A little back-note about Rotterdam. In our hostel, everything from bathroom lights to hallway lights were motion-activated. As I walked through raised walkways that connected the upper levels, lights turning on with my every step, I felt like a purposeful member of some starship crew.
And so the epic journey to Nice. We did so much train-hopping it was more like permanent floating. When I ordered some food during a change in Lille, for the first time in weeks I was able to do it in a different language, using more than nouns and numbers and pointing. I could conjugate verbs again!
When we finally made it to Paris we had no problem acquiring the tickets to Nice that had been so elusive in the Netherlands, and we found ourselves with eight hours to adventure. We dropped off our bags in storage; I changed to ‘look more French,’ and we set out to hit as many major sights as possible. Since the city was so overrun with people we opted for the ‘look, there’s that, take a picture’ approach, rather than spending hours in line to go inside one or two sights. Our first pause was Notre-Dame, and Brendan began to understand the scale of things in store. We walked along the interminable exterior of the Louvre and continued through the Tuilleries gardens. It was a hot and dusty day, and soon my black shoes were the color of the sandy paths. We stopped for some overpriced but quenching soft-serve near the obelisk, and again I missed gelato (how much more do I miss it now!). We could see the Arc de Triomf in the distance, but it is so huge that it would be our donkey’s taunting carrot for quite a while. I stopped for a ham and cheese crepe from a street vendor. When in France… . Eons later, after stopping in a store or two on the Champs-Elysees and watching an impressive street performer, we made it to the Arc. There I saw ‘Miranda,’ the last name of a distant relative, engraved on one of its faces. There seemed to be some kind of military remembrance or celebration underway, and as old men marched towards us, we marched on toward the rest of Paris. Our next intended destination was the Eiffel Tower, but we inadvertently spent the next hour making a large circle around the Arc, before we looked at a map and figured it out. You’d think a landmark that huge shouldn’t be hard to find. Eventually we made it, and took pictures and composed postcards. We saw the dome of Invalides in the distance, and it came time to start heading back. We stopped into a mini-mart to get some snacks for the ride, and I got to use my French to ask where the nearest Metro entrance was. Success! We took the eight to République, to take the five to our station, Gare Austerlitz. Easy. Too easy. We hopped on the five and started moving just as I realized we were going the wrong way. Oops. The rest was uneventful, and we joined our unexpected Texan companions in our sleep cabin on the train.
I woke up around 730 and was itching to see the famous South of France countryside, but with the shade down and everyone fast asleep, I would have to look elsewhere. I went outside to the corridor and marveled. It felt like the first time the train window showed me something truly unique and unfamiliar. The brush was different, and at times I felt like I was in a painting. The light was soft and diffused, and in the distance there were rolling green mountains. Once our companions woke up I raised the blind in our cabin, and light flooded in. Picturesque red-tile roofed buildings zipped by, and palm trees waved a frondy hello. Suddenly the ocean appeared. It was almost like being back in Cinque Terre. Already I knew that Nice would be the place for me. Already I wished I had more time to spend exploring this region.
Showing posts with label Texas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Texas. Show all posts
17 July 2010
08 July 2010
Nether say Nether
This morning Matt and Brendan and I woke early. Ellie is going to Hungary, Matt to Nirenberg and then Munich, and Brendan and I to Amsterdam. We barely made our train, but we did it. As usual, the morning was gray, and the blades of windmills spun in and out of oblivion. Much later the sun came out, and I found myself in the Texasiest landscape yet. Fields upon fields, no mountains, and lots of phone wires. A strange propensity of reclining cows, a flock of sheep, horses, ponies, and baby ponies. I spot storks flying over the fields, a bird feeding its young'n, a gas station named 'Brand Oil,' and house roofs dressed in shiny blue solar panels. It's been five hours and we're still in Germany.The thing that struck me upon arriving in Amsterdam was how un-foreign it all seemed. Signage was in English; people spoke English, and Dutch looks like English. I felt more like I was in New England than in Europe. The day we arrived was uneventful, and consisted of finding food, doing some wandering on foot, and making plans for the rest of our journeys. The following day we went to the Van Gogh Museum, where I discovered just how prolific Van Gogh had been. I enjoyed being able to see the progression of his style and several notable (aka textbook famous) pieces. Afterward we caught a walking tour and tried to do some more wandering. The following morning we intended to go to the Anne Frank House, but due to train complications we ended up leaving early and going to Rotterdam.
Though we arrived in Rotterdam at noon and had to leave early the next morning, with the help of a 10pm sunset we were able to see enough of the city to fall in love. First of all, our hostel was inside the famous Cube Houses, which were literally across the street from the train station. Convenient much? Thanks to Brendan's sleuthing, instead of just walking past a landmark, we got to reside in it for a night. We dropped off our bags and picked up a map and embarked on adventure. From the very beginning I was overwhelmed by the awesome architecture. The city was so damaged in WWII that it had to be almost entirely rebuilt, so it is very modern; very different from most of the Europe we had seen so far. In addition to the buildings, the city just had a great artistic vibe. Every corner had sculptures or street art. It felt like a living museum.
Unfortunately, the Netherlands Architecture Institute was closed for renovations (inescapable, I told you), but we got to see the Museumhouse Sonneveld, a completely restored mansion that was built in the Nieuwe Bowen style in 1933. It was funny how something that was once so obviously progressive and ahead of its time could now be considered almost Ikea-style. Still, it was a beautiful and innovative house with a particularly breathtaking stairwell. We meandered Rotterdam, approximating the path of the self-guided walking tour on our map, and found a steel skatepark, a sculpture garden, the 'ethnic neighborhood,' a shopping district, and downtown. Dinner just added to the brightness of my memories of Rotterdam. Given vague restaurant recommendations by the glittery concierge at the hostel, we chose to heed his sagest but vaguest words: go where the locals go. We ended up at a Surinamese/Javanese/Indian restaurant, where even the 'English' menu couldn't quite help us, but where it was almost standing room only and trafficked by even more people getting food to-go. This tiny room overflowed into the street with hungry patrons, and those of us waiting circled like vultures looking for enough open seats for our respective parties. I still don't know exactly what I ate, but it was delicious and made me wish I could find food like this in the States. Chicken soup laced with white rice, soy sprouts, and other delicious things, which mingled around a hard-boiled egg. The bowl was not much bigger than my two cupped hands, but suddenly my having ordered an additional entree seemed overzealous. I was full. To-go, please.
It was still broad daylight at 8pm, and we dropped off our food and did even more wandering, this time towards a red bridge that had caught my fancy. To be honest, everything caught my fancy. Berlin might have been the most anticipated destination, but Rotterdam, which I did not even intend to visit, was high up there on the favorites list.
The next morning began our famous trans-France trek, as described in the earlier post, Disney Ride.
04 June 2010
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.
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.
31 May 2010
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.
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.
24 May 2010
Disney ride
First of all, let me tell you that I am typing this on a French keyboard, and apparently they are crazy, so while my reduced typing speed might not affect you, this may have more typos than usual. For example, if I wanted to type Parma without paying attention, as I did when I tried to access my blog, I would get Pqr,q. Not quite the same. Also, for some strange reason, there is a µ key.
On to business.
I am now in Nice, France. We went to the beach yesterday, just a ten minute's walk from the hostel. The water is blue blue blue, the rocks are white white white, and they are covered covered covered in people. Not quite the idyllic abandoned paradise, but once you pop in your headphones and close your eyes, or just look up at the sky, it is all yours. Except maybe when you hear the wandering shouted refrain of 'beer, cold beer, orangina.' But this is not the part of the story I am here to tell you; I let myself get momentarily distracted by the splendor of the landscape.What I really want to tell you, if I don't run out of patience with this keyboard first, is the story of how I got here.
You already knew my intended itinerary, but that is not exactly how it all went down.
Friday we were supposed to have one more half day in Amsterdam, but thankfully we decided to go make our train reservations that morning, albeit days later than I had intended. After taking a number and a seat, we got called to the counter. Bad news. Nice via Saturday's overnight train? Impossible. Just getting to Paris? Practically impossible. Apparently it was a big holiday weekend and everyone would be traveling. Furthermore, the French train system is practically inaccessible from outside the country. The man behind the counter tried everything for forever, but ultimately our best hope was to start catching regional trains Saturday morning and spending the day slowly moving down the face of France, just to get to Paris and see what we could accomplish from there. Hmm. Time for some quick edits. We hopped onto the first train to Rotterdam, because this new plan would all but excise it from our travels, otherwise, and we wanted to do more than just sleep there. We were both more than ready to leave Amsterdam, anyway, though there were a few more things we could have seen.
We spent the day in Rotterdam -- fantastic -- aided by the fact that the sun began its slow descent at ten, and woke up at a fuzzy 545 the next morning. Now here was the issue. The train departure times we had were for the Centraal station, not Blaak, which was nearest to us. We assumed we could easily catch a train between the two and make it to Centraal. Wrong. Being Saturday, trains between the two only left every half hour, and the next one left one minute after we were supposed to be departing from the other station. I resigned myself to wait, but Brendan was not willing to take it sitting down. If we were going to wake up this early, we were going to catch that darn train. We were going to walk across town to Centraal. So began the epic journey. I hitched up my pack and set a blistering pace over the city's sidewalks. If I was going to be my own pack mule, I was not going to miss this darn train. Twenty minutes later, we made it with minutes to spare. Onward to Antwerp. Leg one, check.
An hour and ten minutes later we had six minutes to make a connection that 'no one ever makes.' Luckily, I'm not just anyone, and while my tales may be riddled with transportation misadventures, I have learned how to read train schedules and station signage without breaking my stride. Up the escalator, down the escalator, and onto the train to Lille, France. Our next connection, by now, seemed eternal at 15 minutes. We even had time to get our first meal of the day, at a sunshiny 10am. Onward to Amiens, France. 90 minutes later we had a whole half hour during which to twiddle our thumbs before boarding our final train to the good old city of light. 120pm and we made it. The long but easy part was over. Now to see whether we would be stuck in Paris without a place to sleep or hope of getting to Nice.
At the Paris Nord train station, we approached the ticket line with trepidation. Next thing we knew, Cindy had booked us on the train, sleeper cars, nooo problem. This feat, which had proven impossible for two separate agents at two separate train stations in two separate cities in the Netherlands, took her less than five minutes. Brendan wanted to propose to her. Now we just had to wait eight hours for our night train to leave. What to do, what to do? Spend those eight hours wandering Paris, of course. So Brendan got his wish to see Paris, I got to play tour guide, and we had our druthers and made it to Nice as planned. Or when planned, anyway.
One more thing. We got into our train car at 1030 that night, and met our companions, Claudia and Darrell, celebrating their ten year anniversary. Traveling from Corpus Christi, Texas. It really is a small world after all.
On to business.
I am now in Nice, France. We went to the beach yesterday, just a ten minute's walk from the hostel. The water is blue blue blue, the rocks are white white white, and they are covered covered covered in people. Not quite the idyllic abandoned paradise, but once you pop in your headphones and close your eyes, or just look up at the sky, it is all yours. Except maybe when you hear the wandering shouted refrain of 'beer, cold beer, orangina.' But this is not the part of the story I am here to tell you; I let myself get momentarily distracted by the splendor of the landscape.What I really want to tell you, if I don't run out of patience with this keyboard first, is the story of how I got here.
You already knew my intended itinerary, but that is not exactly how it all went down.
Friday we were supposed to have one more half day in Amsterdam, but thankfully we decided to go make our train reservations that morning, albeit days later than I had intended. After taking a number and a seat, we got called to the counter. Bad news. Nice via Saturday's overnight train? Impossible. Just getting to Paris? Practically impossible. Apparently it was a big holiday weekend and everyone would be traveling. Furthermore, the French train system is practically inaccessible from outside the country. The man behind the counter tried everything for forever, but ultimately our best hope was to start catching regional trains Saturday morning and spending the day slowly moving down the face of France, just to get to Paris and see what we could accomplish from there. Hmm. Time for some quick edits. We hopped onto the first train to Rotterdam, because this new plan would all but excise it from our travels, otherwise, and we wanted to do more than just sleep there. We were both more than ready to leave Amsterdam, anyway, though there were a few more things we could have seen.
We spent the day in Rotterdam -- fantastic -- aided by the fact that the sun began its slow descent at ten, and woke up at a fuzzy 545 the next morning. Now here was the issue. The train departure times we had were for the Centraal station, not Blaak, which was nearest to us. We assumed we could easily catch a train between the two and make it to Centraal. Wrong. Being Saturday, trains between the two only left every half hour, and the next one left one minute after we were supposed to be departing from the other station. I resigned myself to wait, but Brendan was not willing to take it sitting down. If we were going to wake up this early, we were going to catch that darn train. We were going to walk across town to Centraal. So began the epic journey. I hitched up my pack and set a blistering pace over the city's sidewalks. If I was going to be my own pack mule, I was not going to miss this darn train. Twenty minutes later, we made it with minutes to spare. Onward to Antwerp. Leg one, check.
An hour and ten minutes later we had six minutes to make a connection that 'no one ever makes.' Luckily, I'm not just anyone, and while my tales may be riddled with transportation misadventures, I have learned how to read train schedules and station signage without breaking my stride. Up the escalator, down the escalator, and onto the train to Lille, France. Our next connection, by now, seemed eternal at 15 minutes. We even had time to get our first meal of the day, at a sunshiny 10am. Onward to Amiens, France. 90 minutes later we had a whole half hour during which to twiddle our thumbs before boarding our final train to the good old city of light. 120pm and we made it. The long but easy part was over. Now to see whether we would be stuck in Paris without a place to sleep or hope of getting to Nice.
At the Paris Nord train station, we approached the ticket line with trepidation. Next thing we knew, Cindy had booked us on the train, sleeper cars, nooo problem. This feat, which had proven impossible for two separate agents at two separate train stations in two separate cities in the Netherlands, took her less than five minutes. Brendan wanted to propose to her. Now we just had to wait eight hours for our night train to leave. What to do, what to do? Spend those eight hours wandering Paris, of course. So Brendan got his wish to see Paris, I got to play tour guide, and we had our druthers and made it to Nice as planned. Or when planned, anyway.
One more thing. We got into our train car at 1030 that night, and met our companions, Claudia and Darrell, celebrating their ten year anniversary. Traveling from Corpus Christi, Texas. It really is a small world after all.
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.
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
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
12 March 2010
Stories of snow and students
3. 08. 10
Just a couple of weeks and I’m out of practice with getting up bright and early. To be fair, bright and early was never as early as seven thirty. Time to discover what the Toschi fates had in store for me. Apparently, good things. Despite my least favorite introduction as The American (or in fact, probably because of it), all the kids seemed delighted to have me in their class. I made a friend in Chiara, who proceeded to offer to show me the ropes of the class and gave me a list of places to go and things to do in Parma. She told me she was going to New York and I recommended some museums and stores to her. My previous apprehensive predictions of moody, ‘too cool for school’ teens was unfounded. After two hours of sitting around in the graphic design class, I finally discovered the true nature of my term at Toschi. Other than those two hours, all of my other shifts will be spent helping to teach English. Today, to a bunch of first years. I was kind of shocked by how the class was allowed to behave. Students made no efforts to be dissembling in their disrespectfulness, and were constantly chattering amongst themselves. The teacher suggested that they would all probably have questions for me, and encouraged them to each ask me a question. She also asked me to draw a map of the US on the board, demarcating Texas and Houston, so that everyone would know where it was. After a while, it became apparent which students bore the winning combination of good English skills and outgoingness, one girl in particular. From there, the class quickly became an exchange between her, me, and the teacher. The rest of the students did their own thing.
We started watching Stagecoach in my cinema history class, and the dubbed Italian tried to emulate the hokeyness of the original English, much to my amusement and slight confusion.
Today is the International Women’s Day which, even though it started because of events in the US, is celebrated much more in other countries. Here, it is traditional for men to give women a certain yellow flower and then for the women to go out for a girl’s night. This might just be dinner with your mom or your friends, or going to a male strip show, which happens at pretty much every bar/club in town.
3. 09. 10
Take two at Toschi. This time it was an older group of kids. I redrew my map and answered more of the same sort of questions. This time, though, the kids were way more uninterested. When the teacher asked one student if there was anything he was interested in asking, he looked at her point blank and said, ‘honestly, I have no interest whatsoever.’ Ouch. Ok.
We finished Stagecoach today, watching the rest in English, and it turns out the characters spoke so funnily that for a while I had to use the Italian subtitles as a crutch to understand the English before I got used to it.
Tonight we saw that Hurt Locker was on, and since it was so awarded we decided to watch it. I realized that the only best picture nominated films I saw for this Oscar season I have seen in Italian (this and Avatar).
I am constantly amazed by Italian language and regional identity. Please allow me a (hopefully brief) linguistic foray. Despite Italy’s really long history, a unified Italy and the Italian language have not even existed for two hundred years. Every region has its own dialect, which is still spoken, and southern dialects are completely incomprehensible to northerners. (A great example of how the distinction between dialect and language is more often politically based rather than linguistically based.) Anyway, in addition to this, there are also, naturally, various accents detectable in spoken ‘standard’ Italian. Here, it amazes me that my host parents can identify the exact region or even city of origin of a speaker within a minute after they start speaking. We have accents too in the US too, though our speech is much more homogenized thanks to the prevalence of TV and ‘neutral’ pronunciation, but while I may be able to tell that someone speaks differently, it is rare that I can so confidently ascertain someone’s origins so precisely. While part of this is that there is a more definite distinction, it also requires being familiar with which differences correlate to which region.
3. 10. 10
Yesterday, I thought I might have earned my snow legs, since as I saw that snow was starting to fall, I had no reaction whatsoever (other than reiterating to myself that it was probably a bad idea have wet hair while standing outside for 15 minutes waiting for the bus). I figured that once you lose a sense of excitement about snow, you’ve been around it long enough. Having seen this light swirling sprinkle that didn’t even stick, it was hard for me to believe the woman who later told me that there was an expected snowfall of 40cm. Snow is sneaky like that. As we watched Hurt Locker last night, we could see the snow starting pile up on the leaves outside. So far, with the light ‘rain’ we had been having, invisible until you’re in it, my window was only useful for determining whether it is sunny. Now, I have discovered that it is also useful for determining whether it is snowing and/or whether it has snowed.
Today, I can no longer say that I felt no excitement in regards to the snow. I wondered whether I might have my first real snow day. I kind of hoped that class wouldn’t be secretly cancelled, since I was already on my way. Parma was like a white ghost town, and I was the only passenger on my bus. Things were so backed up it took almost twice as long to make it to class and we actually caught up with the bus that left before ours, ten minutes prior. There were fewer than 25 of us in a class that easily tops a hundred, but the professor lauded us for being here today and for showing up in general, since attendance is not in the least bit mandatory, though surely advantageous.
This morning I had the presence of mind to bring my camera with me, for once, and I took several pictures. (Link under the photo album listing on the right, also pictures of my citrus fruit.) I wandered through the park taking pictures on the way back to my stop, and I was lucky enough to make it there just as the bus was pulling up, so I didn’t even have to wait.
When it is snowing:
Have you ever wanted to see how an iceberg forms? Watch a car with a foot of snow in it’s roof brake, and you’ll have a pretty good idea, though lacking the splash.
In need of a good boot polishing? After crunching through 35 centimeters of snow, they will emerge as clean and shiny as new. Also, after crunching through so much snow, thigh-high boots suddenly seem almost practical, and tales of people skiing around town seem quite logical.
Don’t stand under trees heavily laden with snow.
For the record, our wintry weather patterns come to us from Siberia. Sweet. This is the biggest/longest/worst blizzard in several years. They defined blizzard as ‘those things that usually happen in Canada.’ I guess they don’t happen very often in Italy, but our entire region (state) is blanketed, and Ravenna is flooded by a swollen sea (when I told this to someone earlier today, I called it the ocean and was told very vehemently that it is the SEA; there is no ocean).
A few hours later: I have now seen yellow snow, courtesy of dogs. All of my shoes are wet inside.
We had a really interesting strange curious lecture on immigration today, complete with an immigrant to interview! (please note the presence of sarcasm) Olga, from Moldova, somehow managed to exist on both poles of perspectives regarding immigration issues, and consequently I couldn’t decide whether to agree with her or completely disagree. ‘Americans don’t understand what it’s like. It might be difficult or expensive to move to another country, but for people from a poor country it is practically impossible.’ ‘If immigrants weren’t criminals, Italians wouldn’t think so lowly of them. It is their own fault that they are marginalized by society.’ I am looking forward to the completely uncontroversial lecture we will be having tomorrow, on Parmesan food.
I have a paper due ‘today’/by the end of this week, and I keep telling myself I will work on it. Instead, I got a call from my host sister asking whether I wanted to see Alice in Wonderland with her. I weigh the likelihood of me doing any work or just ending up sitting at home wasting time and decide to go for it. In retrospect, it may or may not be the best idea to try to watch a dubbed movie that is mostly gibberish in its original language. Also, ciciarampa (chicharampa) ≠ jabberwocky. Still, it was fun.
3. 11. 10
Snow was not so much fun today. It decided to be sunny, which meant that the world was drippy and soggy and the crisp white snow was brown and gross. As much as I appreciate snowplows, I wish that they could do their duty without obliterating sidewalks and making it so inconvenient to transition from sidewalk to street. I do not like plunging into knee-deep brown barriers of snow. I also do not like being splashed by cars. Never in my life until twice today. Thanks guys.
Today was the day of all days. Early start and back and forth across town all day long. I woke up at 645 (!) so that I could be at Toschi by eight. I was to teach English with a different teacher, and she decided to sit back and relax after introducing me. She suggested that they ask me questions, but pretty much left it at that. Luckily, I had been warned by other American students that this sometimes happens, otherwise I might have been quite taken aback. Instead I took charge. For some reason, the classroom is really deep, and of course all of the students were sitting as far away as possible. I knew that I would never succeed in engaging them if I stayed behind the teacher’s desk. So, I walked over and joined them. If you had to guess two topics that I can talk about endlessly, what would they be? If you guessed Texas and Linguistics, you would be right. (Football would also be a good guess, but is probably less interesting and requires more explanation and confusing visualization.) Anyway, I was pretty proud of myself for being able to hold their interest and talk about things that drew questions from students. Several more participated than usual. I also asked them questions to get everyone to participate at least every now and then. If I have to be up so early, I am glad to be with a class like this one. They asked why I had chosen to work at an art school instead of doing something more relevant to my linguistic interests. Umm, because I didn’t have much of a choice. No, not what I said. I said that every time I talk to someone in Italian, they are helping me learn, and I want to return the favor. Furthermore, hearing the mistakes Italians make when speaking English reveals differences in grammatical structure that in turn help me learn about Italian. All true.
My next class was a bunch of youngsters. I wondered whether this teacher would have me draw the map for a third time, but instead she culled a group of students to go with me and practice conversation in another room. These kids were a little harder to get involved, even if they were good at English. Again, one girl who spoke and understood best seemed to dominate. I was happy to practice with her, but I didn’t want the other kids to sit around for an hour. I came up with what I thought were fairly interesting questions, but they mostly stuck to basic answers. At the very least, I imagined that asking about their favorite and least favorite classes might yield some useful complaining, but alas not much. Since they were all architecture students, I asked what they would build if they could build anything anywhere. My house. A skyscraper. A soccer stadium. In New York City. In Milan. Next. Oh well, at least I got them all to talk.
Then I rushed over to the opposite side of town for the food lecture, after which I rushed home for a quick lunch. Horse again! I won’t be able to finish a whole horse while here, but maybe a leg?
Then back to Toschi. More helping with the kids preparing for the test. One guy sat next to me and pretty much asked me to check each answer before he submitted it. How do you explain to someone how or why something is wrong without giving the answer. Also, you try doing these exercises. Do you know what the present perfect simple tense is, or what the present perfect continuous is? Can you explain them? Try a sample question:
One guy kept looking over and I thought he might be having trouble. When I went over to check on him, it turned out he is really good at English and was in fact just super bored and hoping to do some conversation instead of exercises on the computer. Also, he much prefers the American accent to the British accent. So, even though at first it seemed like Sky and I would be pointlessly sitting in the computer lab ‘in case anyone had any questions’ it was not as dull as I expected.
In Italian, instead of saying something is nice, literally, people say something is pretty. So, when we were asking these students about school during last week's English class, one boy replied that he thought it was not so pretty to talk about school, and that it would be prettier to discuss Saturday night activities. In Italian, as far as I know, there isn’t a single word that means the same thing as ‘funny.’ Consequently, when I told someone that I thought the exercises they were doing were a little funny to me because of the differences between British and American English, he thought I was saying that they were fun, with which he disagreed. Just some little observations that amuse me.
Today, I met three (male) Andreas and two Fabios. I also had an epic three hour nap.
Just a couple of weeks and I’m out of practice with getting up bright and early. To be fair, bright and early was never as early as seven thirty. Time to discover what the Toschi fates had in store for me. Apparently, good things. Despite my least favorite introduction as The American (or in fact, probably because of it), all the kids seemed delighted to have me in their class. I made a friend in Chiara, who proceeded to offer to show me the ropes of the class and gave me a list of places to go and things to do in Parma. She told me she was going to New York and I recommended some museums and stores to her. My previous apprehensive predictions of moody, ‘too cool for school’ teens was unfounded. After two hours of sitting around in the graphic design class, I finally discovered the true nature of my term at Toschi. Other than those two hours, all of my other shifts will be spent helping to teach English. Today, to a bunch of first years. I was kind of shocked by how the class was allowed to behave. Students made no efforts to be dissembling in their disrespectfulness, and were constantly chattering amongst themselves. The teacher suggested that they would all probably have questions for me, and encouraged them to each ask me a question. She also asked me to draw a map of the US on the board, demarcating Texas and Houston, so that everyone would know where it was. After a while, it became apparent which students bore the winning combination of good English skills and outgoingness, one girl in particular. From there, the class quickly became an exchange between her, me, and the teacher. The rest of the students did their own thing.
We started watching Stagecoach in my cinema history class, and the dubbed Italian tried to emulate the hokeyness of the original English, much to my amusement and slight confusion.
Today is the International Women’s Day which, even though it started because of events in the US, is celebrated much more in other countries. Here, it is traditional for men to give women a certain yellow flower and then for the women to go out for a girl’s night. This might just be dinner with your mom or your friends, or going to a male strip show, which happens at pretty much every bar/club in town.
3. 09. 10
Take two at Toschi. This time it was an older group of kids. I redrew my map and answered more of the same sort of questions. This time, though, the kids were way more uninterested. When the teacher asked one student if there was anything he was interested in asking, he looked at her point blank and said, ‘honestly, I have no interest whatsoever.’ Ouch. Ok.
We finished Stagecoach today, watching the rest in English, and it turns out the characters spoke so funnily that for a while I had to use the Italian subtitles as a crutch to understand the English before I got used to it.
Tonight we saw that Hurt Locker was on, and since it was so awarded we decided to watch it. I realized that the only best picture nominated films I saw for this Oscar season I have seen in Italian (this and Avatar).
I am constantly amazed by Italian language and regional identity. Please allow me a (hopefully brief) linguistic foray. Despite Italy’s really long history, a unified Italy and the Italian language have not even existed for two hundred years. Every region has its own dialect, which is still spoken, and southern dialects are completely incomprehensible to northerners. (A great example of how the distinction between dialect and language is more often politically based rather than linguistically based.) Anyway, in addition to this, there are also, naturally, various accents detectable in spoken ‘standard’ Italian. Here, it amazes me that my host parents can identify the exact region or even city of origin of a speaker within a minute after they start speaking. We have accents too in the US too, though our speech is much more homogenized thanks to the prevalence of TV and ‘neutral’ pronunciation, but while I may be able to tell that someone speaks differently, it is rare that I can so confidently ascertain someone’s origins so precisely. While part of this is that there is a more definite distinction, it also requires being familiar with which differences correlate to which region.
3. 10. 10
Yesterday, I thought I might have earned my snow legs, since as I saw that snow was starting to fall, I had no reaction whatsoever (other than reiterating to myself that it was probably a bad idea have wet hair while standing outside for 15 minutes waiting for the bus). I figured that once you lose a sense of excitement about snow, you’ve been around it long enough. Having seen this light swirling sprinkle that didn’t even stick, it was hard for me to believe the woman who later told me that there was an expected snowfall of 40cm. Snow is sneaky like that. As we watched Hurt Locker last night, we could see the snow starting pile up on the leaves outside. So far, with the light ‘rain’ we had been having, invisible until you’re in it, my window was only useful for determining whether it is sunny. Now, I have discovered that it is also useful for determining whether it is snowing and/or whether it has snowed.
Today, I can no longer say that I felt no excitement in regards to the snow. I wondered whether I might have my first real snow day. I kind of hoped that class wouldn’t be secretly cancelled, since I was already on my way. Parma was like a white ghost town, and I was the only passenger on my bus. Things were so backed up it took almost twice as long to make it to class and we actually caught up with the bus that left before ours, ten minutes prior. There were fewer than 25 of us in a class that easily tops a hundred, but the professor lauded us for being here today and for showing up in general, since attendance is not in the least bit mandatory, though surely advantageous.
This morning I had the presence of mind to bring my camera with me, for once, and I took several pictures. (Link under the photo album listing on the right, also pictures of my citrus fruit.) I wandered through the park taking pictures on the way back to my stop, and I was lucky enough to make it there just as the bus was pulling up, so I didn’t even have to wait.
When it is snowing:
Have you ever wanted to see how an iceberg forms? Watch a car with a foot of snow in it’s roof brake, and you’ll have a pretty good idea, though lacking the splash.
In need of a good boot polishing? After crunching through 35 centimeters of snow, they will emerge as clean and shiny as new. Also, after crunching through so much snow, thigh-high boots suddenly seem almost practical, and tales of people skiing around town seem quite logical.
Don’t stand under trees heavily laden with snow.
For the record, our wintry weather patterns come to us from Siberia. Sweet. This is the biggest/longest/worst blizzard in several years. They defined blizzard as ‘those things that usually happen in Canada.’ I guess they don’t happen very often in Italy, but our entire region (state) is blanketed, and Ravenna is flooded by a swollen sea (when I told this to someone earlier today, I called it the ocean and was told very vehemently that it is the SEA; there is no ocean).
A few hours later: I have now seen yellow snow, courtesy of dogs. All of my shoes are wet inside.
We had a really interesting strange curious lecture on immigration today, complete with an immigrant to interview! (please note the presence of sarcasm) Olga, from Moldova, somehow managed to exist on both poles of perspectives regarding immigration issues, and consequently I couldn’t decide whether to agree with her or completely disagree. ‘Americans don’t understand what it’s like. It might be difficult or expensive to move to another country, but for people from a poor country it is practically impossible.’ ‘If immigrants weren’t criminals, Italians wouldn’t think so lowly of them. It is their own fault that they are marginalized by society.’ I am looking forward to the completely uncontroversial lecture we will be having tomorrow, on Parmesan food.
I have a paper due ‘today’/by the end of this week, and I keep telling myself I will work on it. Instead, I got a call from my host sister asking whether I wanted to see Alice in Wonderland with her. I weigh the likelihood of me doing any work or just ending up sitting at home wasting time and decide to go for it. In retrospect, it may or may not be the best idea to try to watch a dubbed movie that is mostly gibberish in its original language. Also, ciciarampa (chicharampa) ≠ jabberwocky. Still, it was fun.
3. 11. 10
Snow was not so much fun today. It decided to be sunny, which meant that the world was drippy and soggy and the crisp white snow was brown and gross. As much as I appreciate snowplows, I wish that they could do their duty without obliterating sidewalks and making it so inconvenient to transition from sidewalk to street. I do not like plunging into knee-deep brown barriers of snow. I also do not like being splashed by cars. Never in my life until twice today. Thanks guys.
Today was the day of all days. Early start and back and forth across town all day long. I woke up at 645 (!) so that I could be at Toschi by eight. I was to teach English with a different teacher, and she decided to sit back and relax after introducing me. She suggested that they ask me questions, but pretty much left it at that. Luckily, I had been warned by other American students that this sometimes happens, otherwise I might have been quite taken aback. Instead I took charge. For some reason, the classroom is really deep, and of course all of the students were sitting as far away as possible. I knew that I would never succeed in engaging them if I stayed behind the teacher’s desk. So, I walked over and joined them. If you had to guess two topics that I can talk about endlessly, what would they be? If you guessed Texas and Linguistics, you would be right. (Football would also be a good guess, but is probably less interesting and requires more explanation and confusing visualization.) Anyway, I was pretty proud of myself for being able to hold their interest and talk about things that drew questions from students. Several more participated than usual. I also asked them questions to get everyone to participate at least every now and then. If I have to be up so early, I am glad to be with a class like this one. They asked why I had chosen to work at an art school instead of doing something more relevant to my linguistic interests. Umm, because I didn’t have much of a choice. No, not what I said. I said that every time I talk to someone in Italian, they are helping me learn, and I want to return the favor. Furthermore, hearing the mistakes Italians make when speaking English reveals differences in grammatical structure that in turn help me learn about Italian. All true.
My next class was a bunch of youngsters. I wondered whether this teacher would have me draw the map for a third time, but instead she culled a group of students to go with me and practice conversation in another room. These kids were a little harder to get involved, even if they were good at English. Again, one girl who spoke and understood best seemed to dominate. I was happy to practice with her, but I didn’t want the other kids to sit around for an hour. I came up with what I thought were fairly interesting questions, but they mostly stuck to basic answers. At the very least, I imagined that asking about their favorite and least favorite classes might yield some useful complaining, but alas not much. Since they were all architecture students, I asked what they would build if they could build anything anywhere. My house. A skyscraper. A soccer stadium. In New York City. In Milan. Next. Oh well, at least I got them all to talk.
Then I rushed over to the opposite side of town for the food lecture, after which I rushed home for a quick lunch. Horse again! I won’t be able to finish a whole horse while here, but maybe a leg?
Then back to Toschi. More helping with the kids preparing for the test. One guy sat next to me and pretty much asked me to check each answer before he submitted it. How do you explain to someone how or why something is wrong without giving the answer. Also, you try doing these exercises. Do you know what the present perfect simple tense is, or what the present perfect continuous is? Can you explain them? Try a sample question:
They knew he ________ at his computer because there were crumbs all over his desk. Use the verb ‘to eat.’Would you say ‘had been eating,’ ‘had eaten,’ or ‘ate?’ It doesn’t help that they are learning British English, which means that there are arbitrary things that don’t make any sense to me.
One guy kept looking over and I thought he might be having trouble. When I went over to check on him, it turned out he is really good at English and was in fact just super bored and hoping to do some conversation instead of exercises on the computer. Also, he much prefers the American accent to the British accent. So, even though at first it seemed like Sky and I would be pointlessly sitting in the computer lab ‘in case anyone had any questions’ it was not as dull as I expected.
In Italian, instead of saying something is nice, literally, people say something is pretty. So, when we were asking these students about school during last week's English class, one boy replied that he thought it was not so pretty to talk about school, and that it would be prettier to discuss Saturday night activities. In Italian, as far as I know, there isn’t a single word that means the same thing as ‘funny.’ Consequently, when I told someone that I thought the exercises they were doing were a little funny to me because of the differences between British and American English, he thought I was saying that they were fun, with which he disagreed. Just some little observations that amuse me.
Today, I met three (male) Andreas and two Fabios. I also had an epic three hour nap.
09 January 2010
Not horseshoes or hand grenades
The more days that go by, the more real this all becomes. I oscillate between unmitigated enthusiasm and borderline panic. I just said goodbye to Vicky less than an hour ago; that was a big step. She'll be on her way to Ireland, and I am ten days away from my own new I-country. My visit to the consulate on Thursday proved both mercifully swift and mercifully fruitful, and I now have my visa and one more reason to exhale. Though I would still have a bit of a time cushion, it's nice to know that's one thing I don't need to worry about.
Somehow, the closer I get to leaving, the more I keep trying to speak Italian. The thing is, that's about as useful as trying to communicate with people using Morse code. With my family, I can push it a little, but eventually the dissimilarities pile up and there's a communication breakdown. Instead, I settle for pointing at things and saying their names in Italian. 'Cielo,' 'oceano,' 'tartaruga.' Sky, ocean, turtle. I guess it's better than nothing, but it's certainly not conversation. What's weird is that I'm not consciously choosing to switch to Italian, but words and thoughts come in that way. It's like my brain is trying to transition, but it can't yet because no one here can understand me. For now, I can just hope that this will serve me well by the time I get to Parma. Still, I have the somewhat irrational fear that I will in fact be able to say nothing at all, say everything wrong, or inadvertently say it in the wrong language. Sometimes a word comes to me quickly, but then I'm not sure what language it is in, and I have to go through its manifestations in Spanish, French, and Italian to be sure that I'm saying it in the right one. My game of vocabulary proclamations is also a little disquieting at times, because it reveals to me the gaps in my vocabulary. As I was explaining to a friend, it is those everyday things that you might mention daily but would never have a conversation about that I find myself not knowing -- things like spoon and socks. I am more equipped for literary or linguistic discussions than I am for dinner-table exchanges. But, that's the point of all of this: to learn. So, I'll just have to hitch up my britches and get to it.
Also, in an un-Italian vein, I found this listing of Texas words, phrases, and such. Several of the phrases and sayings are unfamiliar to me, though amusing, but almost all of the definitions ring true. Actually, they are so right that it's strange to think that they might not be so clear to a non-Texan. The comments are pretty good too, and of course, "you never have to ask a man if he’s from Texas. If he is, he’ll tell you on his own. If he ain’t, well, there’s no need to embarrass him."
Somehow, the closer I get to leaving, the more I keep trying to speak Italian. The thing is, that's about as useful as trying to communicate with people using Morse code. With my family, I can push it a little, but eventually the dissimilarities pile up and there's a communication breakdown. Instead, I settle for pointing at things and saying their names in Italian. 'Cielo,' 'oceano,' 'tartaruga.' Sky, ocean, turtle. I guess it's better than nothing, but it's certainly not conversation. What's weird is that I'm not consciously choosing to switch to Italian, but words and thoughts come in that way. It's like my brain is trying to transition, but it can't yet because no one here can understand me. For now, I can just hope that this will serve me well by the time I get to Parma. Still, I have the somewhat irrational fear that I will in fact be able to say nothing at all, say everything wrong, or inadvertently say it in the wrong language. Sometimes a word comes to me quickly, but then I'm not sure what language it is in, and I have to go through its manifestations in Spanish, French, and Italian to be sure that I'm saying it in the right one. My game of vocabulary proclamations is also a little disquieting at times, because it reveals to me the gaps in my vocabulary. As I was explaining to a friend, it is those everyday things that you might mention daily but would never have a conversation about that I find myself not knowing -- things like spoon and socks. I am more equipped for literary or linguistic discussions than I am for dinner-table exchanges. But, that's the point of all of this: to learn. So, I'll just have to hitch up my britches and get to it.
Also, in an un-Italian vein, I found this listing of Texas words, phrases, and such. Several of the phrases and sayings are unfamiliar to me, though amusing, but almost all of the definitions ring true. Actually, they are so right that it's strange to think that they might not be so clear to a non-Texan. The comments are pretty good too, and of course, "you never have to ask a man if he’s from Texas. If he is, he’ll tell you on his own. If he ain’t, well, there’s no need to embarrass him."
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