Victory under construction

I wrote so many postcards and so many emails and so many journal entries about Berlin, I feel like I must have written this post already. I loved Berlin. Enough to extend my stay, and domino-effect everyone else into doing the same. Here's the story of my favorite non-Italian European city.

First things first. (Even though this is almost last.) Europe is all about preserving history. Lucky for us. Unluckily for us tourists, that means that it is a fact of life that it is absolutely impossible to go somewhere without some big important famous sight coyly getting re-dressed behind some scaffolding. In Berlin, that was the Victory Column. Here's what postcards and the internet purport exists:

Here's what I saw:

No matter where you go, you will find this to be true. Sometimes, if you're lucky, the scaffolding will be covered with a printed image of what you're supposed to be seeing, and from pictures and far away it almost looks like the real thing. Sometimes, somebody decides that it is a great place for a giant advertisement, and the front of a church or the sides of a bridge are bedecked with the chiseled features of Calvin Klein models. Still other times, the cover is a solid color, or an architectural drawing of what lies beneath, and in the midst of all the imposing importance around it, the building becomes almost invisible.


Back to Berlin. Day One marks the arrival of Brendan and little else. Day Two was the epitome of dreary: wet, cold, drizzling, and we weren't quite prepared for it or its unmotivating effects. We walked to the Brandenburg Gate and had some cheesy pretzels from a street vendor. We sought an indoor activity and opted for viewing the city from above from within the glass dome on top of the Reichstag, the parliamentary building. The only flaw in this plan was that to get to the top we first had to stand in line outside for about an hour, and we were a numb, glum, drippy quartet when we finally made it to the portico. Still, the thought that aside from a security checkpoint this was completely free and open to the public made me keep loving Berlin. The Reichstag, over 100 years old, with its dome of not even 20 years, exemplified what I would find to be the character of Berlin. A fusion of past and present, historic and modern, memories and dreams. Inside the dome, one walkway spiraled up while another spiraled down, forming a traffic-preventing double helix. The free audio tour read stripes of paint on the path to sense your location and tell you about what you could see from where you were. The joys of German efficiency. I may love the rusty crusty, but a lesser known fact until now is that I also have a passion for clean lines, structure, and glass. Berlin, full of both, was true love.

Day Three started out with adventure. Matt lured me into his vague plan with promises of 'the most moving statue his brother had ever seen,' and I was curious enough to find out what could make a statue moving (and just generally wanted to see as much of Berlin as possible), so I woke up early and joined in the adventure. We arrived at Treptower Park, one of the many beautiful green areas in the city, and began our quest for this elusive statue. Instead, we ran into people setting up some kind of fairground. We consulted a vague map before inquiring with a solitary man who seemed strangely happy to help. He gave us complicated German directions with lots of lefts and rights and forks and more rights and lefts, all the while seeming like he was leading us to his den of robbers. Regardless, we made it. As is typical in Europe, we first saw a clearing with a small statue, but as we approached and turned a bend, the world opened up to reveal what was in store for us. I firmly believe that Europe loves the grand reveal, complete with mental fanfare.

The rest of the day consisted of a tour full of sights and the details necessary to appreciate them.

Day Four was the art day of the trip. We all went to the Guggenheim, and though I think I was the only one who really enjoyed it, I think I liked the exhibit of Wangechi' Mutu's work enough to make up for the rest of the group. I waxed on about it in my journal. For once, what really made it for me was the artist's statement, which, combined with her work, yielded much thinking on my part concerning the relationship between an artist's intended message and a viewer's interpretation, and whether one is more correct than another. Other sights for the day included the only Catholic church in Berlin, a chocolate store where you can get custom-made chocolate, the Tiergarten, and allegedly the Victory Column. From here Matt and I pushed further while the other two stayed behind, and after much navigational miscalculation we arrived at the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. Once a grand church at the center of the intersection of several thoroughfares, this church was heavily bombed during the war. Instead of fully restoring it, however, the remains of the church were made structurally sound, and a modern chapel and campanile were constructed on either side of it. Now, with its gaping wounds and jagged spire, it is a blatant reminder that the past cannot be allowed to stay in the past. I wondered what it would be like to drive past it every day on the way to work. Surrounded by strip malls and fast food places, I wondered whether locals saw it as an open wound, as I did, or whether the construction around it indicated that it had been allowed to scar.

Day 5 was mostly conclusions and preparations. Matt and I journeyed to the East Side Gallery, the longest remaining section of the Wall (over 1km), covered in paintings. We met up with Brendan and I finally had the famous Black Forest cake, as instructed. In the evening we all reconvened for currywurst and bratwurst from the best locale for it in Berlin, a pre-dinner before our real dinner, which ended up being at a 'Mexican' restaurant. This would be our final meal as a group of four, and we made it last. On the way home we found a photobooth, and crammed in to make some final memories. Though we weren't quite enough to make the tiny booth overflow with people, there was laughter enough to fill the whole street.

Prague Potpourri

I untie the crackled gold cover of the leather travel journal I bought in Florence, and I think about how much memory and detail time erases. Europe seems ages ago. But then, I will hear the name of a place that used to be foreign, and a mental double take will remind me that it has become familiar. I have been there, once long ago. Little things keep surprising me. Being able to type an @ without a scavenger hunt on the keyboard, toilet paper that is square again, hearing strangers speaking Spanish; I guess these things mean home.


Things my journal says I loved about the Czech Republic:

Despite being mostly incapable of remembering anything other than the words, 'Speak English?, beer, and please,' I love that I understand the pronunciation. One of the things I found overwhelming in Vienna was being surrounded by so much textual information but being unequipped to pronounce it, much less read it. Here, I might have no idea what I'm saying, but I'm probably saying it right enough.
I loved finally having an exchange rate in my favor, with the Kc being about 20 to the dollar.
I experienced what I think was my first and only thunderstorm in Europe on our way to dinner the first night.

The guidebook asserted that once you get a taste of the local cuisine, you will wonder why and how you've never had it. It is delicious. For people who love meat and potatoes sneakily dressed in shockingly rich and intricate flavors. For people who aren't afraid to literally take a stab at a pork knee or neck. The only thing I disliked was a street-vendor prepackaged sandwich I bought against my better judgment, based on a photo that bore no resemblance to the product I received. I had to disassemble it and eat the exterior of the bread and napkin off the chicken inside, which was covered in gobs of some sauce so vividly orange it could probably be used as a homing beacon.

While most of the places we had visited in Europe thus far felt old, Prague felt like a timeline. Or, perhaps more accurately, a time knot. Over five hundred years worth of architectural movements cozily intermingle, leaving one to wonder whether the streets of Prague started out like a gap-toothed baby's gums, with buildings popping up over time to fill in empty spaces. Adjacent architecture ranges from Medieval to Gothic to Art Deco to Art Nouveau to Cubist (the only city with Cubist architecture) to Soviet to Modern to Contemporary. The Municipal House, a resplendent example of Art Nouveau built in 1911, is right next to the Powder Gate, which leads into Old Town, was built in 1475, and across the street from these two structures is a building built in the Soviet era.

My favorite place in all of Prague --  as I say this so many other candidates come to mind; perhaps the calling it the most serene place I experienced would be more accurate -- was Vyšehrad. We took a short, steep, green and wooded walk (with bits of rust) up to and through the walls of this hilltop fortress above the Vltava River. I could have spent all day overlooking the city, far from the hustle and bustle and rustle of life and tourists, but after a picnic brunch we kept exploring. Through ancient gates and a cemetery of the average and famous together in death, we arrived at the Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul. What a surprise. Inside the imposing time-blackened Neo-Gothic church, the walls were covered in Art Nouveau depictions of saints. Before I lapse into rhapsodic art history mumbo jumbo I will move on, but know that for me it was art history magic.

We all took some time apart one afternoon to tend to our diverse interests, and I went to the only museum I saw in the Czech Republic: the Alfons Mucha Museum. I have always loved his art, and here in what at first seemed like a distressingly small (but ended up being a deceptively deep) space, I found much to keep loving. Original drawings, unfinished drafts pulled from the lithography stone, photographs taken in his studio, a childhood painting, medals, even a New York Times article about his visit to the United States. In fact, because the museum was not so so large, I was able to savor everything, read every description, and feel neither rushed nor overwhelmed.

Despite the fact that Prague was fascinating, it left me a little unsatisfied. Looking back there was much to admire and appreciate and much to see that I didn't have time for, those things you add to the 'Next time in Europe' list. I'm not sure what was lacking, or whether anything really was lacking at all. Maybe it was the promise of Berlin just around the corner, the destination I had chosen; the one place I had been itching to get to all along.

Stage two

The itinerary is official. For all you stalkers out there, here's where I will be for the next week or so:

19 Arrived in Amsterdam
20 Day in Amsterdam
21 Day in Amsterdam, go to Rotterdam
22 Rotterdam, overnight train to Nice, France
23-25 Nice
26 Back to Italy




How to be a world-famous artist:
1. Develop a revolutionary style. If you're not quite that creative, jump on someone else's bandwagon really quickly, and start a school together.
2. Make a huge body of work, so that every major museum can have at least one of your pieces in their permanent collection, and so that there is still enough left over for your homecountry to be able to open a museum dedicated to you.
3. Create a handful of ironic paintings so that even college students will want to buy posters of your art.
4. Paint 'pretty things,' so other people will want to buy calendars or cheap prints of your work. Or for college students who want posters that will make them seem 'cultured.'
* Bonus points for being troubled, eccentric, or a failure.

In Austria I went to four art museums. In every other country so far, I have been to one each. I wouldn't say I burned out, but I am torn. I know that there are amazing masterpieces awaiting me within so many walls, but there is amazing life and culture waiting outside of them. After a while, it feels like going for the sake of going. Or, like been there, done that. If every museum boasts a Monet and a Picasso and a Warhol, do I really have to go to each museum? I never thought I'd say it, but it almost feels like if you've seen one, you've seen them all. At the same time, after going to the Van Gogh Museum today, I am of a different mind. We get so used to seeing the same handful of a famous artist's paintings, it is easy to forget that he ever did anything else or anything different. I had no idea how much Van Gogh produced, or how much his style changed over the short years of his life.

Tomorrow, Rotterdam and architecture.

On the other side

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

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

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

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

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

Churches, raw meat, chianti, and leather

Spring Break Part One: Parma, Bologna, Firenze, Pisa

Day 1:
I call this Day One, Dad and Sandra call this Day Six. They arrived on the 25th and on Saturday we had a lovely time getting to know Parma. I am becoming quite the expert tour guide. We had horse sandwiches and gelato and all things good. Sunday we had a picnic in the park, went to the football game you have already read about, and had an exquisite dinner out with my host family. We sampled the local culinary highlights: an impressive array of hams and the traditional herb tortelli and potato tortelli, paired of course with the fantastic Lambrusco. Monday and Tuesday I continued with my life as a student while they did some day tripping. Wednesday, my day one, finally rolled around and we were destined for Bologna.

As you know, I had visited Bologna before, but did little more than walk. This time, I went into the main church, the Basilica di San Petronio, and saw its many wonders, including an anachronistic and out of place seeming Foucault pendulum in one of the side chapels (it demonstrates the effect of the rotation of the earth.) (Find the one nearest you!) I also accomplished my main goal for returning to Bologna: going up the tower and getting a view of the city. It was breathtaking in more ways than one, and put me in the right mood to embark on break. On the way back to the train station, I got a fabulous pair of shoes (pair of Italian shoes #2!) that I hope I find a moment to wear here without crippling myself. An observation about ‘the Italian way.’ I was all set to start perusing boxes and picking out shoes and trying them on, when I noticed a sign that said ‘no self-serve.’ So, I would walk over to the wall, followed by the saleswoman, point to the box I wanted, have her grab it and take it over to the bench, where she would take the shoes out of the box and put them on the bench beside where I was now sitting. Repeatedly. Really? How is this better?
After this it was on to Florence, where we arrived tired enough and late enough that all we did was have a great dinner (pasta with octopus for me). The train ride, however, was spectacular. I watched the landscape change, with the mountains unfolding into rolling green hills. It was spring in Tuscany.

Day 2:
First things first: the Duomo and the Baptistery. The church itself was closed in the morning but we went up up up the campanile to see the city. What a view #2! While we were standing around marveling and catching our breath, it became whatever time it became and the bells started ringing. Amazing! And fortunately not deafening or bone shaking, but still a full-body experience. While we waited for it to become an acceptable lunchtime or for the Duomo to reopen, I picked a church on the map and led the way. It turned out to not be the church I thought it was, but it also turned out to be far more spectacular than the church I intended. SS Annunziata, on the outside, looks like a dour and unexciting box. On the inside, you discover that it is the most ornate box you have ever seen. I went around and around, each time realizing that I had failed to notice the side walls of the chapels, or their ceilings, or their floors, all of which were attentively crafted and painted and decorated, and was compelled to make yet another round. Also, it was pleasantly devoid of masses of tourists.

Lunchtime featured the epic steak that will go down in history. My host mom, having recently discovered that I am a ravenous carnivore (she doesn’t like beef so she rarely cooks it), recommended that I eat the Fiorentina while in Florence. 650g or 23oz of juicy bloody perfectly seasoned goodness later; I was a seriously happy camper. (And ready for some gelato!) I hereby proclaim Florence an honorary member of the Republic of Texas. I also finally got to sample brain. Fried and soft and delicious!

Post-lunch was a whirlwind of tourism, finally going in the Cathedral and walking down to Ponte Vecchio, passing street musicians and leather markets and jovial and grumpy vendors along the way. I asked a policeman for directions to San Mineato del Monte, our final destination, and was told that on foot it was a bit far. Yeah, yeah. Whenever something is more than ten or fifteen minutes away, people proclaim that it is SO far. I don’t listen anymore. It started raining – and briefly turned into hail – but soon it was dry and sunny again and onward we went. Hmmm. Any sign of our destination? Maybe it is a bit far. That’s a first. Regardless, we made it. On the way we acquired the best gelato I have had so far, which was also doled out far more generously than any other gelato I have had. I consumed it with the dexterity of a toddler, and consequently got it all over my face. It was decreed the gelato against which all other gelatos will be measured. The chocolatiest chocolate and the summeriest strawberry.

We made it to the Piazza Michelangelo, which has a copy of The David and overlooks the spread of Florence (What a view #3!) and, after indulging in some pictures, climbed higher still. My high school friend Samara, currently studying in Florence, had recommended this church to me. During the hour of vespers, it is filled with chanting Gregorian monks and is open to the public. We intended to go listen to them, but instead, because it was Maundy Thursday, it turned out that there would be mass. It was my first time hearing mass in Latin, though the sermon and readings were in Italian, and all the songs were chanted such that syllables were conveyed through the course of anywhere from three to ten notes. I was entranced by the conductor, whose swirling gestures made him look like a frustrated magician in the dark, incense-scented, ancient church. My seat was on top of the grave of some former ruler with one of the saddest tomb inscriptions I have ever read.

Here lies so and so, who finally finds the peace he never found in life. Born into a time of political turmoil, he was hated by nature, despised by fortune, and loved by no one, though he was a good man.

Something like that. Mass concluded with the doors being opened to let in the streaming sunlight and let out the processing congregation, which then returned to place the Eucharist in the lower sanctuary. Sunset viewed from Piazza Michelangelo and home to our no longer secret shame: McDonalds dinner. It was bound to happen at some point. I will say I think it is better in the US, but there you can’t get a beer with your happy meal, so it’s a trade-off.

Day 3:
A day of reunions. First thing in the morning it was time for a second date. I met David in Florence seven years ago, and if there was one thing I was willing to repeat this time around, it was seeing him. He is still as perfect as ever. Just like last time, I spent almost the entire time sitting at his feet, marveling, and ignoring everything and everyone else there was to see. Maybe I will come back and see him every seven years, growing older while he remains on his pedestal, forever young. I got to draw him and eavesdrop, two things I love. Moreover, it was multilingual eavesdropping. It was funny to hear what people chose to discuss. Two American guys assessed the proportions of his endowment, while a family tried to guess David's age and Michelangelo's aesthetic reasoning. They posed some theories that I was tempted to correct, but I held my peace. I like playing the role of silent listener. I wonder whether people would say the things they say if they knew they were understood, or whether they even care. As I perused another room of sculptures, a pair of Spanish women vociferously admired the perfectly formed derriere of a female nude. Later, as I drew, people would come up behind me and discuss my drawing and skills amongst themselves, presumably assuming I stood there obliviously.

Next was the church of San Lorenzo. Let me tell you a secret about Italy. Every church you see is the most amazing church you’ve ever seen. It’s vast and ornate knaves lulled you into a sense of been there, done that, but then there was the Medici Chapel. Floor to ceiling porphyry, marble, lapis lazuli, and other semi-precious multicolored stones, polished to a high gloss, all the way up to a brilliantly frescoed dome. Azalea bushes (bushes!) lining the closed-off path to the altar. After seeing so many marble faux-finishes, the real thing, and at such a grand scale, was mesmerizing.

Lunchtime for me was a bruschetta and a pear, gorgonzola, walnut sandwich. We did some family bonding by downing a bottle of Chianti. While we sat outside eating and people watching, I spied a familiar face. Vicki! I knew she would be here, but talk about being at the right place at the right time! Total serendipity.

Next was time for the planned encounter. We headed over to the Palazzo Strozzi to meet Samara and see a surrealist art exhibit. Much to my not surprise, there were a couple pieces from the Menil Collection featured in the show. Overall it was very interesting, and in addition to showing the big-uns Magritte and Duchamp, there were several artists I had never heard of whose work I came to enjoy. There was also a lot of historical context (sound like a trend?) that referenced Freud and Jung and their dream interpretations. I had fun switching back and forth between the English and Italian descriptions of the works.

From here we went to the outdoor sculpture gallery outside of the Uffizi, featuring Neptune, aka the Blob; another copy of David, here in his original location; Perseus, and more. Then to the church of the Santo Spirito, aperitivo, and a foiled attempt at the botanic gardens, before sunset pictures across from the Ponte Vecchio and the quest for dinner. My meal tonight was pasta with cuttlefish in ink sauce. Yum. I was afraid to open my mouth afterwards, lest I be told that it had been dyed black.

Day 4:
Morning in the market looking for leather goods and such. I bought a leather journal and haggled successfully. I got asked what language and I didn’t know what to answer. Whatever you want, I replied. Through a slowly closing door I caught a glimpse of heaven and followed my eyes into a huge indoor market. Any and all cuts of meat ever before seen and unseen. Suckling pigs, racks of ribs, trachea, nerves, uterus, testicles, snout, pig tails, lungs, hearts, whole ducks, and on and on and on. We bought some fresh bread. One more church, a monastery, full of Fra Angelico frescoes, and then it was train time.

Onward to Pisa, and if I thought Florence was full of tourists and foreigners I had another think coming. In my humble opinion, Pisa really is one of those places that has absolutely nothing of interest except for that for which it is famous. Other than at its bustling Piazza dei Miracoli (home of the infamous tower), it seemed like a dreary, empty, rundown, saddish town. I took pictures of people taking perfectly positioned pictures and then had some pictures taken of me doing the same. I bought a sumptuous leather purse that I now love like the hide of my lost child. We spotted a Mexican restaurant.


So, I’ll admit it. I said I didn’t want to come to Florence because I had already been here, but I love that I came. I saw so many things I hadn’t before, and I think that if I had studied here I never would have made it around Italy; there is so much to do just within this city.

A cheesy tourist

3. 26. 10
It's been two weeks since a real update! At this point, I will try to stick with the highlights. I have recently come to two conclusions:
1. I love sour like people love spicy. I finally ate the cedro/citron, the giant lemon-looking fruit I bought a while back. It was half peel and so intense I could feel it in my heart. No joke. It was like working out too hard. I gave in and put sugar on it after dismembering it into a bowl, and very much enjoyed it.
2. Misadventure is the variety that gives the spice to life.  I had my first experience with overbearing Italian men – two at once – and to call it unpleasant would be more than an understatement. I had my second bus accident, but it was quite minor, so no worries. I decided to walk home and enjoy the sunshine. Spring has sprung at long last (though I fear that if I type this, the weather will take a turn for the worse once more). All of the lawns are covered in little blue and white flowers (the blue ones are called Madonna’s Eyes) and the flowering trees are blooming.

In other news, I had the beginnings of a phonological breakthrough. When Italians speak English, they are capable of pronouncing the h even though it does not exist in Italian, but they put it in weird places. Where? Why? 'half' is pronounced like 'alf,' the alien. 'the Alps' can become 'the Halps.' Current hypothesis: we insert a glottal stop between a word-final vowel and a word-initial vowel; could it be that the Italians instead insert an h? So far not true for everyone, but fairly consistently true for some people.


3. 20. 10
Saturday Matt and I went to Milan. More of us were supposed to come, but everyone flaked out until there were only two of us left. It was perhaps the most packed day of sightseeing I have had so far. The Six decided to zip by my stop at no time relevant to its schedule, and I would have missed the train had it not been delayed by ten minutes. Instead, things worked out and we arrived in Milan bright and early. We took the subway, an activity that always has an inexplicably positive effect on my mood. I think it is something about the efficiency involved. In sum, I am a city girl, and even if my city’s public transportation is a crapshoot, subways make me happy by association. They energize me.

We arrived in the main square to find a strange gathering. Some kind of political protest or rally was going on. Maybe both? There were the rainbow flags that here signify peace; there were people in medieval-looking attire bearing flags with family crests; there were platforms and speeches. We never quite managed to figure out what was going on. We entered the Cathedral, and saw its intricate gothic interior and went underground to see the saint interred there. We went to a nearby commercial center and ventured into the Prada and Louis Vuitton stores. Even though I am sure they are used to having tourists wandering in for the heck of it, it still seemed quite daunting to push open their doors, walk past the guards, and breathe their air and touch their shoes. We found a monument to da Vinci. Next we did some wandering and ended up in front of the irresistible cherry red façade of the Ferrari store. Inside, there were five levels of merchandise, from fan to kids to luxury. Cologne, pencils, mugs, children’s clothes with the embroidered stallion logo, $30,000 watches, engines, red leather loafers.

We went to the Palazzo Reale and accomplished one of my main goals: to see the Egon Schiele exhibit. He is an Austrian artist known for his contorted, troubled, contemplative portraits. (Here is one of my favorite pieces from the show.) I have been familiar with his work for a long time, but I had never seen any of his pieces in person. Just like last time, the setup of this exhibit was very unique. The exhibit was titled 'Schiele in his time,' and the whole point was to give a context to the artist’s work. There was music by Austrian composers of the period playing in each room. Timelines of his life and simultaneous world history stretched over the walls. His drawings, paintings, and photographs were accompanied by works by his influences and contemporaries. Among these were some drawings by his mentor, Gustav Klimt, another artist I enjoy. I confess that after a while I often get tired of reading everything in art exhibits, but in the (over)abundant information, I discovered that Klimt had traveled to Ravenna and been influenced by the Byzantine mosaics he saw there, the same ones I saw only a few weeks ago. !

Next was lunchtime and we had a waiter who for some reason decided that we were Spanish, despite the fact that we only ever spoke to him in English or Italian. Another one tried his hardest to speak to us in English, and I got to teach him a few words useful for his business (check and pay, among them). Refueled, it was time to go back to the Cathedral, to go to the now-open upper-levels of the church. After going round and round in an enclosed stone spiral staircase with no visible end, we made it to the roof. Wow. On a clear day, it might be impressive how much of Milan can be seen. Instead, I was riveted on the amount of detail and dedication in the construction of the church itself. Who would have appreciated this? A lonely priest clearing off bird’s nests? From the ground, the saint-decked spires look like indistinct jagged spikes. As I stood outside the top of a stained glass window, I thought about the people down below, inside the church, who might be staring up at the very window outside of which I stood. We went further up and we were on the roof proper. I wished I had a language bingo game. I was hearing so many different languages, had I the capability to identify them all, I would have had won the game in five seconds. Instead, I took too many pictures. Down down down the stairs and on to the next sight. We were apprehended by a Senegalese man harping ‘free’ string bracelets who, after seizing your wrist and tying one on despite your protests, then asked for just a small recompense so he could afford a lunch. I have a new bracelet.

We heard loud noises and, ruling out thunder, thought that perhaps some structure were being taken down. Wrong. Canons and rifles were going off. Now, some kind of war reenactment was making its way through the streets. We approached to try and see better what was going on, but amidst the masses of people all that happened was that I kept jumping out of my skin. We made it to the Castello Sforzesco, now converted to a series museum, half an hour before it closed, and saw some furniture, paintings, and Egyptian artifacts. Among the paintings I saw a few Anguissolas, which was very exciting for me because I did a research project about the most famous member of this little-known artist family when I was in fifth grade. Again, I had never seen one of their works in person.

As always, despite our plans to stay later, by five we were pretty wiped out. I did some shopping (aka store perusing, since I bought nothing) for the sake of the fact that I was in Milan. I am a sporadic reader of The Sartorialist, and I admit that I expected Italians to be dressed like the people featured in this street fashion blog. For the most part, this expectation seems unfounded, but in this regard, Milan does not disappoint.


3. 21. 10
Sunday started bright and early at eight am, to go visit a Parmesan cheese factory. It is owned by the dad of Alice, my tandem partner, and is a little ways outside of town. Every morning at nine thirty, the cheese-making begins. Giant vats filled with milk and whey-starter in the evening have now yielded a curdled mass that gathers at the bottom. This is scooped up, sliced in two, cooled and shaped, and put into molds. They make about twelve wheels every morning, using 16 liters of milk per eventual kilogram of cheese, and each wheel weighs about 40kg. The remaining milk product is drained and used to create butter, cream, or sold to people who want to bathe in it. Apparently, it has some sort of curative properties (for cuts?). As the vats drained, we were told that when Alice’s dad was growing up and hanging out at what was then his father’s factory, they would put him in an empty vat to keep him from getting into trouble. After sampling some of the fresh cheese, still warm and spongy and unsalted, we went into the next chamber. Here, the day’s cheeses rest in their molds, which imprint them with the ‘Parmigiano Reggiano’ insignia as well as the production details. In the adjoining room, the cheeses rest in a saltwater bath for several weeks, and start to acquire flavor. Next, the maturing room, like a library of cheese. Shelves upon shelves of wheels upon wheels of cheese. The older the cheese, the tastier and the more expensive it is. Periodically, experts from the overarching guild/consortium come to test the cheese, firebranding each 40kg wheel with the official seal. We saw one from October 2007. After all the marveling and picture-taking, it was time for the final stop, samples! A hunk of 24-month-old Parmesan cheese to savor. Pure goodness, and 100% natural! Good for the health, good for the bones, good for the soul.
More detailed and perhaps accurate information via the ever-trusty Wikipedia (except when it crashed). 

3. 26. 10, in conclusion
One more week of classes, as a student and as a teacher. Some good groups, some better groups, some less good groups. I have found further evidence as to why navigating Parma has thwarted me for so long. I recently realized that there is a stop for the Six that is closer to me than the one I usually take. Here’s the thing, now:
If I walk out of my house and turn right, I get to an intersection with the street on which I catch the six.
If I walk out of my house, make a slight left and then right such that I am essentially going straight forward, I get to an intersection with the same street on which I catch the six.
Triangular blocks and stumpy streets do not get along with my sense of direction. With the sun out, though, I’m doing much better.

Last night, we went out with a group of Erasmus students (exchange students). With Greek, Italian, Austrian, German, French, Brazilian, and Polish contingents, it was quite the international affair. I didn't get to speak much Italian, but it was fascinating to compare cultural notes with so many different people. It was also really refreshing to be with a different, broader group of people. I confess that this was much more along the lines of how I imagined my abroad experience would be, full of interactions with European people my age, so I very much enjoyed it.

Now, the ‘rents are here and in a few days I will be on spring break. We saw a rainbow (arcobaleno) today on the way to the hotel. Good omen, yes? It will probably be a while before my next post. Then again, whenever I say things like that I seem to go on a posting frenzy. As always, pictures regarding most of the above can be found via the links on the right.

M is for Mantova and More

2. 06. 10 
Cristina and I went to the art museum. It turns out the museum is not where I thought it was. Or, rather, it turns out that there are three sites for different parts of this exhibition. Good to know. I had been seeing billboards for this exhibit all around town, and was at once excited but also admittedly not expecting much. First of all, the museum was way bigger than I thought.  It turned out to be a great exhibit, if more for the thinking it induced than for the works themselves. From what I could tell, all the pieces were by Italian artists or artists of Italian descent/identity, and the collection was entirely from the 1900’s (it is called NOVE100).

I ended up thinking a lot about curatorial distinctions between this and American museums I have been to, and thought about how this might influence me if I were a curator at present. In the US it is normal to have one piece per wall, especially if they are large pieces; one way or another, every piece tends to get a lot of personal space. Each piece has its own little description, sometimes more elaborate than others. Most people at a museum might as well be at a funeral; other than footsteps and sneezes, it is as quiet as the crypt. Here, in the rooms of earlier work (it was chronologically organized), pieces were almost tessellated onto the walls, only a few inches apart. Throughout the exhibit, though each piece had a little placard that identified the artist, time, etc. (but not the medium. Why?), there was one large description of what each room contained, and how or why the pieces went together stylistically and historically. People were not boisterous, but there was banter and chatter and an air of liveliness in the museum. I thought it was particularly interesting that pieces were only clumped together in the chronologically early rooms. At first, I felt like it created a more intimate, gallery-like feel, but then it occurred to me that this might also be to evoke the way that art was originally hung in the galleries of the time.

Another thing I found interesting was just the general idea of modern Italian art. We are used to thinking of Italy as a place of art, but usually that translates into renaissance and the like. What happened next? How did Italy adapt to and adopt subsequent art movements that originated elsewhere in the world? Did it have its own unique art movements? The answers to these questions are unlikely to be found in the typical American art museum, but here they stood before me.

As always, everything is a lesson in Italian. For quite a while I made the effort to read the descriptors for each room, which were of course in Italian. Eventually it got somewhat tiring, but at the same time it is hard to turn down more information. Anyway, indeed, life in Italy is practice, practice, practice. I eventually deduced that the s.t. under several pieces stands for senza titolo, or untitled.

After painting and sculpture there was historic photography upstairs. Then, time was running out, and that’s when I find the prints. Bah. Luckily, we find out that you have unlimited admissions with your ticket. What? Parma’s museums must not be struggling as much as ours. I will certainly be going back, and going to the other two sites to see the rest of the show. (I have since discovered that we will be going on a tour guided by a curator!)

I met up with the rest of the group for aperitivo and Cristina headed back home. She taught us that chapstick is burrocacao, aka cocoa butter. She also found the word chapstick very strange, especially since at first she thought I was saying chopstick. We walked down to l’aquolinea, which Cri had recommended. My host mom had recommended caffè d’orzo to me, a decaffeinated ‘coffee’ made from a grain that isn’t coffee (everyone here translates grain as cereal, which tends to confuse English-speakers), but I didn’t see the point of getting an approximation of coffee when I don’t like it to begin with, but Matt decided to get it. I tasted it, and the only way I can describe it is like rice coffee. Most of the rest of us got Sprizz, and it was met with mixed reviews. The aperitivo offerings were pretty good, some pizzas and paninis; the usual fare but abundant enough. On our way there Ellie had run into her mom, who said she would be out and suggested that Ellie invite us over. So, when we left we made what we thought would be a quick stop at the grocery store to pick up some beverages before heading to her house. This was my first time in an Italian supermarket. Right before we walked in, a security guard chased and seized a guy who had been trying to sneak a bottle of Bacardi out in his pants. What kind of omen was this? We discover that beer comes in 66cL or three-packs of 33s? Weird. Also, they are not in a refrigerated section. Now to pay and leave. Oh. Two unnecessarily slow-moving lines snaked into the aisles. I still don’t know what made them so slow, but I am learning that I generally need to budget more time for things in Italy. We finally get through the lines and realize we have ten minutes before the buses stop and perhaps negative minutes until the last bus goes to Ellie’s house, and she lives the farthest away from the center of town. Thank you, thank you the suspense is the extent of our bus misadventure, and we manage to catch the last bus.

At Ellie’s house we first try to cool the beers just by putting them outside, which is certainly colder than the fridge, but I get impatient and we put them in the freezer. What did we do at Ellie's house? Who knows. Laugh. Margerite tries to call the prontobus for our ride home, but either they keep hanging up or the phone keeps dying. Finally, it gets worked out… we think. Eventually we make our way to the bus stop, and see it rounding the bend. Matt and Margerite run towards where they think is the stop, but it isn’t. I walk to the right place and see the people on the bus laughing. We get taken to the station where we change buses, and eventually eventually we all make it home.

2. 7. 10
Goodness gracious. Getting up at 630 is not easy when you went to bed past one and tossed and turned all night. I did it anyway. I eat a banana and leftover pasta, stash an apple and an orange, and head to the bus stop. I wait. While I wait, though, I am treated to some lovely birdsong. Listening to it kind of makes me feel like a Disney princess, and I wonder whether I should teach the birds a new song or inspire them to gather bits of this and that and build me a car I can drive to the station, instead. I wait. I am supposed to be at the train station at 730 to catch the 754 train to Mantova, and it is 730 when the bus decides to mosy over to my stop, on its own unofficial schedule, as usual. It usually takes about 15+ minutes to make it to the center from my stop, and the station is past that. I am trying really really hard not to panic. Pointless. It turns out that when you aren’t stopping at every block and there are not cars on the road, it takes about seven minutes to get to the station. After that rough start, all goes smoothly. It is a pretty gray day, so I go with my usual mellow travel music. Then, something strikes me, and I shift gears completely. I have enough self-control to not start singing on the train, but that’s where it maxes out, and I spend the ride bopping around in my seat. As the songs grew lighter, so did the sky, and soon the sun was out in full force. My old friend! Where have you been? It turned into the perfect weather for a day trip.

Train to Piadena, change trains, arrive in Mantova around 10. The day is ready for filling when you start so early. We are all a little sleepy or just hungry, and we find a café recommended in Matt’s guidebook. I am usually happy to wander into whatever strikes my fancy, but I decide to go with the predetermined flow. As soon as I walk in I see someone eating a chocolate croissant, and know that that is what I want. I debate getting a cappuccino, but go with water instead. Everyone’s everything is delicious, and as usual Ellie’s adventurous experimentation goes slightly awry. I do learn the word for pomegranate, which I have now forgotten, which Maicol (Michael, Ellie’s Italian tandem partner) tries to describe as an apple filled with grapes. Language barriers make us all think of the world in new ways.

We go to the big church in the center of town. Mass has just gotten out. There is a relic (much contested, my guidebook feels the need to emphasize) in this church. The soldier who pierced Jesus in the side scooped up handfuls of the dirt soaked by his blood and put it in chalices. Those are kept in an underground reliquary at the center of the church, and are brought out once a year. The inscription at the site reads something like ‘come and worship the price of your redemption,’ which I found to be a very interesting and thought-provoking wording.

Next we try to go to the Palazzo Ducale and unknowingly end up going under it and into a garden. On our way, though, we pass through a market and check out some shoe stores and get some delicious local cookies that we are still way too stuffed to eat but unable to turn down because Maicol bought them for us. We find an archaeological museum, and then to the lake. Mantova is mostly surrounded by a system of three lakes. After a bit of tomfoolery we head back and find the house upon which Verdi based the staging of several of his operas. There is a courtyard with a statue of Rigoletto, but we walk inside and it turns out that it is still a real house. With people living in it. So no tours. We  find the Palazzo this time, and go inside. They refuse to give us the student price because we are American/not from the EU, but we get in for free thanks to our student IDs, which claim we are art-history majors. I only wish I could have taken pictures, but then I would probably have 500. Grandeur after grandeur. Frescoes after frescoes. Sculpture after painting after tapestry after grand hall. I can’t even imagine living in that space. Holding courtly events and doing whatever nobles do, yes, but having breakfast, playing, no. It was vast. Look up pictures on the internet. I will say that it made me really appreciate knowing the things that I know (even if this statement makes it seem like I don’t know how to be articulate). Really, the whole day did. If I didn’t know as much art history, mythology, biblical content, and church history, I feel like I would not have been as equipped to appreciate everything I saw. Yes of course I can say it is beautiful, but I wouldn’t know the stories behind the images depicted, or know what was superficially being described by the information provided by the museum, or understand the terminology being used. It is funny that seeing ceilings with Icarus or the Trojan horse remind me of being a little kid.

After all of this it was past three and past stomach-grumbling time. The local food is tortelli di zucco, pumpkin-stuffed pasta. Yum. Interesting almost to the point of strange, but nevertheless good. Sweet almost to the point of being a dessert pasta, but cheesy enough to be right. At this point, we had intercepted Mauro, a local Ellie contacted via CouchSurfing, who offered to show us around.
We tried to go to the local theater where a 14-year-old Mozart had his debut, but it was full of fancy-looking people and our Italian companions advised we not go inside. So, I stood outside of where Mozart once played. Guidebooks are getting the squinty eye from me, right now. Next, the Palazzo Te, perhaps where I most wanted to go, after having read about the incredible frescoed dome it has. It was on the opposite side of town, so we started the long walk. We passed the stadium, where a motocross race was underway. I’m telling you, getting to this palazzo was like accomplishing Hercules’ 12 tasks. Just walking there was lengthy enough. Then, when we think we are close, we are confronted by the glittering and whirling of carnival rides. Apparently, in addition to having Oktoberfest on the third weekend of Every month, Mantova has a yearly carnival, and we of course had to get through it. As with so many things here, it was a curious mix of cultures. What is Italian carnival food? Fried things of course, but different. It is like being in a parallel universe, where everything seems the same until you get a closer look. Funnel cakes, but not. French fries on skewers. Things priced by the kilo. A goal-kicking game to win soccer jerseys next to a hoops-shooting game to win basketball jerseys. People in fur coats at the carnival.

At last we made it through and… the Palazzo Te was closed. Three minutes too long amidst the scents and lights and we missed the 30-minute admission cutoff prior to closing time. Alas. Another time?
We walked to the train station to get our tickets back, all the while plagued by indecision about when to return. We decide; we buy. Now what. More indecision. Hungry me + indecisive everyone else = grumpy me + assertive me. I set out on a quest for food and everyone follows. Where should we go? Here? There? No one seems willing to have a definitive opinion. I lead us into a kebab place, and the glow of slowly rotating golden chickens hypnotizes me. That. I want that. Ellie and I split a chicken. At first I try to be civilized, but with a plastic fork and no knife, I quickly toss my fork aside and go in for the kill – figuratively speaking. We end up talking about food qualms, and I say I mostly don’t have conceptual problems with food. By which I mean, just because it is supposed to be weird or gross does not keep me from being willing to try it and enjoying it. People throw about the idea of eating meats like dog or cat, and of course someone asks about humans. Would you?

We take the train back and I take the bus back and it goes everywhere past and around my stop except for my stop, but I make it home and there is more dinner waiting for me and I am happy. When I unlock the main gate, around the corner from our own gate, Jody barks. She has been alone all day and comes to corral me into the house. She circles me and sniffs me and ushers me in, repeatedly turning back to see if I am still there. She wants to follow me downstairs again. She sits at my feet while I eat. Jody missed me.

I am exhausted and planning on going to sleep early, but I get SuperBowl updates via Skype (thank you!) until the half, whereupon I actually go to sleep. At 2. This may very well be the first time I have not seen the superbowl. Can I guess how it ended? I would like to be wrong. (I was!)

Travel playlist excerpts:
Leftovers – Johnny Flynn
My Girls –  :Kinema:
Horchata – Vampire Weekend
Boy Lillikoi – Jónsi
Bulletproof – La Roux
Je Veux Te Voir – Yelle
Jarhand – Immaculate Machine
Starstruck – Lady GaGa and Flo Rida
Heavy Cross – Gossip
Houses – Great Northern
From Africa to Málaga – JJ
Find a new favorite song.

2. 8. 10
I had a meeting this morning but was really not motivated to get up. After pressing snooze the first time I put the alarm clock under the covers with me so as not to disturb the rest of the family. Well, that plan worked too well; it didn’t disturb me either. Luckily, I woke up 40 minutes later and not two hours later. I walked all the way to class for the first time, and it was a nice fifteen minutes or so. This optional meeting turned out to be a mostly pointless endeavor, so I didn’t feel too too bad about being late. Then I had about an hour and a half to have lunch and get to the university. I should have just brought my stuff with me and not gone home, but I was not quite so forward thinking (and hadn’t done my homework yet) so I went home. I scarfed down something delicious and fried and nameless and went to catch the bus. The thing about buses is that even if you are early, that won’t change what time they arrive; it just decreases your likelihood of missing them. The other thing about buses is that sometimes you have to take one away from your destination to be able to get on one that goes towards it. Still another thing about buses is that if your first bus is late, your lateness will be exacerbated by the fact that you will now probably be late for your next bus. The only upside to all of this lateness is that it gave me time to do my homework while at the bus stop. At least I can’t stress too much about trying to get there faster, because all I can do is sit. I make it to class a half hour late, fearing that I will stick out like a sore thumb delinquent, since I am the only ‘Pitzer’ student in my class. I am preparing my apologies, and wondering whether it is better to be brief or try to redeem myself by demonstrating a mastery of Italian via an eloquent explanation.

It turns out I am the first to arrive. I chat with the professor, and she shows me Carnevale recipes while we wait. She tells me fried foods (because essentially everything is some kind of fried donut, cookie, funnel cake pastry) are only eaten during the winter, when we want to be fat and warm, and that they are too heavy to be eaten during the summer, which would just be weird. I do not tell her that in America we eat fried food when it is over 100 degrees outside, and that it seems just right. People trickle in and we go over homework and such. We play a ‘game’ of matching verbs with nouns to create compound nouns (e.g. aspirapolvera, vacuum cleaner, literally 'dust-sucker'). I learn that they always become one word, not like the English hanky-panky of sometimes joined, sometimes just together, and sometimes hyphenated, and they are almost always masculine and don’t change from singular to plural. Vocab. This is something I am happy to learn. We bleed into the beginners’ class time and do an irregular pluralizing crossword puzzle with them. Forming plurals is complicated enough without crazy things like masculine singular nouns whose plural forms become feminine but have a singular ending. Either I learned a bunch of new rules or I was reminded of them, but it sure seemed like news to me. I almost wish I could sit in on their class, but I guess at this point I am mostly moving away from thinking about rules and just talking. Still, it was nice to be in class with my friends.

A few classes ago, I learned the word for the @, chiocciola, which is also the word for snail. Looks like one, doesn’t it?

I headed back, spent the usual unpredictable but long time waiting for the autonomous six, and finally made it home. Dinner was an experiment that seemed like it should have been really good but didn’t quite measure up: spinach and ricotta mash on a pizza crust. Ok, that description doesn’t sound that great, but the ingredients are all things I like. There was also another beautiful pineapple cake thing that I wish I could take a picture of, but the idea of taking picture of dinners at home always seems a little odd to me. Davide and Cristina discussed econ/accounting principles over dessert because Davide is studying for a final. Listening to that was like simultaneously listening to two foreign languages that you kind of understand. I was processing the fact that it was in Italian, as well as the jargon and concepts of their conversational content. It’s like brain yoga, or just contortionism.

I had been doing pretty well with the cold weather. I was dressing well and staying warm. It has been ‘warm’ enough that pretty much all of the snow and ice are gone, except for the dregs of a few large mounds. The problem is that I am entering the stubborn phase. I decide that it should not be cold anymore, and I start dressing as if this were true. But, obviously, this doesn’t make it any warmer; in fact, it makes me colder. But I am tired of wearing the same things over and over again. I feel like I should have brought more, but at the time it seemed like too much. What all was it that I brought?

2. 09. 10
My memory is getting confused. I remember snippets of dialogue from Italian TV in English, and I remember pieces of English conversations in Italian. At this point I am not even sure what language I am dreaming in. French tries to make a comeback at inappropriate moments.

Lots of thinking under the surface today. We had to go to the immigration office to do I’m still not sure what. We got there shortly before our 11 am appointment only to discover that people with a 9am appointment were still waiting. No real surprise, there. We sat. We waited. The waiting area was enclosed but for some reason outside. Fun. We ended up next to a Philippino man who spoke incredible English (which he learned while working in an airport, I think?) and I got to witness Ellie-the-people-meeter in action. I learned that he is a tenor and studies music in Parma; he has been here since 1998, and that his whole family, cousins, nieces, etc lives in Parma. And more. This is the first time during my stay that I have been around so many ‘foreigners.’ I see them on the bus every day, but we are certainly never the majority. A side note: When you are surrounded by your native language, it is easy to notice when someone is speaking a different one. When you are already always hearing a language you pseudo understand, it often takes a while to ascertain whether you are just really not succeeding at understanding Italian in that moment, or whether a different language is being spoken.

We started playing charades to distract ourselves from the cold and help the time pass. Well, playing charades while in an Italian line (aka clump/mass) is interesting to say the least.  It was finally my (first) turn, and I walked into the office. I got my fingerprints taken, and had a little chat with the finger-placer-woman, dressed in a purple sweater, about why I was in Italy. I think she was pleased with my Italian. It felt strange, though. It was surreal to be in a place that I don’t doubt incurs anxiety and fear in many who visit it. Here I am, a privileged American, with absolutely no concern or sense of consequence of this meeting, having a jolly chat with this woman. I think about what it would mean to be in an immigration office in the US. It’s just a little weird.

Being here in Italy, it is sometimes easy to forget that people don’t speak English (it shouldn’t be, but it is), and I find myself chatting away on the bus and then realizing that I am blatantly ‘otherizing’ myself. I wonder what kind of language stigmas there are, as much for me as for the African men I heard talking the other day, as for the innumerable other languages I hear but can’t identify.
Anyway, after my turn is over we resume the wait and resume charades. Time passes quickly enough, if coldly. We get our second call in, and have to sign something, to which our picture is affixed. Turns out my picture is unacceptable. I am thinking about emailing Scripps to tell them the pictures they provided are useless; every time one has been required and I have tried to use theirs, I have been told I need to acquire another one, pronto. So, I have to go to the photobooth outside and pay 10€ for a 5€ service from a machine that doesn’t give change. Grump grump. At least it’s kind of a nice picture.

Anyway, we leave and it is decision time. Home for lunch? Out for lunch? Straight to class, which has already begun? Skip class? We opt for gelato and being late to class. I get blackberry(?) and cream, and it is a delectable combination. Margerite and I set out for the University, and I discover a new potential way to get to there that does not involve my nemesis, the six. We arrive about an hour before class ends, but all the doors are locked. The building is kind of like a beta-fish tank embedded in your typical yellow Italian tile-roofed building, in that the three classrooms have glass walls separating them, and the outermost wall is glass as well. So, we are able to go around and get someone’s attention and we get let in. Class is class. We stay for a while in the next class, which to some degree I seem to enjoy more than my own. It’s the beginner class, so I don’t know if what I am learning is things I forgot or things I was never taught. Either way, Margerite and I head back and as soon as I get home I get to scarfing. Pasta, and a fish that somehow tasted like popcorn. And more pasta.

Dinner is a particularly good minestrone (rice in a vegetable broth) and this mysterious breaded thing. It is shaped like a semicircle and I wonder whether it is just a different shape of fishstick. It turns out to be full of cheese. So it seems it is kind of like fried mozzarella but with a different kind of cheese inside. Apparently some of them also had prosciutto inside, but none of mine did.

It turns out Leonardo lives near me, so he offered me a ride to XXL tonight. We pick up his other friend, whose name I can’t remember but I think she must be a nurse because they start talking about ambulances and blood and injections. Ook. We get to the club and I see a giant sign that says XXL. My first thought jumps to the Super Bowl I missed, and I wonder whether they showed it here. Then I remember that SuperBowl XXL was a while ago, and that that is just the name of the club. Alas.

Once inside, Leonardo and I start dancing, and he seems much more game to play teacher with me, perhaps because fewer of is female friends are around. He is in a salsa class, and usually they all come together to practice and have fun. I spend most of the night dancing with various people. I get asked whether I am Cambodian. It is interesting to dance with different people, because you start to get a sense of their style, and each person tends to favor certain moves and ‘tricks.’ The thing is just to not start trying to predict, where you will be led, and just feel it when you are directed. I manage to take a break before the switch to reggaeton. I often tend to assimilate other people’s dance moves into my repertoire, but to be honest I hope I do not start dancing like Italians. My style feels a little out of place in the midst of theirs.

Salsa recommences and Leonardo says he will dance the last bachata with me, but in the meantime I wait. A really really short guy, and I say this not to be mean but to be accurate – in heels I was about a head taller than him, asks me to dance. While there is an array of tall people, mostly standing around the walls, I am definitely in the average height of the people dancing, men and women included. After this I sit for a bit and try to watch people’s feet. Some other guy asks me to dance and I figure why not? That’s what I’m here for. He is obviously a really good dancer, even if he is not the best lead. I spend so much time spinning I haven’t figured out what dance we are doing. Eventually I realize that it is another salsa. I tell him to take it easy because I am still learning, and he kind of does but kind of doesn’t, which is fine. He likes to lead with just one hand, which is a little trickier. After this song I sit and see him dancing with someone else, who at least looks as slightly lost as I felt, and this makes me feel better. I also realize that this guy is the guy I noticed earlier with forearm tattoos in Old English lettering. While dance I hear Johnny Castle’s voice in my head (aka Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing) and try to be aware of my frame and avoid ‘spaghetti arms.’ It kind of makes a difference, when I can remember. A really big sweaty guy who is one of the people working the event, with whom I also danced last time, asks me to dance. He is the firmest lead on the face of the earth. It is impossible to do anything but what he wants you to do, and that is fine with me. The last bachata commences and Leonardo appears and we dance. I think it turns out to be two songs. Other than the guy before him, he is definitely the best lead I dance with. Last song, the night is over. Oh wait, there’s one more one more song and this guy appears asking me to dance. Right away he asks me where I am from, but everybody does that. As always, I am never quite sure what to say, but I tell him I am from the US. Oh, he says, I thought you were South American. Well, I am, kind of; I am Guatemalan. Oh! He is Colombian, and thought I might be as well. We switch to Spanish and after my brain’s brief linguistic confusion it is so refreshing to be speaking a language I don’t have to fumble around and rephrase in. I get a pues in there and it is even better.

Now the night ends for real and we head home. I am ready to get out of my heels and into my bed.

..... Photos from Mantova ......