Farewell, Finally

I guess it's about time to finish this once and for all. The start of a new semester is just a few weeks away, and I wonder whether I have been putting off this final entry because I don't want to admit that it is over or because it is so over I can't mentally take myself back. I knew this would happen, but I am still surprised by how much Parma and Europe have faded. It seems like a blip - a wonderful, amazing, life changing blip - in the EKG of my life. I still have dreams about being in Europe. Lost in Parma, trying to catch a train in Berlin. But, in my waking life, I am back, and life is back to normal.

To conclude my European loop I returned to Parma. British Airways strikers granted me the gift of a few additional days, and I made it a point to eat gelato at least once every single day. On my last day I couldn't resist and had a second right after my first, and discovered a new flavor I wished I had tried long before. I almost wanted to get a third to make up for it, but two would have to be enough. I went to Torino on my own, which was the last doable place on my to-visit list, and I simultaneously discovered the pleasures of traveling alone as well as a profound gratefulness for the company I had had during the preceding month. I spoke twice the entire day. I relished my final moments in Parma, retracing my steps and revisiting my favorite places, but also finally getting to all those places I had meant to see all along. Better late than not at all, right?

Now that I am home, my ears are thirsting for Italian, my mouth is salivating for its cuisine (one set of memories that refuse to fade), and my heart is pondering the next destination.

“The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.”
- St.  Augustine 

I think I can now say that I have turned enough pages to make several chapters, but much of this book remains to be read.

Just the bottoms

Amsterdam

Rotterdam

Paris

Nice

Torino

The first and last look

Train stations:
the land of hellogoodbye
the land of transit
the land of transitions

Prague

Plzeň

Berlin

Rotterdam

Paris

Nice

Milan

Milan really was the last last look.

In the land of grand

Late Tuesday night, on May 4th, we departed. Goodbye tears prickled threateningly on the car ride to the train station, but they were banished by linguistic hilarity as, even on my last day, I found myself saying words that didn’t exist. Not only that, for some reason I refused to concede the nonexistence of the word. Train #1: to Bologna. Train #2: overnight to Vienna, Wien in German. In regards to this journey, you have already read what I have to say. It was the beginning of something incredible, and in the midst of card games and iPod DJ-ing, it felt like it. Something big was coming.

Wien, to put it simply, was a constant wow. Every building was breathtaking, and seemed like it should have some remarkable purpose, though in all likelihood it was just as easily an apartment building as something of historical significance. Every block, every corner we turned, more and more ornate resplendence, gilt, statues, and curlicues. My photos attest to this, and it began to feel like I was just going to have an infinite array of nameless, grandiose buildings. My penchant for rust and crust had to be relegated to the back burner; those two words are not in the Wiener’s lexicon. There was also a bizarre propensity of statues depicting figures in the midst of acts of violence (clubbing, stabbing, strangling, …).

But, let me backtrack. The day we arrived in Wien, after dumping our bags at the hostel (Ellie’s and mine ostensibly larger than Matt’s impossibly small backpack), we decided to catch a train to Bratislava. When another country’s capital is an hour away, and you have unlimited train travel for the day, it is hard to resist. So we zoomed off to Slovakia, not really knowing what we would find. Bratislava was … off. We all felt that there was something about it, something not quite identifiable, that made its energy radically different than anything we had thus far encountered. There were touches of fancy, bright spots of color, and sweeps of gray. It was neither here nor there. In my journal I described it as having an ‘indiscernible twist.’ Perhaps the most interesting and memorable part of Bratislava was the food. Matt, who might as well have ‘guidebook’ appended to his name, lead us well and we feasted on traditional Slovak cuisine. We had a starter of bratwurst, more like summer sausage, hams, and butter, with rye bread. Next I had halu˘sky, the so-called ‘best in town,’ and I can’t argue with that. Potato dumplings, more like potato crumbles, with a sauce of sheep’s cheese and bacon and bacon grease, served with a mug of sour milk. It was totally foreign, totally delicious, totally affordable, and totally filling. Now we understood why the waitress had suggested the smaller portion, but we stubborn and hungry Americans had refused her sagacity. We didn’t see too much that dreary afternoon, but we saw some interesting street art, saw what we thought was the town square but later decided probably wasn’t, and left with rain-soaked shoes and a good taste in our mouths. Day one, success.

Now back to Vienna. Looking through my journal, there is so much to recount but perhaps little of interest to someone who didn’t live it. We sat in box seats at the Staatsopera (State Opera) House to watch The Barber of Seville; it would seem that Vienna’s affinity for the arts and culture extends to making it very affordable for the masses. We ate the one and only, original, Sacher Torte, as recommended. There was the so-called ‘bottle incident.’ I tried to dispose of an empty bottle and, much to my surprise, the bottom dropped out of the elevated trashcan, raining cigarette butts, juice boxes, napkins, and so on all over the plaza in front of (the, no surprise, mind-blowingly ornate, gothic) City Hall. The wind was nice enough to pick up and scatter it all even farther. Mortification. The jaw-dropping Stefansdom felt anything but reverential inside, full of squeaking shoes, flashing cameras, audio guides, and loud tourists, and the climb to the top of the North Tower yielded little redemption. It was a gift shop with narrow windows looking out onto each cardinal direction. The view was nice, but all in all it paled in comparison with every other church tower I visited.

Museums museums museums, some good, some perfunctory, some great. The Secession Museum, so named because it represented a split from the dominant art school of the time, impressed me with its adhesion to the founding principles. It exhibited challenging and forward-thinking contemporary art, rather than just showing art from the movement that founded it. My favorite museum, though, was the Belvedere. Located in a garden so vast that walking after walking for three forevers you are no closer to your destination, it was every bit as grand as what Vienna taught me to expect, but my expectations didn’t make it any less impressive. The last of the museums I saw, it felt the least like a checklist, and I really connected with the art exhibited. Furthermore, I finally saw a significant collection of Klimt pieces, though every museum we saw had at least a handful.

During these days we savored schnitzel, kebab, and one night when everything else was closed we ended up in an ambiguous Middle Eastern restaurant and ordered the first thing on the menu. It turned out to be some kind of wrap, and inquiry revealed that we had chosen a Persian establishment. I joined Guidebook Matt, who was determined to have a Viennese Café Experience, and the place we chose was perfectly chintzy and comfortable and delicious, despite not having either of the pastries we attempted to order. It was one of those places you could spend all day, and we certainly spent more time there than we intended, though part of that was due to our inability to ask for the bill and our unwillingness to resort to English.

A transition, courtesy of the travel journal:

We’re on our way to Prague today. It’s hard to believe we have already finished one leg of the trip. I still haven’t drawn a conclusion about Vienna. At first I felt like it was worth seeing, but not somewhere I’d like to stay. Then, by yesterday, my opinion had shifted. What can I say, I love me my art meccas. I can only imagine how much amazing art passes through here. Also, of course, for the most part the Vienna I saw was the tourist’s Vienna, not the Wiener’s Wien. There are a handful of things I wish I had had the time to see or do, but overall I am very content with our stay, and ready for this next step. It is hard for me to imagine one of those whirlwind tours of Europe. A day or two in a whole country just isn’t enough time to find something real.

Stories to tell

I am home. Over the next few weeks I will be filling in all the blanks, perhaps doing a bit of back and forth time travel, but getting to everything. For now, though, I will tell you about how I got home.

Ever since I booked my flights back in December, I was supposed to come back on May 31st. Leave in the morning, arrive in the afternoon, thanks to the seven hour time difference. Well, about a week ago I was tipped off and looked into my flight status. Lucky for me (and that is at once sarcastic and completely sincere), British Airways was having cabin strikes. My flight from London to Houston was canceled. I had to call and rebook, and the next available flight was on June 2nd. On the plus side, I would now be departing with Matt, but on the downside I would now be taking a total of three flights, and arriving around midnight. I had a sneaking suspicion about the outcome of these three flights, but I kept it to myself and took what I could get, which came with two extra days in Europe.

The story begins, kind of, on June 1st, though time gets tricky from here on out, because of time zone shifting. Anyway, the point is really that though I woke up around 11, I only got one hour of sleep before getting up at five the following morning to prepare for my departure. It was one of those trips where you take every mode of transportation (boat, bike, helicopter, and skateboard not included), meaning Cristina drove me to the train station at 530 so I could catch a 600am train to Milan. I arrived at the platform with my 22kg suitcase, a sight lighter than it was when I arrived (thanks, Brendan), and as I prepared to hoist it up onto the train, a man appeared and took it out of my hands. He said he had seen me arrive and seen the concern on my face about being able to lift my giant suitcase. My concerned face was actually because of Matt’s conspicuous absence, but I wasn’t about to complain. Matt did arrive, about two minutes before the train left, and from there we took a bus to the airport, where we unknowingly arrived altogether too early. We went to check our bags, only to find that the baggage counter wouldn't open until nine. We passed through security only to find that they wouldn't allow access to our gate area until an hour before our 1130 flight. Eventually, we got on, and I somehow managed to properly interrupt my dozing to see the Alps and the English Channel.

We had a layover in Heathrow, where they don't post or assign gates until an hour before your plane departs, so we sat, looked at pictures, and I admired the many beguiling pumps in one of the most epic shoe stores I have ever seen. Fortunately, our diverging flights left from nearby gates, so when the time came we were able to stay together. And then the time went. Our flights were delayed. But not by so much, and we said our farewells and see you soons and were on our way.

Now it was the long flight. Eight and a half hours later, which roughly translates into an interspersed 2.75 questionable movies later, I arrived in Chicago. It was around 6pm local time, aka 1am Parma time, meaning I was closing in on the 24-hours of transit mark. I passed through customs, and started working on processing the fact that English will henceforth be the predominant language. I noticed something funny. For better or for worse, I have always been an eavesdropper. While abroad, that meant that I always had to first identify the language being spoken, then listen. Now, here, I find myself doing the same thing, except that I try non-English first. That means that I try listening to English conversations with my Italian filter on. That means that I don't understand anything until after I switch to Spanish, maybe French, and finally get to English. That means I really don't understand much of anything. The man ahead of me in line only spoke Russian, and as the employees asked around about whether anyone spoke Russian and could translate, I thought to myself, 'next semester.' (I'm taking Russian next semester!)

I don't usually ask for help, and I rarely submit to asking directions, but that was the theme of this adventure. After re-checking my bag I was given directions to the terminal shuttle, which would take me from 5 to 3, except that the directions led me not towards the shuttle. I asked a security guard. Yeah, somehow going out the doors to the taxi pickup is not the same as taking the elevator up to the inter-terminal shuttle. But I made it. My flight to Houston was supposed to leave at 855, so I waited. And waited. 8pm = 22 hours and I was feeling it. I started nodding off. At 845 we hadn't started boarding yet, and no announcements had been made. The posted departure time had not been changed. Then it got pushed back fifteen minutes. Still no news. As the clock ticked down we were told that a plane was being sent from Indianapolis, and that it should arrive around 10. Why? Where was the plane we were supposed to have taken? What happened to it? No one knew. Then we were told it would arrive at 1030, meaning we would depart about a half-hour after that. Then it was pushed back another 20 minutes. This whole time, I had been debating asking someone for a cell phone so I could call home. Minor detail about being abroad for four and a half months: zero cell phone + zero cash for payphone = zero means of communication. I finally toughened up and asked the man next to me (who had been switching back and forth between a blackberry and a flip-phone all night) if I could borrow his phone. As I opened the flip-phone bestowed upon me, an announcement was made. 'Ladies and gentlemen, I regretfully inform you that the flight to Houston has been canceled. Please line up and we will rebook you.' Well, not much point in making that phone call now. At least not for a while.

I finally made it to the front of the line and I was tired and frustrated and not thinking straight. The woman told me my option, printed my ticket, and I hadn't agreed to anything yet. I asked if there was any way I could contact my family, and I received the supervisor's cell phone. What to do? I had been given an 1130am flight to Dallas, where I would have to take yet another flight to make it to Houston. At that point I couldn't even do the math for how high that would make my total hours of travel. I guess the supervisor was a multilingual eavesdropper as well, and after my phone call he spoke to me in Spanish, and offered me a 530am flight with a different airline. Ok. Better. Sucky, but better. But I had to wait until he finished helping someone else. Ok. Meanwhile, the person next to me was having some language troubles. It was that Russian man, and again, no one spoke Russian. But he spoke French. I told the woman I spoke some French; she gave me a cursory glance, and asked whether any of her coworkers spoke French. No one responded. She tried speaking loud English to the man. 'I don't understand,' he replied. Strangely assertive, I asked what the snafoo was, to see whether it was within the scope of my French. He wanted to call his son, and had given her a phone number, but with no area code. In what I admit was a terrible pidgin of French and Italian, I tried to explain to him that three numbers were missing, but while he understood what I was saying, didn't know what those numbers might be. Hmm. I suggested to the woman that they work their way through the three area codes. I wrote them down for her, and suddenly the man decisively proclaimed that it was 281. So, it turns out, it was not so much French that was necessary as a knowledge of Houston area codes, but I had enough of both and the man was grateful and he reached his son. Then it was my turn. I got the 530 flight. Now, I could pay to stay in a hotel and have to come back at three in the morning and go through security yet again, or I could sleep in the airport. Hmm. My decision-making skills had long since left me, but I opted to avoid more airport nonsense by spending more time in the airport. Time to find tomorrow morning’s gate.

Terminal 2, they said. I set out, and found myself behind a young airport employee pushing an elderly woman in her wheelchair, accompanied by her husband. I assumed that, given the emptiness of the airport, they were probably going the same place as me, and I followed. That could have been a bad idea, but thankfully it wasn’t – mostly. We got to Terminal 2 and realized that Continental was probably not there, despite our instructions. The boy pushing the wheelchair turned to ask me and I said yes, that was what I was looking for but no, I didn’t really know where it was. He asked around and we were redirected to Terminal 1. On our way there, we saw a sign that seemed to indicate that Continental was back the way we came, so we turned back. But it wasn’t. We turned back back to Terminal 1. There it was, at last. Having now seen all of O'Hare's terminals (it goes 1, 2, 3, 5), I hunkered down and tried to get some sleep amidst the sounds of the night crew’s vacuums and construction. Luckily, I was now well-past 24 hours and only supplied with about four hours of sleep, so neither noise nor discomfort could keep me from the shores of slumber. I woke every now and then, once to find the elderly man covering me up with one of his wife’s shawls. I tried to be appreciative, but in my semi-slumber I think at best I managed a sleepy smile. At 330 he woke me up, and then I was able to express my gratitude.

This third and final plane ride went off without a hitch, other than a 20-minute in-flight delay due to having to circumvent a nasty weather pattern. But, this story is not over yet. My suitcase stayed with American Airlines, my original intended carrier, and was supposed to come to Houston on their first available flight. So, once at the airport, I had to go to their office to make sure it would be mailed to me. After taking the unidirectional airport shuttle all the way around the airport just to get to the adjacent terminal, I found out that American Airlines would give my suitcase to Continental, who would then send it to me. So back to where I started. Continental and I worked it out, and the suitcase would be on its way.

So now, 36 hours after leaving Parma home, I am home home. I am getting used to the taste of real milk, which is at once familiar and yet strange. I am having to remember that toilets don’t flush via button on the top, anymore. I am readjusting to the idea of having a functional cell phone, with all the pros and cons that that entails. I am getting back into the nitty-gritty of Texas, with cheesy grits, local beer, Blue Bell ice cream, and Guatemalan home cooking. Houston gave me its humid hug the second I got off the airplane, and I smiled because there is nothing like it. Adelina is home, with pictures to share and stories to tell.

For you, Dad

Ever since I arrived in a certain foreign land a Texas-width away from my Texas home, a certain someone has been egging me on towards adventure. I took a train to Los Angeles, and dutifully reported back, thinking I had accomplished my mission. Instead I received a new assignment: take a train east; go farther. Well, I didn't take a train to get here, but I'm pretty far east. Too far? And since arriving, it is well known, I have been taking trains up, right, down, left, left, and everywhere in between. Today, I think, I have completed another, perhaps unspoken, mission. A mission I had for myself, too. I traveled alone.

Now, during the course of this last month, I have had my moments alone. But somehow, I don't think sitting in front of the Viennese opera house for two hours, drawing, and impatiently taking a meandering walk to the Niçoise beaches count as independent travel. Torino had been on my Italian to-do list for quite a while. It was one of those places everyone says you have to see, even if I never figured out why, exactly. Originally, it was an intended stopping point on the way back into Italy from France but, as you will read about on some future post, that plan changed. But I still wanted to see Torino. So today, I went. Despite the fact that I would be spending twice as much time in transit as in Torino, I went. Classic U2 (Yes, it is that old now. Egad, how old are we?) kept me company on the road.

In Torino the sun decided to perplex me, and I didn't want to march around map in hand, so I picked a direction and I went. All the sights should have been a straight shot from the station, but that would have required being on the correct street. Call me Miss Stubborn or call me Miss Independent, but I would not ask for directions all day, no matter how much easier it would have made things. Torino seemed like a ghost town, but that's what Sunday does to Italian cities. Everything was closed. I walked, with no real comprehension of where I was going, except that it was hopefully 'towards things.' I let my eyes lead my curiosity lead my feet, and wandered into statue-centered piazzas. The map I had gotten at the tourist info at the train station continued to prove its uselessness, not featuring any of the seeming landmarks I traversed.

Today became a day of churches: Annunziata, La Gran Madre, San Lorenzo (with a fantastic cieling), La Capella Verde (all green inside), and San Domenico. I was looking for the Duomo, and I marched myself every which way trying to find it. It turns out I did find it, several times, but never quite realized it, and never found the entrance, either. (I only know this now, thanks to Google.) Somebody needs some better signage, methinks. As is often the case, the main square was featuring some kind of special event, and today's seemed to be recognizing elementary school students. I guess there was a talent show or something, because all of a sudden a girl was presented on stage, and she started dancing to Low, by T-Pain and Flo Rida. Let me tell you, there is something odd about sitting in a luminescent yet somber church, staring up at its architectural masterpiece of a ceiling, and hearing about shawties with Apple Bottom jeans and boots with the fur. At least, from what I saw before I entered the church, it was fairly apparent that she had no understanding of the lyrics.

So, I spent three-plus-ish hours wandering Torino, pulling out my map as infrequently as possible, half trying to find certain things and half willing to go wherever the day took me. And it took me all over. Despite feeling lost for most of the day, I think I managed to see most of what I was 'supposed to,' and more that lay in wait. I admit that, at first, the thought of being alone in an unfamiliar city was daunting, and I started out with headphones securely in place. I was acutely aware of the total lack of women walking alone. But, as things progressed, I found my stride.

Lastly, this might be one for the record books. When the time came to take the train home, I arrived at the train station either 30 minutes early for a train I knew would take me home eventually or seconds before the departure of five trains leaving at the same time, one of which would probably take me home if I remembered correctly. I played Russian roulette with slightly better odds, less dire consequences, and logic on my side, and leaped onto the train to Bologna. At the very least, I knew I could catch a train to Parma from there. This girl made the right choice, and thanks to not waiting for the sure train to Milan and then having to transfer to one for Parma, got a direct ride home and made it early enough to catch the last bus.

When my host dad found out I had traveled alone he quipped, 'just like a grown up.' Just like a grown up, indeed. 

Coming home

Don't get too excited; I'm not back in the US of A just yet. I'm back in Parma. Six hours on four trains from Nice and I was wondering what home means. I have met people who say they are from nowhere, or everywhere, and not understood what that meant. In recent years, life has given me a lot of homes, each one farther from the one I first considered to be such, and I am starting to understand.

I was coming back to Parma, furrowed fields zipping past my window, and I was bouncing in my seat. But I was also worried. Worried that I might have forgotten Italian in this month of not speaking it. Worried that I might open my mouth and have French come out, instead. When you've been in so many countries you never know what language might escape your mouth when you bump yet another person because you forget to compensate for the backpack that makes you double-wide. But back to the issue: what is home?

Coming home is hearing a language you thought you'd forgotten flowing forth from you, as though you'd never left. Because home never left you. Coming home is being embraced like someone who is not a guest and, after being warmly welcomed and even more warmly fed, people going about their evening's activities, because life is just back to normal. Nothing special; you're home now. Coming home is knowing the streets under your feet and the language in your ears and saying my how things have changed but knowing it is still the same. It is still home. And it always will be.



Homecoming number two in T-4 days.

Put a ring on it

There was a time in my life when I wore at least three rings at all times. Maybe around the time when I started started painting and sculpting regularly and my rings started spending more time in my pockets than on my fingers, that time drew to a close. When I went to Parma, I took one ring with me: one from Guatemala. Again, I got used to wearing it everyday, to absentmindedly turning it when I wiated, be it for buses or in line for gelato. Then I began my travels, and I left almost all of my jewelry behind, including my ring. Suddenly my distracted fingers had nothing to twirl. Suddenly I was missing a little part of me, because even if no one else noticed my ring or knew that it and I are Guatemalan, I knew. People used to tie strings around their fingers to help them remember something, and this little band of silver reminded me that even if I was busy pretending to be Italian, or at least not American, I still had and always will have other roots. It was my reminder of all things and all people home.

When I went to Cinque Terre a while back, I bought myself another ring. It makes quite the statement, and it made somewhat of a statement in my accounting, but as Ellie pointed out, every time I wear it I will remember my incredible experience on Italy's famously beautiful rocky coast. I might not wear it every day, but I hope to wear it for the rest of my life. Yesterday, walking through the market in Old Town Nice, another ring caught my eye. It could be the opposite of the one I bought in Cinque Terre; it is small and understated,  but no less beautiful. It is an every day ring, but not an everyday ring. It is a ring that will remind me of European simplicity, and the simple but perfect time I have spent in Nice.

Is it a coincidence that I have bought rings at each of the coastal cities I have visited? Yes and no, I think. I just so happened to be in 'ring-buying situations' in both of these places. Still, while there is nothing from these past four months that I want to forget, if there is one thing I will yearn to recall it will be the complete and utter peace I have felt in these two places. When life pares down to an insignificant you somewhere between the join of two blues, the distant and sometimes indistinct horizon where sky and ocean meet, you see that less really is more.

Odds and ends

The last word of this title kills me. But, to quote the overquoted, 'every new beginning is some other beginning's end.'


The odds: Things I've had on lists here and there but haven't managed to work into the blog. There are probably more, but by now they have slipped through the cracks of my memory.

• For some reason, the Olay brand is called Olaz here.
• This is not original to Italy, or at least not exclusive to it, but I find it... indescribable. Perhaps entrancing. I'd embed the video but the sizing makes it all wonky.
  Miel Pops commercial    ...there's also a House remix under the related links.
• When something is driving you crazy, you say 'fa venire latte ai capelli.' It makes your hair milk. That's a really unappealing visual, but I guess so is the experience that makes you say such a thing.

The ends:
Last. Day. In. Parma. (But I'll be back.)

So, here I am, preparing to embark on an adventure if there ever was one. I'll be in Vienna from the 5th to the 9th of May, then I'll get to Prague, where I'll stay until the 14th, whereupon I'll arrive in Berlin. After that, who knows? There are notions of Amsterdam and Brussels and the south of France floating in the air. I'll try to keep you posted.

As the moment draws closer, when I'm not busy pretending it's not approaching, I consider things to look forward to. I might manage to go an entire day without hearing the strains of Bad Romance. It would be the first in over three months. I look forward (kind of) to finding Jody fur in new and unexpected places. I found some in my jean pocket last night. I just wish her fur were like all the seeds flying around outside looking like some freak fluffy spring snow, so I could grow little Jodys when I get to the US. I'm sure at least one or two strands will find their way there with me.

I love the insights of guidebooks but I hate spoilers, so I only half-read them. I haven't opened mine yet, but I'll have several hours on trains during which to do that. As it is, right now, I have no idea what is in store for me. Just that I have wanted to go to Berlin for a long long time, and that now I will. Here are my goals: admire some amazing art, gaze upon spectacular architecture, savor some excellent beers, and learn some new words.

I found this quote today, and it seems an appropriate outlook before my departure:

We are perishing for want of wonder, not for want of wonders.
G.K. Chesterton

I am ready to marvel. I know you know I will find wonder in everything from cracked sidewalks to gilded arches. I wish I could take you along for the ride. Instead, I promise, to myself as much as to you, that when I make it back to the solid ground called reality I will catch you up on as much as my fingers have the energy to type and as much as your eyes have the energy to read. Thanks for the readership, the company, and the support.


P. S. I'm excited.

On the other side

For those of you who have seen my pictures, you have seen the side of Parma, and Italy as a whole, that calls to me. And, of course, it is dependent on whether my camera heavies my purse when a marvel greets my eyes.  But, like I have mentioned before, there is another side. I have somewhat of an aversion to taking pictures inside churches, but I have no aversion to sharing someone else's. To be honest, they probably wouldn't turn out on my camera anyway.

These are some pictures Alina took during her visit to Parma. Welcome to the grandeur, say goodbye to the crumbly.
The Duomo:

The dome of nearby church San Giovanni Evangelista, painted by local artist, Correggio:

Anywhere you live, after a while, you get used to it. You start breathing like a normal person, forgetting that with every step you take your breath should get taken away. And that, truly, is one of the joys of visitors; they make you see your world with fresh eyes, and remind you how so so fortunate you are to be where you are. Getting ready to leave has the same effect. So I am particularly appreciative of Parma right now.

Have I mentioned that Parma has over 50 churches? Have I mentioned that almost all of them are like these, if smaller? I've only seen a small fraction, but expect me to be spending my last day -- forecast: rainy -- making a farewell pilgrimage.

How to learn a language

It is amazing how much information is conveyed metalinguistically, that is to say, aside from the words. You could have next to no idea what someone is saying to you, but know exactly how to react. Be shocked, surprised, impressed, concerned, or congratulatory. For the most part, you'll know. The one thing I had trouble with was questions. 'Are you asking me or telling me' was an unexpectedly common refrain of mine. My host mom also got really good at identifying my 'I have no idea what you are saying but I don't want to let on that I don't understand' face, and finding a way to re-explain.

Sometime between some time and another, I became almost fluent in Italian. I remember watching Italian films in Claremont and relying heavily on the subtitles, but days after I got here I was watching movies with no problem. How?

A friend of mine told me that one of the more frustrating things about using a language that is not your own is the fact that it hinders wordplay. It is a lot harder to be witty when you don't fully know how words interact, or when you don't have the quickness necessary for proper comedic timing.

I learn new words Every Day. Every Day. Sometimes I forget those words when I want to say them, but the next time I hear them, I can slowly sift through my mental files and remember what they mean. Yesterday I learned that a 'sunny side up' egg is called 'occhio di bue,' or 'ox's' eye.' I hear new expressions every day, and that's the beauty of immersion. I could study Italian all my life, but never learn how to speak it like An Italian. Here, I hear how it's really done; we all know that we start to talk like the people around us, and this is no exception.

I have adamantly resisted dictionaries for my entire stay. I still don't have an Italian/English dictionary, and I'd like to keep it that way (besides, there's always the internet). I look up words when I am writing papers, and that's about it. It doesn't matter how many times I look up the Italian equivalent of some word I want, I won't remember it until I figure it out for myself. When I do acquire a new word, it's like suddenly everyone is saying it. I always wonder whether people had been saying it all along and my incomprehension would gloss over it, or whether the stars align to help me cement it in my head.  So, instead of using a dictionary, I use my family. Remember when I tried to explain the word 'wiggly' and ended up with 'drunk walking'? Sometimes it doesn't quite work. But most of the time, I find the process fascinating. Last night there was an unfamiliar word to me that I found out meant 'crack' (the verb) (incrinare). My host mom started with 'something that is broken but isn't.' Hmm. I got it with 'when you drop a glass.' Another one that didn't work was when I was trying to understand 'lucertola.' 'Those little animals with four legs that like the sunshine.' Had to turn to the dictionary to find out it was a lizard. So yes, I did sometimes use the dictionary.

It is as though the Italian language were one big pixelated image, and every day the resolution on some part of it increased. Gradually, more and more of the image was becoming clear, and so were more and more conversations. I still find myself talking my way into a dead end, be it grammatical or 'vocabularical,' but like I've always said, a dead end is just a place to turn around and try again. Rebuild that sentence in a way you can finish it. Channel your inner poet and figure out how to describe the essence of the word you don't know. Get your certification as a mime and combine the powers of gesture and facial expression. Eventually, people will get it. And you'll get some laughs along the way, too.

Onion fingers, continued: Guatemalan food, Italian style

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.

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.

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.

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.

"...And you see a girl's brown body dancing through the turquoise,
And her footprints make you follow where the sky loves the sea..."

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.