomato sauce, the Italian way. With some mysterious brown on the outside, purple on the inside, white on the inner inside, tear-shaped onions. It turned out well, and Leti actually let me do everything, instead of just showing me and having me watch. Everyone said they were good, and I guess I am not the most confident chef, because I wasn’t sure whether to believe them. But, Cri is a very particular eater, and she seemed earnest when she said it was good. Leti wanted more and gave me a thumbs up when she discovered that there was still some left in the pot. So, either they’re good actors; I’m gullible, or, as I choose to believe, it really was good. I mean, obviously I ate it too, but coming from people who claim to be able to taste the difference between hand-grated and machine-grated cheese, they would be more likely to take up issue with any of my cooking flaws. Paolo did say it tasted different, somehow, and I agreed and was ok with that. I have noticed that no two people can make the same dish really the same. It’s like the flavor of the person goes into the food.
Alina arrived on Monday! That afternoon we got her acclimated and oriented and had some gelato. Tuesday I was free all day so we had plenty of time to spend together. I practiced my tour guide routine, in Italian this time. We went to a panini place and I had a horse sandwich so she could close her eyes and hold her breath and have a taste.
I think at some point early on in the blog I mentioned that I had the desire to go an entire day without speaking English. Alina made my dream come true, or as close to true as I think I will get. We did use the occasional English word, but we definitely did not have any English conversations. We went to the movie theater and saw an Italian movie, but for some reason there was one random character who kept switching back and forth from Italian and English, though he was obviously not a native English speaker. Last week I watched a movie on TV solely because the blurb said it took place in Houston, and I hoped that I would be able to show my family some scenes of Houston. Instead, the ‘Texanest’ things in the movie were a cow phone that mooed, a mailbox painted like a jersey cow, a couple of Texas license plates, and maybe some Tecate. There were also lots of guns involved, but that was relevant to the plot, not Texas. They didn’t even bother to throw in a Houston skyline for good measure. Instead, I later found out, the whole thing was filmed in Los Angeles. I have no idea why they bothered to set it in ‘Houston,’ or felt that that was relevant enough to be included in the synopsis. So, imagine my surprise when, all of a sudden in the midst of this Italian movie yesterday, there appeared a pair of ‘Texan’ characters.
Today Alina did some touring on her own and came to watch my final presentation (I’m (mostly) done with classes and classwork!) and I was fortunate to have her and Leti’s smiling faces offering me silent support. We had lunch at home and took pictures on the infamous Six on the way to her departure.
24 April 2010
Yellowblue fever
04. 17. 10
Ok, it happened. A long-awaited soccer Experience. For anyone familiar with Aggie football, the spectator dynamics will be perfectly familiar. Sunday afternoon, Matt and I went to the Parma-Genoa game. We sat in the Curva Nord, the famous crazy fan section, where you stand for the entire game. Starting to sound familiar, right? The game starts and next thing we know we are under a white plastic tarp, which becomes blue, and then yellow. We are under a giant flag that covers the entire side of the stadium. From beneath it we are singing the fight song, or some such thing. As it starts go get a little too steamy under there, we are released and the game begins. At the bottom of the stands, a portly man (gentleman is the word that usually comes to mind when one says portly, but gentleman he was not), balding and loud, lead the cheers. Like a yell-leader but without the nifty jumpsuit. Who needs scantily clad women with pompoms when you have a topless man yelling obscenities? Isn’t a potbelly as good as cleavage?
He and his cohorts lead the crowd in chanting several cheers, perhaps more accurately described as jeers, including the popular ‘pezzo di merda, pezzo di pezzo di merda.’ Not all the cheers were obscene, though. One that was fairly easy to pick up was ‘Forza, Parma,’ sung to the tune of ‘La Bamba.’ There were huge hand painted flags waving around, and I was glad we heeded the advice to not sit front and center. Also fascinating to observe were the physical reactions and gestures employed by the spectators. (Tifosi = fans, from tifo, typhoid, because of the feverishness of it all.) Of course there was clapping, but whistling was only in angry disapproval. There was lots of celebratory fist shaking. When the ref made terrible calls, or terribly missed calls (there were a lot of these that even I could see) the stands erupted in raised hands making a gesture that is hard to explain verbally, but is the Italian way of saying ‘go away’ or ‘leave me alone.’
As far as the actual sports-relevant content of this post, I can’t offer much. Near the end of the first half, Genoa scored a goal. Later, another. Parma responded. Good good. Parma tried to respond again, missed, but a Genoa kicked in the blocked ball. Works for us. Alas, though probably good for that poor Genoa player, Genoa scored again, making what would ultimately be the winning goal. In this one game, I saw more goals scored than I had seen, combined, in all the games I have watched previously while here. There was also way less overacting of anguish for each missed goal.
By the last few minutes, the fans began to dwindle, leaving trails of smoke in their wake. I don’t know what the security guard at the entrance expected to accomplish by asking me whether I had a lighter. I was surrounded by cigarette exhaust for the entire game. As I made my way home, wearing my new blue and yellow Curva Nord scarf, I kept getting stopped by strangers. Suddenly I was an ambassador for the team. Who won? What was the final score? So, next time you go to a soccer game in Italy, if you walk the streets wearing team paraphernalia, expect to meet a lot of inquisitive tifosi.
Aaand stuff:
I’d heard about it, but it has finally happened. Someone said ‘hi’ to me by way of farewell. I guess if in your language it’s the same word, it would not seem strange to think it is the same in other languages.
I finally saw a guy wearing jeans with an American dollar bill sewn onto the back pocket.
Unlike in the US, where velcro shoes are mostly relegated to toddlers, losers, and the elderly, velcro sneakers seem to be rather popular and totally socially acceptable here. In a similar vein, people of all ages and all genders tie their sweaters around their waists here. I haven’t seen it so widely done since around middle school.
There is a strange preponderance of wedge-heeled sneakers. I do not understand this. To me, it seems like the worst of both worlds. Sneakers are supposed to be comfortable and good for getting around. Heels are supposed to be classy and somewhat formal. These seem to be none of the above. Unless a lot of people have height inferiority complexes, I just don’t get it.
I got my first facebook friend request from one of my students at Toschi.
It’s still disconcerting to see fifteen year olds with a carton of cigarettes on their desk next to their pencil box. Or to hear them tell their teachers they need to go smoke. Or to know that people regularly smoke in the bathroom – and apparently there are no smoke detectors around.
I watched one of my students clean out her nails with a box-cutter. Oh art school.
He and his cohorts lead the crowd in chanting several cheers, perhaps more accurately described as jeers, including the popular ‘pezzo di merda, pezzo di pezzo di merda.’ Not all the cheers were obscene, though. One that was fairly easy to pick up was ‘Forza, Parma,’ sung to the tune of ‘La Bamba.’ There were huge hand painted flags waving around, and I was glad we heeded the advice to not sit front and center. Also fascinating to observe were the physical reactions and gestures employed by the spectators. (Tifosi = fans, from tifo, typhoid, because of the feverishness of it all.) Of course there was clapping, but whistling was only in angry disapproval. There was lots of celebratory fist shaking. When the ref made terrible calls, or terribly missed calls (there were a lot of these that even I could see) the stands erupted in raised hands making a gesture that is hard to explain verbally, but is the Italian way of saying ‘go away’ or ‘leave me alone.’
As far as the actual sports-relevant content of this post, I can’t offer much. Near the end of the first half, Genoa scored a goal. Later, another. Parma responded. Good good. Parma tried to respond again, missed, but a Genoa kicked in the blocked ball. Works for us. Alas, though probably good for that poor Genoa player, Genoa scored again, making what would ultimately be the winning goal. In this one game, I saw more goals scored than I had seen, combined, in all the games I have watched previously while here. There was also way less overacting of anguish for each missed goal.
By the last few minutes, the fans began to dwindle, leaving trails of smoke in their wake. I don’t know what the security guard at the entrance expected to accomplish by asking me whether I had a lighter. I was surrounded by cigarette exhaust for the entire game. As I made my way home, wearing my new blue and yellow Curva Nord scarf, I kept getting stopped by strangers. Suddenly I was an ambassador for the team. Who won? What was the final score? So, next time you go to a soccer game in Italy, if you walk the streets wearing team paraphernalia, expect to meet a lot of inquisitive tifosi.
Aaand stuff:
I’d heard about it, but it has finally happened. Someone said ‘hi’ to me by way of farewell. I guess if in your language it’s the same word, it would not seem strange to think it is the same in other languages.
I finally saw a guy wearing jeans with an American dollar bill sewn onto the back pocket.
Unlike in the US, where velcro shoes are mostly relegated to toddlers, losers, and the elderly, velcro sneakers seem to be rather popular and totally socially acceptable here. In a similar vein, people of all ages and all genders tie their sweaters around their waists here. I haven’t seen it so widely done since around middle school.
There is a strange preponderance of wedge-heeled sneakers. I do not understand this. To me, it seems like the worst of both worlds. Sneakers are supposed to be comfortable and good for getting around. Heels are supposed to be classy and somewhat formal. These seem to be none of the above. Unless a lot of people have height inferiority complexes, I just don’t get it.
I got my first facebook friend request from one of my students at Toschi.
It’s still disconcerting to see fifteen year olds with a carton of cigarettes on their desk next to their pencil box. Or to hear them tell their teachers they need to go smoke. Or to know that people regularly smoke in the bathroom – and apparently there are no smoke detectors around.
I watched one of my students clean out her nails with a box-cutter. Oh art school.
21 April 2010
Respirational
It's about time I finish up with the Spring Break stuff. So much to tell, so much already forgotten.
I went to Ferrara with my host sister and seven of her friends on the Monday after Easter, a holiday. We saw medieval dancing, by which I mean I saw the backs of a lot of people’s heads and some flags flying up over them every now and then. We had an incredible lunch (after the eternal wait necessary to seat nine people) and I had tomino al tartuffo (a potent cheese melted over truffles and other vegetables) and cappeletti di zucco con ragu (pumpkin-stuffed pasta with meat sauce) and sampled the salumella, all of course, with wine. We stepped into the church right as it was closing, wandered the outdoor craft market, and saw a great art exhibit, 'From Braque to Kandinsky to Chagall: Aimé Maeght and His Artists.' There was some grumbling within the group about the fact that they had dared make Kandinsky a headliner while only displaying two of his pieces, but I enjoyed the show. Other featured artists included Calder and Miró, and so on. Lots of bigwigs and a lot about how they all came together and drew upon each other, artistically. I loved a quote by Duchamp about Calder, "Calder's art is the sublimation of a tree in the wind." At the end of the exhibit they featured photos from the opening of Maeght's Foundation, and it was like a who's who of the arts. He was friends with Duke Ellington and Ella Fitzgerald, and Merce Cunningham, who choreographed dances on Miró's sculptures. Talk about artistic collaboration. All in all, it was a fun, very Italian day.
On Thursday Leti asked me if I wanted to join her in walking Jody. Considering that I had been sitting in my room deriding myself for not being outside enjoying the incredible weather, I said yes of course. What I assumed would be a fifteen or twenty minute sidewalk meander ended up being a fantastic three hours in a beautiful park right around the corner from our house, which I didn't eve know existed. I got to meet Jody's dog friends and see her romping in flowery fields, and realized that she doesn’t seem quite so big when she’s not wreaking havoc in a contained area. I also got to meet some of Leti's human friends and later we had a nice long chat, just enjoying the outdoors. It really was lovely.
Pause for musical interlude. May I recommend Cream's Tales of Brave Ulysses in preparation for or accompaniment of the next part of this post. It's time for the story of Cinque Terre.
We were in Riomaggiore, and after acquiring a map we started on our way. Not too long after, we arrived in the next town, Monarola, the next ‘terra’ of the five. The ocean was irresistible. We walked down the path just to sit on the rocks. That turned into wanting to dip my toes in. That turned into an hour of floating and treading and swimming in the colder than chilly water. We watched the tide rush over the rocks, getting pulled in along with the water. We swam over to a jetty, where we saw the irony of ironies. In this haven, someone had decided to make sure everyone knew it, taking a thick black marker to the white rock face, labeling it a ‘natural beauty.’ Eventually we made it back to the original rocks and lay out to get dry and catch some rays. By now, several other people had arrived, though few were besotted or thick-skinned enough to breach the waves.
Lunchtime. I opted for pesto, native to this region, on trofi, a traditional pasta shape. Delicious. Next we went for gelato, and were rewarded with an extremely bizarre and awkward conversation that none of the participants fully understood. It went something like this:
Ellie: Can I try the mint please?
Man working at the gelateria: Mint? Mint is mint. I mean, mint is mint! (continuously grumbling as he prepared the sample)
Me, to Ellie: Look, there’s green apple.
Me, to Man: Can I try the green apple, please?
Man: Apple? Apple is apple! (more grumbling)
We ordered. He asked if I wanted a cone and I said yes. He didn’t ask Ellie what she wanted and he served her a cone, but she wanted a cup.
Ellie: Oh, I wanted a cup. Can I have one please?
Man: Yeah, yeah. (But does not actually give her a cup)
Then something strange happened that I can’t quite remember anymore. People came in behind us and said hello. The man responded with something that Ellie misunderstood and thought was directed towards us. Somehow, Ellie responded in a way that made him ask
Man: Oh, do you like me?
Ellie: What? No. Wait, I thought you were talking to us.
Man: You like me?
Ellie: No, I thought –
Man: You think I’m cute?
Ellie: Ok, yes, fine.
Man: Ah! In that case, come by at seven.
Ellie (misunderstanding): Oh no, we just ate.
Man: I’ll help you digest, then.
At this point, I decided it was high time to exit, and I said thank you goodbye and made an about face. On to the next town.
Beautiful cliffside paths. The water is so clear it takes on the blue of thick glass, through which you can see down to the rocks. The botanical array was fascinating, featuring everything from cacti, succulents, and aloes, to pine trees. By this point, the number of tourists had thinned out quite a bit. 382 stairs and as many pictures later, we made it to the top of the meticulously and compulsively numbered switch-backing stairway and arrive in Corniglia, ‘the heart of Cinque Terre.’ Because of the direction we chose, each leg of the trip got longer and steeper and more difficult, though that isn’t necessarily saying a whole lot. Regardless, the trek to Vernazza took about an hour and a half. Right before we started this next chapter, I spied a French car with a TX sticker on the bumper. Can you say good omen?
The mountainsides were dotted with houses and terraced for vineyards and olive cultivation, two of the region’s main products. While we were making the climb up to Corniglia, we kept passing and being passed by another couple. It happened so much that we started to chat and joke with each other each time. When one pair was taking a rest, we would joke that we were waiting for the bus to take us the rest of the way. Now, headed to Vernazza, we had a real chat, and found out that he was Milanese and she was Greek. Both spoke incredible English, though apparently she spoke no Italian. At one point, Ellie and I stopped to rest in the shade and a little ways behind us they encountered a pair of Frenchmen, and I had a good time eavesdropping and practicing my French comprehension. (Granted, the conversation was mostly questions like ‘what time is it’ and ‘how much farther.’) Anyway, eventually, we made it to the beautiful Vernazza. We had been told that it and Monterosso were the most beautiful, but that the hike was easier coming from the other direction. I don’t think anyone expected us to walk the whole way; most people just do the first one and then take the train the rest of the way. Vernazza was indeed beautiful, but also very touristy. It feels strange to call it touristy when the whole of Cinque Terre seems to be about tourism, but there is a difference between a town with English/Italian menus and a town full of postcard and t-shirt shops.
I had a couple of ego boosts here. When buying postcards, the shop owner kept speaking to me in English despite the fact that I kept responding in Italian. Finally, when she asked if I wanted a bag and I replied ‘si perfavore,’ she exclaimed ‘Oh! I’m sorry. I thought you were American!’ Later, at a jewelry store, I started talking to the shop owner. The woman marveled at my Italian, showering me with praise, and told me that with all the languages I speak, I should come back and get a job at Cinque Terre after I finish school. Sounds like a plan to me.
You know what’s been missing on my blog for a while? Some kind of public transportation misadventure. Don’t worry, I’m about to tell you a great one that’ll make up for lost time. Because we definitely wanted to make it to the last town but didn’t have the two hours necessary to make the hike (alas! I would have loved to be able to say I walked the whole of the Via Dell'Amore) we opted for the train. So not wanting to miss this train, we cut my ego-inflating session short and rush to the station, arriving maybe seven minutes early, and stand at the platform in wait. The train arrives and we rush on with the masses. Guess who sits next to us? The couple we had met on the trail. I guess we all finally did manage to catch the train. Guess which way the train starts moving, though? In the opposite direction from where we want to go. Umm, what? Luckily, we can ask our new friends where they are going, and confirm that indeed, we jumped on a train back to Corniglia. Apparently, when you have so few platforms, trains arrive at the same one just a few minutes apart. Less than five minutes later we are back to where we started, farther from our destination and with more time to wait for the next train that will actually take us in the right direction. No biggie, really, except that when we get to Monterosso we have less than an hour before the train departs to Parma, which means that we don’t have time for a big delicious seafood-y meal. Still, we watch the sunset and see the towns light up across the water.
Did you think the train folly was finished? Guess again. We realize that instead of taking a train that would require us to change trains twice at unknown stops and times, we could take a direct train to Parma. Perfect. We get on (after serving as travel information for several other people trying to figure out their train situation and watching the bags of a woman wearing blue suede shoes) and go for about half an hour. And then we stop. And sit. For over an hour. I pass out completely thanks to having gotten less than five hours of sleep the night before and spending the day swimming and hiking in the sun, so I don’t even notice. I might even appreciate it. However, it turns out that a new conductor was supposed to take over at this stop, but he never showed up. So we just sat in the station at La Spezia, waiting. Ultimately, we made it home, and the prontobus, which has recently decided to embrace logic, takes me home first instead of passing my intersection and going way south of town before coming back and dropping me off last.
More than anything, I felt like (other than finally really experiencing warmth and sunshine) I finally really had a chance to breathe. To just sit and be. To marvel at nature, and be a part of it. Lastly, in closing, a poem for the linguistically endowed.
[no sé si el mar es, hoy]
No sé si el mar es, hoy
--adornado su azul de innumerables espumas--,
mi corazón; si mi corazón, hoy
--adrnada su grana de incontables espumas--,
es el mar.
Entran, salen
uno de otro, plenos e infinitos,
como dos todos únicos.
A veces, me ahoga el mar el corazón,
hasta los cielos mismos.
Mi corazón ahoga el mar, a veces,
hasta los mismos cielos.
19 de junio
Juan Ramón Jiménez
I went to Ferrara with my host sister and seven of her friends on the Monday after Easter, a holiday. We saw medieval dancing, by which I mean I saw the backs of a lot of people’s heads and some flags flying up over them every now and then. We had an incredible lunch (after the eternal wait necessary to seat nine people) and I had tomino al tartuffo (a potent cheese melted over truffles and other vegetables) and cappeletti di zucco con ragu (pumpkin-stuffed pasta with meat sauce) and sampled the salumella, all of course, with wine. We stepped into the church right as it was closing, wandered the outdoor craft market, and saw a great art exhibit, 'From Braque to Kandinsky to Chagall: Aimé Maeght and His Artists.' There was some grumbling within the group about the fact that they had dared make Kandinsky a headliner while only displaying two of his pieces, but I enjoyed the show. Other featured artists included Calder and Miró, and so on. Lots of bigwigs and a lot about how they all came together and drew upon each other, artistically. I loved a quote by Duchamp about Calder, "Calder's art is the sublimation of a tree in the wind." At the end of the exhibit they featured photos from the opening of Maeght's Foundation, and it was like a who's who of the arts. He was friends with Duke Ellington and Ella Fitzgerald, and Merce Cunningham, who choreographed dances on Miró's sculptures. Talk about artistic collaboration. All in all, it was a fun, very Italian day.
On Thursday Leti asked me if I wanted to join her in walking Jody. Considering that I had been sitting in my room deriding myself for not being outside enjoying the incredible weather, I said yes of course. What I assumed would be a fifteen or twenty minute sidewalk meander ended up being a fantastic three hours in a beautiful park right around the corner from our house, which I didn't eve know existed. I got to meet Jody's dog friends and see her romping in flowery fields, and realized that she doesn’t seem quite so big when she’s not wreaking havoc in a contained area. I also got to meet some of Leti's human friends and later we had a nice long chat, just enjoying the outdoors. It really was lovely.
Pause for musical interlude. May I recommend Cream's Tales of Brave Ulysses in preparation for or accompaniment of the next part of this post. It's time for the story of Cinque Terre.
"...And you see a girl's brown body dancing through the turquoise,Imagine the most idyllic outdoor vacation day and this was it. You've already seen some of the pictures. As seems to be the inescapable trend, I stayed up late and woke up early and was not well rested for my early morning departure. Ellie and I both made it just in time to catch the 7:48 train to paradise. About two and a half hours later we found ourselves stopped in a tunnel. Time to get off, though it didn’t seem like it. Let the fun begin.
And her footprints make you follow where the sky loves the sea..."
We were in Riomaggiore, and after acquiring a map we started on our way. Not too long after, we arrived in the next town, Monarola, the next ‘terra’ of the five. The ocean was irresistible. We walked down the path just to sit on the rocks. That turned into wanting to dip my toes in. That turned into an hour of floating and treading and swimming in the colder than chilly water. We watched the tide rush over the rocks, getting pulled in along with the water. We swam over to a jetty, where we saw the irony of ironies. In this haven, someone had decided to make sure everyone knew it, taking a thick black marker to the white rock face, labeling it a ‘natural beauty.’ Eventually we made it back to the original rocks and lay out to get dry and catch some rays. By now, several other people had arrived, though few were besotted or thick-skinned enough to breach the waves.
Lunchtime. I opted for pesto, native to this region, on trofi, a traditional pasta shape. Delicious. Next we went for gelato, and were rewarded with an extremely bizarre and awkward conversation that none of the participants fully understood. It went something like this:
Ellie: Can I try the mint please?
Man working at the gelateria: Mint? Mint is mint. I mean, mint is mint! (continuously grumbling as he prepared the sample)
Me, to Ellie: Look, there’s green apple.
Me, to Man: Can I try the green apple, please?
Man: Apple? Apple is apple! (more grumbling)
We ordered. He asked if I wanted a cone and I said yes. He didn’t ask Ellie what she wanted and he served her a cone, but she wanted a cup.
Ellie: Oh, I wanted a cup. Can I have one please?
Man: Yeah, yeah. (But does not actually give her a cup)
Then something strange happened that I can’t quite remember anymore. People came in behind us and said hello. The man responded with something that Ellie misunderstood and thought was directed towards us. Somehow, Ellie responded in a way that made him ask
Man: Oh, do you like me?
Ellie: What? No. Wait, I thought you were talking to us.
Man: You like me?
Ellie: No, I thought –
Man: You think I’m cute?
Ellie: Ok, yes, fine.
Man: Ah! In that case, come by at seven.
Ellie (misunderstanding): Oh no, we just ate.
Man: I’ll help you digest, then.
At this point, I decided it was high time to exit, and I said thank you goodbye and made an about face. On to the next town.
Beautiful cliffside paths. The water is so clear it takes on the blue of thick glass, through which you can see down to the rocks. The botanical array was fascinating, featuring everything from cacti, succulents, and aloes, to pine trees. By this point, the number of tourists had thinned out quite a bit. 382 stairs and as many pictures later, we made it to the top of the meticulously and compulsively numbered switch-backing stairway and arrive in Corniglia, ‘the heart of Cinque Terre.’ Because of the direction we chose, each leg of the trip got longer and steeper and more difficult, though that isn’t necessarily saying a whole lot. Regardless, the trek to Vernazza took about an hour and a half. Right before we started this next chapter, I spied a French car with a TX sticker on the bumper. Can you say good omen?
The mountainsides were dotted with houses and terraced for vineyards and olive cultivation, two of the region’s main products. While we were making the climb up to Corniglia, we kept passing and being passed by another couple. It happened so much that we started to chat and joke with each other each time. When one pair was taking a rest, we would joke that we were waiting for the bus to take us the rest of the way. Now, headed to Vernazza, we had a real chat, and found out that he was Milanese and she was Greek. Both spoke incredible English, though apparently she spoke no Italian. At one point, Ellie and I stopped to rest in the shade and a little ways behind us they encountered a pair of Frenchmen, and I had a good time eavesdropping and practicing my French comprehension. (Granted, the conversation was mostly questions like ‘what time is it’ and ‘how much farther.’) Anyway, eventually, we made it to the beautiful Vernazza. We had been told that it and Monterosso were the most beautiful, but that the hike was easier coming from the other direction. I don’t think anyone expected us to walk the whole way; most people just do the first one and then take the train the rest of the way. Vernazza was indeed beautiful, but also very touristy. It feels strange to call it touristy when the whole of Cinque Terre seems to be about tourism, but there is a difference between a town with English/Italian menus and a town full of postcard and t-shirt shops.
I had a couple of ego boosts here. When buying postcards, the shop owner kept speaking to me in English despite the fact that I kept responding in Italian. Finally, when she asked if I wanted a bag and I replied ‘si perfavore,’ she exclaimed ‘Oh! I’m sorry. I thought you were American!’ Later, at a jewelry store, I started talking to the shop owner. The woman marveled at my Italian, showering me with praise, and told me that with all the languages I speak, I should come back and get a job at Cinque Terre after I finish school. Sounds like a plan to me.
You know what’s been missing on my blog for a while? Some kind of public transportation misadventure. Don’t worry, I’m about to tell you a great one that’ll make up for lost time. Because we definitely wanted to make it to the last town but didn’t have the two hours necessary to make the hike (alas! I would have loved to be able to say I walked the whole of the Via Dell'Amore) we opted for the train. So not wanting to miss this train, we cut my ego-inflating session short and rush to the station, arriving maybe seven minutes early, and stand at the platform in wait. The train arrives and we rush on with the masses. Guess who sits next to us? The couple we had met on the trail. I guess we all finally did manage to catch the train. Guess which way the train starts moving, though? In the opposite direction from where we want to go. Umm, what? Luckily, we can ask our new friends where they are going, and confirm that indeed, we jumped on a train back to Corniglia. Apparently, when you have so few platforms, trains arrive at the same one just a few minutes apart. Less than five minutes later we are back to where we started, farther from our destination and with more time to wait for the next train that will actually take us in the right direction. No biggie, really, except that when we get to Monterosso we have less than an hour before the train departs to Parma, which means that we don’t have time for a big delicious seafood-y meal. Still, we watch the sunset and see the towns light up across the water.
Did you think the train folly was finished? Guess again. We realize that instead of taking a train that would require us to change trains twice at unknown stops and times, we could take a direct train to Parma. Perfect. We get on (after serving as travel information for several other people trying to figure out their train situation and watching the bags of a woman wearing blue suede shoes) and go for about half an hour. And then we stop. And sit. For over an hour. I pass out completely thanks to having gotten less than five hours of sleep the night before and spending the day swimming and hiking in the sun, so I don’t even notice. I might even appreciate it. However, it turns out that a new conductor was supposed to take over at this stop, but he never showed up. So we just sat in the station at La Spezia, waiting. Ultimately, we made it home, and the prontobus, which has recently decided to embrace logic, takes me home first instead of passing my intersection and going way south of town before coming back and dropping me off last.
More than anything, I felt like (other than finally really experiencing warmth and sunshine) I finally really had a chance to breathe. To just sit and be. To marvel at nature, and be a part of it. Lastly, in closing, a poem for the linguistically endowed.
[no sé si el mar es, hoy]
No sé si el mar es, hoy
--adornado su azul de innumerables espumas--,
mi corazón; si mi corazón, hoy
--adrnada su grana de incontables espumas--,
es el mar.
Entran, salen
uno de otro, plenos e infinitos,
como dos todos únicos.
A veces, me ahoga el mar el corazón,
hasta los cielos mismos.
Mi corazón ahoga el mar, a veces,
hasta los mismos cielos.
19 de junio
Juan Ramón Jiménez
19 April 2010
We're big on Freud
I posted pictures of the crazy house keys here in Italy, but there’s more to it. I have five keys but only know how or where to use three of them. This could be the setup for a fairytale about a nosy princess in an empty castle, but it’s not.
Last night, I had a dream. In my dream, a man, presumably my host dad, saw my key ring and declared that it was all wrong. My keys were out of order, and he decided to fix them. Satisfied with the new setup, he handed them back to me, triumphantly. All was right with the world. Except it was not. It took me a good amount of time to figure out how to remember which key was which, and suddenly I would have to do it all over again. What did it matter if they were in the ‘right’ order, so long as I knew how they worked?
Who knows what dreams mean, if they mean anything at all, but this got me to thinking this morning. More and more, ‘life in Parma’ has begun to feel like Life, without qualifiers and without quotation marks. While this is truer with every day that goes by, each one of those days also brings me closer to the close of this chapter. Now that I have finally figured out what to do with most of these keys, they will be changed up on me all over again. What's more, I still have two keys to figure out before I go.
I wish I had more time.
Last night, I had a dream. In my dream, a man, presumably my host dad, saw my key ring and declared that it was all wrong. My keys were out of order, and he decided to fix them. Satisfied with the new setup, he handed them back to me, triumphantly. All was right with the world. Except it was not. It took me a good amount of time to figure out how to remember which key was which, and suddenly I would have to do it all over again. What did it matter if they were in the ‘right’ order, so long as I knew how they worked?
Who knows what dreams mean, if they mean anything at all, but this got me to thinking this morning. More and more, ‘life in Parma’ has begun to feel like Life, without qualifiers and without quotation marks. While this is truer with every day that goes by, each one of those days also brings me closer to the close of this chapter. Now that I have finally figured out what to do with most of these keys, they will be changed up on me all over again. What's more, I still have two keys to figure out before I go.
I wish I had more time.
17 April 2010
How to look Parmesan in the spring
Even if it is still snowing sporadically in the mountains and an ash cloud is taking over the European continent, it is officially spring, and there are tiny flowers covering the fields to prove it. As such, it is time for a fashion update.
Feel free to continue wearing your purple coats and scarves despite the fact that when the sun graces you the day’s temperature climbs as high as the low seventies. This clothing option is particularly fashionable if you are planning on making out on the swelteringly sunny park lawns.
If you are ready for a change, however, here’s what you do:
Ladies
You must acquire a khaki trench coat, à la Burberry, at your desired length. If you refuse this option, go for a chic, sleek leather jacket. Either choice is a perfect companion for dresses or jeans.
Put on those sunglasses you couldn’t wear during those gray winter months. Make sure they are huge and cover most of your face so everyone knows how much you really really care about sun protection.
Get yourself some ankle-length slacks, all the better to show off those suede pumps as you pedal away on your bike or totter along on the cobblestones. Good luck not breaking your ankles; unlike a real Italian woman, you haven’t been mastering these skills for your whole life.
If, instead, you’d rather wear a skirt or a dress, make sure you are wearing hose or tights, preferably sheer, but anything is better than bare legs. Patterned tights that from far away make you look like you have a skin disease are fine if you are young enough to probably not have one. If you dare to go bare, put on those boots you bought right when the weather decided to go from freezing to warm. You can get those studded moccasin-looking ones or the fringe-covered ones that make you look like a wannabe-Clydesdale. On the upside, if you refuse to wear hosiery, people will probably assume you are wearing nude tights, anyway.
Gentlemen
Things haven’t changed much for you. Keep wearing those whiskered jeans with crazy seams. If you’re feeling a little more athletic, ignore the fact that everyone told you that no one Ever wears sweatpants in Italy. Since you didn’t bring any thanks to this erroneous advice, go to London Corner, where all the cool kids go, which is conveniently having a sale right now. Get those sweat pants that are, curiously, branded ‘Always Jeans.’
If you feel inclined to wear girly bracelets, sunglasses with rhinestones, or a pink scarf, feel free. Trust that no one will question your masculinity if you compensate by hitting on every woman who passes by. After all, spring is in the air.
Optimal eyewear for you is the ever-classy aviator. On your feet, opt for snazzy sneakers (or trainers, as they call them here) that may or may not actually be useful for any athletic activity.
Don’t forget, the one accessory that suits everyone and never goes out of style – a dog! Bonus points if it resembles you.
Feel free to continue wearing your purple coats and scarves despite the fact that when the sun graces you the day’s temperature climbs as high as the low seventies. This clothing option is particularly fashionable if you are planning on making out on the swelteringly sunny park lawns.
If you are ready for a change, however, here’s what you do:
Ladies
You must acquire a khaki trench coat, à la Burberry, at your desired length. If you refuse this option, go for a chic, sleek leather jacket. Either choice is a perfect companion for dresses or jeans.
Put on those sunglasses you couldn’t wear during those gray winter months. Make sure they are huge and cover most of your face so everyone knows how much you really really care about sun protection.
Get yourself some ankle-length slacks, all the better to show off those suede pumps as you pedal away on your bike or totter along on the cobblestones. Good luck not breaking your ankles; unlike a real Italian woman, you haven’t been mastering these skills for your whole life.
If, instead, you’d rather wear a skirt or a dress, make sure you are wearing hose or tights, preferably sheer, but anything is better than bare legs. Patterned tights that from far away make you look like you have a skin disease are fine if you are young enough to probably not have one. If you dare to go bare, put on those boots you bought right when the weather decided to go from freezing to warm. You can get those studded moccasin-looking ones or the fringe-covered ones that make you look like a wannabe-Clydesdale. On the upside, if you refuse to wear hosiery, people will probably assume you are wearing nude tights, anyway.
Gentlemen
Things haven’t changed much for you. Keep wearing those whiskered jeans with crazy seams. If you’re feeling a little more athletic, ignore the fact that everyone told you that no one Ever wears sweatpants in Italy. Since you didn’t bring any thanks to this erroneous advice, go to London Corner, where all the cool kids go, which is conveniently having a sale right now. Get those sweat pants that are, curiously, branded ‘Always Jeans.’
If you feel inclined to wear girly bracelets, sunglasses with rhinestones, or a pink scarf, feel free. Trust that no one will question your masculinity if you compensate by hitting on every woman who passes by. After all, spring is in the air.
Optimal eyewear for you is the ever-classy aviator. On your feet, opt for snazzy sneakers (or trainers, as they call them here) that may or may not actually be useful for any athletic activity.
Don’t forget, the one accessory that suits everyone and never goes out of style – a dog! Bonus points if it resembles you.
12 April 2010
Churches, raw meat, chianti, and leather
Spring Break Part One: Parma, Bologna, Firenze, Pisa
Day 1:
I call this Day One, Dad and Sandra call this Day Six. They arrived on the 25th and on Saturday we had a lovely time getting to know Parma. I am becoming quite the expert tour guide. We had horse sandwiches and gelato and all things good. Sunday we had a picnic in the park, went to the football game you have already read about, and had an exquisite dinner out with my host family. We sampled the local culinary highlights: an impressive array of hams and the traditional herb tortelli and potato tortelli, paired of course with the fantastic Lambrusco. Monday and Tuesday I continued with my life as a student while they did some day tripping. Wednesday, my day one, finally rolled around and we were destined for Bologna.
As you know, I had visited Bologna before, but did little more than walk. This time, I went into the main church, the Basilica di San Petronio, and saw its many wonders, including an anachronistic and out of place seeming Foucault pendulum in one of the side chapels (it demonstrates the effect of the rotation of the earth.) (Find the one nearest you!) I also accomplished my main goal for returning to Bologna: going up the tower and getting a view of the city. It was breathtaking in more ways than one, and put me in the right mood to embark on break. On the way back to the train station, I got a fabulous pair of shoes (pair of Italian shoes #2!) that I hope I find a moment to wear here without crippling myself. An observation about ‘the Italian way.’ I was all set to start perusing boxes and picking out shoes and trying them on, when I noticed a sign that said ‘no self-serve.’ So, I would walk over to the wall, followed by the saleswoman, point to the box I wanted, have her grab it and take it over to the bench, where she would take the shoes out of the box and put them on the bench beside where I was now sitting. Repeatedly. Really? How is this better?
After this it was on to Florence, where we arrived tired enough and late enough that all we did was have a great dinner (pasta with octopus for me). The train ride, however, was spectacular. I watched the landscape change, with the mountains unfolding into rolling green hills. It was spring in Tuscany.
Day 2:
First things first: the Duomo and the Baptistery. The church itself was closed in the morning but we went up up up the campanile to see the city. What a view #2! While we were standing around marveling and catching our breath, it became whatever time it became and the bells started ringing. Amazing! And fortunately not deafening or bone shaking, but still a full-body experience. While we waited for it to become an acceptable lunchtime or for the Duomo to reopen, I picked a church on the map and led the way. It turned out to not be the church I thought it was, but it also turned out to be far more spectacular than the church I intended. SS Annunziata, on the outside, looks like a dour and unexciting box. On the inside, you discover that it is the most ornate box you have ever seen. I went around and around, each time realizing that I had failed to notice the side walls of the chapels, or their ceilings, or their floors, all of which were attentively crafted and painted and decorated, and was compelled to make yet another round. Also, it was pleasantly devoid of masses of tourists.
Lunchtime featured the epic steak that will go down in history. My host mom, having recently discovered that I am a ravenous carnivore (she doesn’t like beef so she rarely cooks it), recommended that I eat the Fiorentina while in Florence. 650g or 23oz of juicy bloody perfectly seasoned goodness later; I was a seriously happy camper. (And ready for some gelato!) I hereby proclaim Florence an honorary member of the Republic of Texas. I also finally got to sample brain. Fried and soft and delicious!
Post-lunch was a whirlwind of tourism, finally going in the Cathedral and walking down to Ponte Vecchio, passing street musicians and leather markets and jovial and grumpy vendors along the way. I asked a policeman for directions to San Mineato del Monte, our final destination, and was told that on foot it was a bit far. Yeah, yeah. Whenever something is more than ten or fifteen minutes away, people proclaim that it is SO far. I don’t listen anymore. It started raining – and briefly turned into hail – but soon it was dry and sunny again and onward we went. Hmmm. Any sign of our destination? Maybe it is a bit far. That’s a first. Regardless, we made it. On the way we acquired the best gelato I have had so far, which was also doled out far more generously than any other gelato I have had. I consumed it with the dexterity of a toddler, and consequently got it all over my face. It was decreed the gelato against which all other gelatos will be measured. The chocolatiest chocolate and the summeriest strawberry.
We made it to the Piazza Michelangelo, which has a copy of The David and overlooks the spread of Florence (What a view #3!) and, after indulging in some pictures, climbed higher still. My high school friend Samara, currently studying in Florence, had recommended this church to me. During the hour of vespers, it is filled with chanting Gregorian monks and is open to the public. We intended to go listen to them, but instead, because it was Maundy Thursday, it turned out that there would be mass. It was my first time hearing mass in Latin, though the sermon and readings were in Italian, and all the songs were chanted such that syllables were conveyed through the course of anywhere from three to ten notes. I was entranced by the conductor, whose swirling gestures made him look like a frustrated magician in the dark, incense-scented, ancient church. My seat was on top of the grave of some former ruler with one of the saddest tomb inscriptions I have ever read.
Day 3:
A day of reunions. First thing in the morning it was time for a second date. I met David in Florence seven years ago, and if there was one thing I was willing to repeat this time around, it was seeing him. He is still as perfect as ever. Just like last time, I spent almost the entire time sitting at his feet, marveling, and ignoring everything and everyone else there was to see. Maybe I will come back and see him every seven years, growing older while he remains on his pedestal, forever young. I got to draw him and eavesdrop, two things I love. Moreover, it was multilingual eavesdropping. It was funny to hear what people chose to discuss. Two American guys assessed the proportions of his endowment, while a family tried to guess David's age and Michelangelo's aesthetic reasoning. They posed some theories that I was tempted to correct, but I held my peace. I like playing the role of silent listener. I wonder whether people would say the things they say if they knew they were understood, or whether they even care. As I perused another room of sculptures, a pair of Spanish women vociferously admired the perfectly formed derriere of a female nude. Later, as I drew, people would come up behind me and discuss my drawing and skills amongst themselves, presumably assuming I stood there obliviously.
Next was the church of San Lorenzo. Let me tell you a secret about Italy. Every church you see is the most amazing church you’ve ever seen. It’s vast and ornate knaves lulled you into a sense of been there, done that, but then there was the Medici Chapel. Floor to ceiling porphyry, marble, lapis lazuli, and other semi-precious multicolored stones, polished to a high gloss, all the way up to a brilliantly frescoed dome. Azalea bushes (bushes!) lining the closed-off path to the altar. After seeing so many marble faux-finishes, the real thing, and at such a grand scale, was mesmerizing.
Lunchtime for me was a bruschetta and a pear, gorgonzola, walnut sandwich. We did some family bonding by downing a bottle of Chianti. While we sat outside eating and people watching, I spied a familiar face. Vicki! I knew she would be here, but talk about being at the right place at the right time! Total serendipity.
Next was time for the planned encounter. We headed over to the Palazzo Strozzi to meet Samara and see a surrealist art exhibit. Much to my not surprise, there were a couple pieces from the Menil Collection featured in the show. Overall it was very interesting, and in addition to showing the big-uns Magritte and Duchamp, there were several artists I had never heard of whose work I came to enjoy. There was also a lot of historical context (sound like a trend?) that referenced Freud and Jung and their dream interpretations. I had fun switching back and forth between the English and Italian descriptions of the works.
From here we went to the outdoor sculpture gallery outside of the Uffizi, featuring Neptune, aka the Blob; another copy of David, here in his original location; Perseus, and more. Then to the church of the Santo Spirito, aperitivo, and a foiled attempt at the botanic gardens, before sunset pictures across from the Ponte Vecchio and the quest for dinner. My meal tonight was pasta with cuttlefish in ink sauce. Yum. I was afraid to open my mouth afterwards, lest I be told that it had been dyed black.
Day 4:
Morning in the market looking for leather goods and such. I bought a leather journal and haggled successfully. I got asked what language and I didn’t know what to answer. Whatever you want, I replied. Through a slowly closing door I caught a glimpse of heaven and followed my eyes into a huge indoor market. Any and all cuts of meat ever before seen and unseen. Suckling pigs, racks of ribs, trachea, nerves, uterus, testicles, snout, pig tails, lungs, hearts, whole ducks, and on and on and on. We bought some fresh bread. One more church, a monastery, full of Fra Angelico frescoes, and then it was train time.
Onward to Pisa, and if I thought Florence was full of tourists and foreigners I had another think coming. In my humble opinion, Pisa really is one of those places that has absolutely nothing of interest except for that for which it is famous. Other than at its bustling Piazza dei Miracoli (home of the infamous tower), it seemed like a dreary, empty, rundown, saddish town. I took pictures of people taking perfectly positioned pictures and then had some pictures taken of me doing the same. I bought a sumptuous leather purse that I now love like the hide of my lost child. We spotted a Mexican restaurant.
So, I’ll admit it. I said I didn’t want to come to Florence because I had already been here, but I love that I came. I saw so many things I hadn’t before, and I think that if I had studied here I never would have made it around Italy; there is so much to do just within this city.
Day 1:
I call this Day One, Dad and Sandra call this Day Six. They arrived on the 25th and on Saturday we had a lovely time getting to know Parma. I am becoming quite the expert tour guide. We had horse sandwiches and gelato and all things good. Sunday we had a picnic in the park, went to the football game you have already read about, and had an exquisite dinner out with my host family. We sampled the local culinary highlights: an impressive array of hams and the traditional herb tortelli and potato tortelli, paired of course with the fantastic Lambrusco. Monday and Tuesday I continued with my life as a student while they did some day tripping. Wednesday, my day one, finally rolled around and we were destined for Bologna.
As you know, I had visited Bologna before, but did little more than walk. This time, I went into the main church, the Basilica di San Petronio, and saw its many wonders, including an anachronistic and out of place seeming Foucault pendulum in one of the side chapels (it demonstrates the effect of the rotation of the earth.) (Find the one nearest you!) I also accomplished my main goal for returning to Bologna: going up the tower and getting a view of the city. It was breathtaking in more ways than one, and put me in the right mood to embark on break. On the way back to the train station, I got a fabulous pair of shoes (pair of Italian shoes #2!) that I hope I find a moment to wear here without crippling myself. An observation about ‘the Italian way.’ I was all set to start perusing boxes and picking out shoes and trying them on, when I noticed a sign that said ‘no self-serve.’ So, I would walk over to the wall, followed by the saleswoman, point to the box I wanted, have her grab it and take it over to the bench, where she would take the shoes out of the box and put them on the bench beside where I was now sitting. Repeatedly. Really? How is this better?
After this it was on to Florence, where we arrived tired enough and late enough that all we did was have a great dinner (pasta with octopus for me). The train ride, however, was spectacular. I watched the landscape change, with the mountains unfolding into rolling green hills. It was spring in Tuscany.
Day 2:
First things first: the Duomo and the Baptistery. The church itself was closed in the morning but we went up up up the campanile to see the city. What a view #2! While we were standing around marveling and catching our breath, it became whatever time it became and the bells started ringing. Amazing! And fortunately not deafening or bone shaking, but still a full-body experience. While we waited for it to become an acceptable lunchtime or for the Duomo to reopen, I picked a church on the map and led the way. It turned out to not be the church I thought it was, but it also turned out to be far more spectacular than the church I intended. SS Annunziata, on the outside, looks like a dour and unexciting box. On the inside, you discover that it is the most ornate box you have ever seen. I went around and around, each time realizing that I had failed to notice the side walls of the chapels, or their ceilings, or their floors, all of which were attentively crafted and painted and decorated, and was compelled to make yet another round. Also, it was pleasantly devoid of masses of tourists.
Lunchtime featured the epic steak that will go down in history. My host mom, having recently discovered that I am a ravenous carnivore (she doesn’t like beef so she rarely cooks it), recommended that I eat the Fiorentina while in Florence. 650g or 23oz of juicy bloody perfectly seasoned goodness later; I was a seriously happy camper. (And ready for some gelato!) I hereby proclaim Florence an honorary member of the Republic of Texas. I also finally got to sample brain. Fried and soft and delicious!
Post-lunch was a whirlwind of tourism, finally going in the Cathedral and walking down to Ponte Vecchio, passing street musicians and leather markets and jovial and grumpy vendors along the way. I asked a policeman for directions to San Mineato del Monte, our final destination, and was told that on foot it was a bit far. Yeah, yeah. Whenever something is more than ten or fifteen minutes away, people proclaim that it is SO far. I don’t listen anymore. It started raining – and briefly turned into hail – but soon it was dry and sunny again and onward we went. Hmmm. Any sign of our destination? Maybe it is a bit far. That’s a first. Regardless, we made it. On the way we acquired the best gelato I have had so far, which was also doled out far more generously than any other gelato I have had. I consumed it with the dexterity of a toddler, and consequently got it all over my face. It was decreed the gelato against which all other gelatos will be measured. The chocolatiest chocolate and the summeriest strawberry.
We made it to the Piazza Michelangelo, which has a copy of The David and overlooks the spread of Florence (What a view #3!) and, after indulging in some pictures, climbed higher still. My high school friend Samara, currently studying in Florence, had recommended this church to me. During the hour of vespers, it is filled with chanting Gregorian monks and is open to the public. We intended to go listen to them, but instead, because it was Maundy Thursday, it turned out that there would be mass. It was my first time hearing mass in Latin, though the sermon and readings were in Italian, and all the songs were chanted such that syllables were conveyed through the course of anywhere from three to ten notes. I was entranced by the conductor, whose swirling gestures made him look like a frustrated magician in the dark, incense-scented, ancient church. My seat was on top of the grave of some former ruler with one of the saddest tomb inscriptions I have ever read.
Here lies so and so, who finally finds the peace he never found in life. Born into a time of political turmoil, he was hated by nature, despised by fortune, and loved by no one, though he was a good man.Something like that. Mass concluded with the doors being opened to let in the streaming sunlight and let out the processing congregation, which then returned to place the Eucharist in the lower sanctuary. Sunset viewed from Piazza Michelangelo and home to our no longer secret shame: McDonalds dinner. It was bound to happen at some point. I will say I think it is better in the US, but there you can’t get a beer with your happy meal, so it’s a trade-off.
Day 3:
A day of reunions. First thing in the morning it was time for a second date. I met David in Florence seven years ago, and if there was one thing I was willing to repeat this time around, it was seeing him. He is still as perfect as ever. Just like last time, I spent almost the entire time sitting at his feet, marveling, and ignoring everything and everyone else there was to see. Maybe I will come back and see him every seven years, growing older while he remains on his pedestal, forever young. I got to draw him and eavesdrop, two things I love. Moreover, it was multilingual eavesdropping. It was funny to hear what people chose to discuss. Two American guys assessed the proportions of his endowment, while a family tried to guess David's age and Michelangelo's aesthetic reasoning. They posed some theories that I was tempted to correct, but I held my peace. I like playing the role of silent listener. I wonder whether people would say the things they say if they knew they were understood, or whether they even care. As I perused another room of sculptures, a pair of Spanish women vociferously admired the perfectly formed derriere of a female nude. Later, as I drew, people would come up behind me and discuss my drawing and skills amongst themselves, presumably assuming I stood there obliviously.
Next was the church of San Lorenzo. Let me tell you a secret about Italy. Every church you see is the most amazing church you’ve ever seen. It’s vast and ornate knaves lulled you into a sense of been there, done that, but then there was the Medici Chapel. Floor to ceiling porphyry, marble, lapis lazuli, and other semi-precious multicolored stones, polished to a high gloss, all the way up to a brilliantly frescoed dome. Azalea bushes (bushes!) lining the closed-off path to the altar. After seeing so many marble faux-finishes, the real thing, and at such a grand scale, was mesmerizing.
Lunchtime for me was a bruschetta and a pear, gorgonzola, walnut sandwich. We did some family bonding by downing a bottle of Chianti. While we sat outside eating and people watching, I spied a familiar face. Vicki! I knew she would be here, but talk about being at the right place at the right time! Total serendipity.
Next was time for the planned encounter. We headed over to the Palazzo Strozzi to meet Samara and see a surrealist art exhibit. Much to my not surprise, there were a couple pieces from the Menil Collection featured in the show. Overall it was very interesting, and in addition to showing the big-uns Magritte and Duchamp, there were several artists I had never heard of whose work I came to enjoy. There was also a lot of historical context (sound like a trend?) that referenced Freud and Jung and their dream interpretations. I had fun switching back and forth between the English and Italian descriptions of the works.
From here we went to the outdoor sculpture gallery outside of the Uffizi, featuring Neptune, aka the Blob; another copy of David, here in his original location; Perseus, and more. Then to the church of the Santo Spirito, aperitivo, and a foiled attempt at the botanic gardens, before sunset pictures across from the Ponte Vecchio and the quest for dinner. My meal tonight was pasta with cuttlefish in ink sauce. Yum. I was afraid to open my mouth afterwards, lest I be told that it had been dyed black.
Day 4:
Morning in the market looking for leather goods and such. I bought a leather journal and haggled successfully. I got asked what language and I didn’t know what to answer. Whatever you want, I replied. Through a slowly closing door I caught a glimpse of heaven and followed my eyes into a huge indoor market. Any and all cuts of meat ever before seen and unseen. Suckling pigs, racks of ribs, trachea, nerves, uterus, testicles, snout, pig tails, lungs, hearts, whole ducks, and on and on and on. We bought some fresh bread. One more church, a monastery, full of Fra Angelico frescoes, and then it was train time.
Onward to Pisa, and if I thought Florence was full of tourists and foreigners I had another think coming. In my humble opinion, Pisa really is one of those places that has absolutely nothing of interest except for that for which it is famous. Other than at its bustling Piazza dei Miracoli (home of the infamous tower), it seemed like a dreary, empty, rundown, saddish town. I took pictures of people taking perfectly positioned pictures and then had some pictures taken of me doing the same. I bought a sumptuous leather purse that I now love like the hide of my lost child. We spotted a Mexican restaurant.
So, I’ll admit it. I said I didn’t want to come to Florence because I had already been here, but I love that I came. I saw so many things I hadn’t before, and I think that if I had studied here I never would have made it around Italy; there is so much to do just within this city.
11 April 2010
Wish you were here
I'll be backtracking to fill you in on all things Spring Break, but here's a teaser from my day in Cinque Terre. 7.2km of a 10+km hike along the western coast of Italy, with swimming, sunshine, sweat, blood, and satisfaction.
Take a glimpse of my paradise, and taste the salt by the time you finish scrolling.
and the best surprise
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