Perusing Paris

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.

Making it count: travel updates by the numbers

Countries vistited: 4
Austria, Slovakia, Czech Republic, Germany

Languages attempted: 3
German, Slovak, Czech, (but have also used English, Spanish, Italian, and French)

Cities seen: 5
Vienna, Bratislava, Prague, Plzeň, Berlin

Hours spent on trains: 27

Beers tasted: 18 and counting
Urbock 23 Eggenherg ('the cognac of beers'), Wieselburger, Spiegl, Pilsner Urquell, Pilsner Urquell (unpasteurized and unfiltered), Dark Staropramen, Budvar, Budvar Dark, Gambrinus, X33, Pivovarsky Dum's sampler (light, dark, sour cherry, coffee, wheat, banana, nettle, monthly special)
When good beer is cheaper than water, there's just no excuse.

Museums seen: 5
Leopold Museum, Albertina, Secession, Belvedere, Mucha

Misadventures had: 1.5
An epic tale of tracking the nonexistent Parma FedEx the day before my departure, seeking my absentee train ticket, but it all worked out.
Getting fined 700 Kc on a a Prague tram for not having validated the ticket immediately upon boarding

Kilometers walked: uncountable
Ask the soles of my feet. Perhaps they know. Perhaps my maps know. Ask the z's I start to leave on my pillow the second I lay down my head.

Days remaining: 15 (unless the airlines and the volcanoes have something to say about it)
Enough or not enough?


A journal excerpt from Day One:
On the train to Vienna. We cross into Austria, and by 630 I am awoken and don't dare close my eyes again. It is amazing how visually apparent it is that we are in a completely different place. We sure ain't in Kansas no more. I don't mind the gloomy forecast because it makes the current sights so mystically spectacular. Coniferous forests and the mountainside, shrouded in clouds. Every now and then the sun breaks out and that fleeting hint of a blue dawn is all the more spectacular. Along the sides of the tracks it is like a lincoln log playground, and surrounded by so many beautiful green trees it is the first time that the sight of logging doesn't come with a pang of guilt. Silver rivers cut through the verdor and my Seattle companion, Ellie, says it draws home to mind. I spy some brown cows (how now?) and I feel at home, too. The architecture can only be described as quaint and quintessential. Angled roofs, angled wooden accents on pastel siding. Steeples look like ergonomic stacks of ice cream scoops, topped with a shining golden accesory. There is a mysterious phenomenon now known as the Christmas tree on a stick or, more succinctly, the Christmas kebab.
All I can think is that I hope I remember this forever. Day one, maxing out at around five hours of sleep, and already there is so much wonder to behold.

And with some adventures, January says ciao

1. 29. 10
Being Friday, I had no class. As usual, I woke up early but had little motivation to exit the warmth of bed, and so I remained there until around noon. After lunch I firmed my resolve to do something with my day, and decided to do some wandering around town. I met Matt and we started at Barriera Bixio to see what we would see. It seems like there is a church on every corner, and we found one with an ice skating rink outside. I took pictures of the alley-like streets, with houses in pink, turquoise, yellow, orange, white, and the like. I indulged a little and took some pictures of rusty crusty things. At the Santa Croce piazzale, we went into the church. It was at once small, vast, ornate, and humble. Compared with cathedrals, it was nothing, but its fresco-covered, relief-encrusted surface makes you think about how much work went into its existence and its appearance. Would that we would give as much devotion to our devotions as those who lent their hands to this church. Across the street from there was the Parco Ducale (on Via John Fitzgerald Kennedy), a huge park we learned about in class earlier this week. It has a big lake at one end, and several centuries ago was the place to see and be seen. Geese, sculptures, bare trees, snowdrifts, and a statue with lipstick. From there I think we ended up at the river, aptly named Parma. I wanted to go see the Ponto di Nazioni, bridge of nations, which has 36 different flags hanging from it. We saw a staircase descending from the bridge we were on, down to the riverside, and another at the other bridge, so we went down to investigate. Let me just say, the bank of this river is about as pleasant as the bank of a bayou, except grassy, which I would argue only provides better cover for litter. Anyway, it was a short stint off the beaten path that was neither fruitful nor harmful. The stairway up, though spiral and aesthetically pleasing, was so mud- and ice-caked that it seems like it is working on turning into a slide… accessorized with more litter and bloody Kleenex. Once back at the top, we took pictures of the flags, and so on. What I have yet to discover is why the countries represented are represented: Brazil, Austria, Tunisia, USA, and so on. We ran into Isabella and Sky and her tandem partner, and about half an hour later we ran into Liam as well. You know it is a small town or that there isn’t much to do when you manage to run into four of the maybe 20 or so people you know in the entire city. About three and a half hours after setting out, we made our way back to Bixio, where I took the bus and headed home. Also, at some point, we saw a friar get out of a taxi. Somehow, this was very cute and poignant. (I have since also seen a nun on a bicycle, and a nun strike up a casual chat with two amorous teens on a bus. Also cute and humorous).

The story is never over quite so easily. Every day requires a bus adventure. So I got on the six going in the right direction. I knew where I had to get off, and I pressed the stop-request button after the stop before mine and before my stop. Everything should have gone smoothly, right? Well for some reason unbeknownst to me, the bus driver decided to zoom on past my stop, and on to the next one. I paid attention, and figured I would just walk back. Curse these darn roundabouts! I am usually really well-oriented, but with these it is not a simple matter of going right or left or straight at an intersection, and I am never sure how much around I need to go. So I picked a street and started walking, but I realized that while it was headed towards my house, it was not the street where my stop was, and I didn’t really know how to get home from there. As I am wondering whether to call my family and tell them I am lost, I see another bus, which would actually take me closer to home than the one that I was on previously. Alas it is uncatchable, but I head back to where it came from and hope I can catch the next one; standing for ten minutes is better than wandering aimlessly for perhaps even longer. It always surprises me how short a distance seems by bus, and how long it becomes when you find yourself alone, uncertain, and on foot. I get to the stop and cross my fingers, because there is only one bus left to catch before the buses go to bed for the night. I wait; I catch it; I get home; all is well.


Today I learned that most of Japan’s tuna comes from Italy, but Italy might be limiting tuna fishing to help protect the species. 

 

 

 

1. 30. 10

We went to Bologna today, and I was on my feet from about nine to nine, minus two hours on the bus. (Ok, minus lunch, too). I got up at eight, something I was honestly only inclined to do because I am in Italy and trying to optimize, and met up at the train station at nine. I was really glad Giulia happened to get on my bus, otherwise I would have spent the entire ride second-guessing whether I would actually end up at the train station, even though I had already ascertained that this would be so by walking over yesterday. We meet up with the group, and it turned out it would be all of us except for Margerite. We are so many that we get a group discount on our tickets to Bologna. Oh boy, a whole fifty cents! (But still.) The ride is about an hour, and I drift in and out of sleep while eavesdropping on a woman from Liguria talking to Giulia about everything under the sun, including Spanish literature and how beautiful her hometown is.

Bologna is, like the rest of my world of late, gray and cold. I am not regretting wearing two pairs of socks. To be honest, I don’t know what we did in Bologna. We started with the weekly market, an interesting blend of stands, to be sure. It had everything from vintage thrift-store-like booths, international trinkets, fur stoles, goth getups, smoking accessories, high tops, and sleeveless flannel. On the other side of the street was perhaps the more normal or wearable items, and housewares like bath mats and curtains.

After a while of this, the walking really started. We went and went and went. We stopped in a really good, highly recommended pizza place that is super cheap and has been around since the 50’s, and I had a cheese and anchovy pizza. Again you had to pay first and then receive, and the woman tried to give me a plain cheese pizza, and was very annoyed when I tried to tell her that that was not what I ordered, but the woman at the cashier backed me up. This makes me further question whether my experience at the train station on the first day was another careless ignoring of what was on my receipt, or whether the cotoletta was indeed the Panini Party. Anyway, anchovies in hand, I was a happy camper. Next, for some reason, was lunch. We really wanted lasagna, which is apparently the traditional dish of bologna, but somehow we ended up at an eatery on the third floor of a bookstore. They had a huge beer selection, and I was hoping to get some, but it seemed incongruous when other people ordered wine for the whole table. Twice thwarted. Afterwards, while some people went to grab coffee, Matt and Lauren and Ellie and I went to a chocolate and gelato place, and I savored a dark Aztec chocolate and a (also South American) dark chocolate gelato; one was made with water and was more chocolaty and the other was made with milk and was more creamy.

From that point began what seemed like endless wandering. The reason we came to Bologna today was because it was a special day when museums are free and stay open until midnight and there are a ton of cool art events. Well, it turned out that that didn’t start until eight and we would be leaving before then, so I’m not quite sure why we went today in particular, but it was cool to see Bologna nonetheless. We walked in a lot of circles, went into one art gallery with a collection of landscape paintings from a few centuries ago to very abstract ones from recent years, and found a cool random installation in an alley. The walkway of a snazzy shopping area (Chanel, La Perla, etc.) was lined with small potted kumquat trees and, after debating the impropriety of doing so, I gave in (after about five seconds) and picked several and ate them. Yay! At some point, we went to a beautiful old old church complex including the Chiesa San Stefano with the remains of Saint Pietronio, the patron saint of Bologna and the Chiesa di San Sepolcro. (According to my guidebook, it contains the basin where Pontius Pilate absolved himself of responsibility for Christ’s death.) We passed amazing window displays of homemade pasta and stuffed pastas, the now-standard cheese and meats, and the mandatory chocolate wonderlands. Just walking into one of the latter is like breathing in paradise. When we made it back to the main square, butcher paper had been rolled out over its entirety, and paint and brushes and even street-sweeping-esque brooms set out. Some people had gone all out and painted huge portraits or swirls of colors, and others wrote messages, à la ‘she loves him.’ Then as we sought a café, all of us Americans managed to fall behind and lose the Italians. We figured they would quickly notice that they had misplaced the seven of us in their care and return for us, but no such luck. After trying calling and the ‘stay where you are until you get found’ approach, we finally managed to get a hold of them. Apparently, they felt significantly less concern than we might have preferred, and found the café and had decided to go on ahead and drink their cappuccinos. Eventually, we reunited in the main square, after being uselessly told that they were near a church past a fruit vendor – because there isn’t one of those on every street. Anyway, we began to evaluate. Some people headed home, some went to the bathroom, some went to a gallery, some went shopping. There is a 500-plus-stair tower in the center of Bologna that we wanted to go to the top of. I had felt that it was most logical to go early in the day, but we picked now, and it was closed. Alas. Perhaps meaning that we should return one day in these next few months. So, we wandered around until it was time to meet up with the rest of the group at the train station. Wandering seems like the theme of the day, no? Delightfully, we made it to the station about 20 minutes before the next train to Parma, and didn’t have to wait long to get off our feet.

Throughout the day, I found myself making ‘clouds parting, angelic chorus’-type sounds whenever I made a discovery. A little weird, but perhaps the effect Italy has on me. That, and yelping when I feel in minor danger of being run over by a motor vehicle. Crossing the street is an act of willpower, and cars seem to feel no inclination to slow down or give you a little space when they pass you as you are walking on the side of the road.

On the train, Giulia talked our ears off. Matt asked her about her take on America, since she studied in Boston for a semester. As I said before, it is always interesting to hear about how we are perceived by ‘outsiders.’ She talked about the American friendliness, how strangers smile at you on the street. She talked about how practical we are when it comes to appearance; if we need to be glamorous, we very much can be, but otherwise it is comfort as much as appearance. The only thing she complained about was perhaps the bastardization of Italian food in the US. ‘How is an ‘Italian Sandwich’ meatballs in bread? We would never do that!’ Also, she really took up issue with the idea of toppings on ice cream. Oreos and gummy bears? Not ok.

How to get home from the train station? We managed to jump on the last 6, which goes towards the airport and far far from anything like home, but after its route is over it has to go by Bixio, so the driver acquiesced and let us stay on until then. Then, hooray hooray, I got a text from Christina asking if I needed a ride home from the station. She picked me and Isabella up from Bixio, and en un dos por tres I was home and eating homemade pizza and grilled pumpkin. Yum. Best of all, my shoes are off.

Word of the day: salire = to ascend

Neptune fountain in the main square. Look closely (or click to enlarge). How many people do you think have made 'water of life' jokes?

What my life (and the inside of my stomach) looks like:


1. 31. 10
What. A. Day. I set my alarm and pondered waking up early, but I did not. However, I was fairly industrious once I did. I did some yoga and took a shower. While I was drying off, I heard a little voice, and wondered whether there was a child in the house or whether it was just the tv. It turns out it was the neighbor kid, Pietro, maybe five years old. If you have seen that adorable youtube video of the little French girl telling that animal story, imagine a slightly older, male, Italian version of that and you wouldn’t be too far off. So, unbeknownst to me, here is the scene that was unfolding whilst I showered:
 My dad told this little boy that they had an American girl living in the house. Pietro was not sure whether to believe him, and kept creeping over to the top of the stairs, trying to catch a glimpse of me. No such luck. He decided I did not exist. Paolo called out to me, and by coincidence I had just opened my bathroom door, so I heard and answered. Now, little Pietro was consumed with fear and ran down the hall to hide (never mind the fact that I was still downstairs) and exhorted, complete with typical Italian gesture, ‘but why, why do you have an American in your house?!’
All of this I found out later, when it was recounted to Pietro’s father. I met Pietro when I came up for brunch, and watched him alternately hide from me and stare at me.

Afterwards I did laundry and vacuumed, and felt very accomplished. A couple days ago, my mom had taught me how to use their washing machine. I did everything as instructed, and nothing happened. I asked for her help and she did everything I did, but things happened. Then, it seemed like the longest cycle on the face of the earth. I was afraid it would never end, and that I was somehow supposed to do something to make it stop.

In the night or early morning, it snowed. Really snowed. Inches. So, it was decided that we would go to the mountain house, and make sure the water didn’t freeze and the pipes didn’t burst. They asked me to consider the pros and cons:
Pros: snow, fresh mountain air, sunshine, deer, hares
Cons: cold, potential encounter with semi-deaf and grumpy grandma, cold, hour-long drive, cold
… as if it weren’t cold no matter where we are. Obviously, I went with yes, and up the mountain we went.

I’ve seen snow before, but never like this. I’ve been on snowy mountains, but never like this. Mountain after mountain blanketed in feet of snow. Now more reason for me to understand why people say snow is better out of the city. In the city it grows brown so quickly, but here the dirtiest it gets is the bits of dark grass that peek out through the snow, looking like a bad shave. The world is new, or maybe five o’clock old. On the way up I saw a deer; we ran up behind several snowplows, and a cat and a couple of dogs. We also drove by a rock formation, a set of rocks rising up out of the mountainside and tracing a line for who knows how far, called I Salti del Diavolo (The devil’s jumps). When we finally got out of the car, I couldn’t stop laughing. Snow! I was knee deep in snow! I was like a five year old. Right away, I set about to making a snowman. I had never really made one, except for a foot-tall one of mostly ice, in the summer on a mountain in Colorado. Anyway, I didn’t know the proper technique, or whether there was one, but I improvised. My short-lived attempts to emulate remembered illustrations of people rolling giant cohesive snowballs seemed like trying to emulate myth. Instead, I started building a column, and planned to carve it out to create the effect of stacked spheres. I got partway through this endeavor, but everyone else was calling to me to come do other snowy things, so my pupazzo di neve never quite reached the level of perfection to which I aspired. It will have to be another time. We tried our hand (rears?) at trash bag sledding, but the snow was too fluffy and deep. I traded in my trash bag for snowshoes (ciaspole). These, too, I also only had childhood illustrations to go on, and it turns out my references are rather antiquated. I was expecting racket-like dealies to strap to my feet. Instead, I had some bright turquoise, mini-ski-like contraptions whose purpose I would never have been able to identify were it not for the fact that I already knew it. I strapped them on and went up and down and around, retracing pre-packed tracks and making my own. By this time, a good slide had been carved into the snow, and I trashbagged my way down again and again, taking a brief break to make the necessary snow angel.  Meanwhile, a dad and daughter who are friends of my family came by to visit. The dad told me that he used to play baseball, and that their team’s jerseys were the same as what we now call the Astros’ throwback jerseys.

After all of the energy expended in the snow, it was time to go inside and dry off and warm up. Suddenly I discovered that my gloves were sodden and that there was snow in my shirt and in my shoes. With the inside of the house struggling to reach 10°C, a place in front of the fireplace has never been so well appreciated. We snacked on Christmas foods: Pane d’oro and chocolate-covered torrone. Attempts at hot chocolate proved burnt and terrible, so we drank tea. Eventually, it grew dark and perhaps even colder, and it was decided it was time to return. Alas, no visit to lonely grumpy grandma today. Before loading up the car, I took the opportunity to marvel at the stars visible from where we were. My old friends, Orion and Cassiopeia were around, but where was the moon? We piled into the car and headed back down the mountain. We spotted a hare that looked like a small dog. As we approached town, I saw a glimmer behind dark clouds, and suspected the beginnings of a spectacular moonrise. I was not disappointed. A huge yellow moon soon appeared, sliced by strips of dark clouds, and if I were ever to make a werewolf movie, I could not hope for a better moon. But, it was one of those things you can only really photograph with your mind.

Home was dinner, soup, of course. Here, they say that if you eat too much parmesan cheese you’ll end up with a moustache, so don’t be surprised if you see me sporting a handlebar when I return, because it goes on everything.

Words of the day:
Capriolo = deer sans horns

 

 

Click here for the whole photo album!

Four days of ordinary time

1. 25. 10
This morning was our first time going to the university. We met the Boston College students, and all took a placement test. I will brag a little and tell you I got the highest score (my host family was not surprised). We were divided into two groups based on our scores, and the other three pitzer students are in the other group. Oh well. Time to expand my friendship group.

It snowed! It was really light, but still kind of exciting. It’s supposed to snow harder tomorrow.
Today for lunch, in addition to pasta and meat and cheese, we had grilled pumpkin and zucchini. I’m usually not a big fan of pumpkin, but in such thin slices and with char, it was pretty good. Davide, the eternally disappeared brother, made an appearance today.

After lunch, I met up with the other three advanced students in Piazza Garibaldi. Isabella and I discovered that we live really close to each other, and ended up on the same bus on the way there. While waiting for Sky, we saw a funny-looking group of guys who seemed like musicians or at the very least wannabes. After giggling and trying to take a couple subtle pictures of ‘ourselves’ aka them in the background, we saw them staring at us, and suddenly one asked, in English, if we were ‘from the States.’ They told us they were in a band performing at a bar tonight and that we should come and have a beer with them. Right. (We also ran into them about an hour or two later while crossing the street, and they said ‘hey Americans!’ and patted one of us on the back, thankfully not me.) Anyway, we went to H&M, of course feeling compelled to go shopping in Europe in a store we can find in America. After that we walked back and headed to Chocolat Milano, a magical chocolate and gelato place that has been haunting me since Saturday. They have a ton of delicious flavors, at least six of which are different varieties of chocolate (milk, dark, orange, cherry, etc.) I got dark chocolate and berry (frutta dei boschi), which was the perfect combination.

Earlier we had perused Via Farini to scope out the wine bars, but when we got there around 10 it seemed as though most everything was closed or dead (admittedly not terribly surprising on a Monday night). Luckily, we found one place that was open and lively and we had a great time. We drank Lambrusco, a slightly fizzy (it is really hard not to always say 'frizzy' when the Italian word for fizzy is frizzante) red wine. (The next day in class, we learned that it is the locally produced wine.) I mentioned earlier that locks and keys are very different here. We took a picture, and one of us courtesy of the coquettish waiter.

Even if I can’t yet discern vast improvements in my grammar, it is nice to be making measurable progress. Every day, just in the course of normal conversation, I learn new words.
Rubinetto – water faucet
Sparire – disappear
Rubare – to rob/steal
Ladro – robber/thief
And so on. More, I hear and lean to understand, but have yet internalized. Then there are words that have subtle differences that I am still teasing out.
Magari/forse – maybe/perhaps (?)
I keep hearing riuscire, and I have yet to figure out exactly what it means.

On my first night, I learned an important distinction. My host dad was watching a Pink Floyd concert on the TV upstairs, and when I came up I told him I had heard it from my room and recognized it. He kept telling me that I couldn’t hear it from my room, and I tried to explain to him that I could. After both of us stubbornly repeating ourselves, I finally realized that what I was saying was that I was listening to it in my room, which obviously I was not and could not because the tv was upstairs. So,
Ascoltare = listen
Sentire = hear

Words/phrases I’d like to learn
Sneeze (actually, I asked at dinner today, but even though I repeated it to myself several times, I can no longer remember)
Cross the street

1. 26. 10
Today was a short day. Not having class in the morning, I had the luxury of waking up at noon. I met up with people to have lunch in ‘the best pizzeria in town.’ I decided to take the 6, and theoretically was five minutes early, but the bus was eight minutes late. When the six shows up, there are two of them, and I take the one that says Barriera Bixio. Wrong. Turns out that’s the last stop and I get kicked off. Now what? I walk. At least now I’ve realized that whatever it says on the front of the bus is its last stop. Anyway, I make it to the restaurant, about 20 minutes late, and meet everyone else. I order a Ceci, a pizza with mozzarella and tomatoes and basil. (This name now seems weird to me, because I have learned that ceci is the word for chickpea/garbanzo, neither of which were involved in this pizza.) It’s a deep dish! It was good, but way too much. Pretty much pizza stuff on top of a loaf of bread.

Then a quick jaunt home for school stuff and then over to class. I see the bus go by the stop about a minute before I get there, so I figure I might as well try to walk. Well, after a bit I realize I don’t quite know where I’m going, so I walk back to the stop just in time to catch the next bus. It’s amazing how much faster a bus is, even over short distances. It had been sprinkling snow a bit on the way to class, but by the end of class there were big fluffy flakes and snow accumulating on the cars and leaves and everything flat. Of course, this is the day I get off a stop too early. No matter. Dinner is eggs and mashed potatoes made with Parmesan Cheese (!) and the usual bread and cheese, etc. I am officially in love with Asiago cheese, but am also enjoying Branzi.

1. 27. 10
This morning, for the first time, the sun was streaming in through the windows, and it looked like a beautiful day. I had to remind myself, as I often must in Claremont, that just because it was sunny didn’t mean it was warm. I did a little bit of yoga, because strange places in my body are not appreciating the fact that I sleep on a futon.

Today is called the day of remembrance, and most of Europe remembers those who were killed in the Holocaust. I saw some flags at half-mast. Survivors, or perhaps just anyone who was alive at that time and is willing, go into elementary schools to tell their stories to educate and prevent anything similar from happening in the future. It is also the 109th anniversary of Verdi’s death.

Lunch was a pasta that looked like linguini but had some other name, and fish that I think was sole (but it turns out most Italian animal names are completely not what they sound like they might be).
Class was a surprisingly interesting lecture about the formation of the European Union and the history and attractions of a few Italian regions. Perhaps more than being interesting, the pace was fast enough that nothing became too overworked. While in class, since today was the first sunny day of my stay, I also managed to catch a view of the first sunset of my stay. All I can say is that I can’t wait to be outside for one: vivid oranges and purples made a color palette altogether different from any that I have seen before. After class I stopped by a Tabaccheria to get some more postcards and some school supplies. This may have provided me with a way to understand how many of the other students feel on a daily basis. I learned classroom vocab three years ago, which means I forgot most of it two and a half years ago, which means that I had a really hard time communicating what I wanted to the shopkeeper. She just looked at me blankly and annoyedly, and offering me things that I did not want. Eventually, I settled for a notebook of graph paper and a non-mechanical pencil, because I didn’t want to draw things out even more. Note to self: learn more relevant terminology before another attempt. On my way home I had fun crunching through the snow that hadn’t melted away during the day.

Dinner was a delicious chicken in tomato sauce, apparently concocted using the leftover sauce from lunch, but it might have been my favorite of what I’ve eaten so far. Also, we had fresh mozzarella. All the cheese I eat here makes me wonder what the heck it is that we eat in the U.S. After dinner, because today is the day it is, there were a ton of holocaust movies on. We watched The Boy in the Striped Pajamas, which is about as depressing as it gets. All of us were expecting/hoping for a happy ending, but no such luck.

1. 28. 10
First day of real Italian class. After warming up, we talked about the Day of Remembrance, and thanks to my family’s news watching tendency, I was the only one who knew what it was. Among other things, we watched some youtube interviews of Primo Levi, Italy’s native equivalent of Elie Wiesel. He wrote a beautiful and painful poem, called ‘If this is a man,’ about his experience in Auschwitz.

Lunch was pasta, which seemed to come out of a wok, which I don’t quite understand. They really do make their pasta al dente here, though. We also had a really unusual sounding but remarkably delicious salad: fresh mozzarella, tuna, chickpeas, onion, red cabbage, and either regular cabbage or lettuce. Afterwards, Leti took me to a shopping center north of town. I suppose it was pretty big for Parma, but in comparison to our malls, it was tiny. They had maybe 50 stores and it was one story. They did have a sandwich café with a wall of prosciutto hanks (?), which was pretty cool.

Because it was so small, we finished in about an hour, which gave me time to come home and take a nap before meeting with Alice. I feel like we spoke way more English than Italian, but I guess that’s ok. She has a big interview for a job in London on Wednesday, so she needed the practice more than I did. We both had cappuccinos, which might be the only form of coffee I am ready to accept into my lifestyle (other than frappuccinos, which once mocha-ized can barely qualify as coffee). It was good to talk to her. Often when I am talking, I know that I am probably making mistakes and wish that people would correct me. In talking to her, I understood why people don’t. it would be exhausting, distracting, and kind of demoralizing to try to correct every little thing, especially when the message is clear. So, I just pointed out a few things every now and then, like when she said cooker instead of cook, or doctoress in reference to a female doctor. She invited me to a lot of things, but sometimes I got confused about whether I was really invited or whether she was just being nice. I would definitely like to hang out with her and her friends, who are also pretty near to me in age. I want to befriend and hang out with Italians so that I can occasionally really be in Italian, sans the American Student Posse.

Cristina and I met up with three of her guy friends to go see ‘Avatar’ at 9:30. Ten euros! Ah well, it was all for the experience. At first, my eyelashes kept brushing up on the glasses, and the film was making my body indecisive about whether it wanted to get a headache or be nauseous. I definitely appreciated the random four-minute break in the middle. I had had some mild trepidation about whether I would be able to understand the dialogue, but I didn’t have much trouble. There were some words I didn’t quite catch, but overall what I really liked was that I also wasn’t translating the whole thing; I was just listening and understanding. Was it worth ten euro (aka 15 bucks)? I don’t know. I wished I could have listened to the linguistics of the native language more, but I was busy trying to read and understand Italian subtitles. Overall, though, it was a cool experience and also an affirming experience about my level of Italian comprehension. Now I just have to be able to speak as well as I understand. When we left it was cooold: -8 degrees Celsius of cold.

Words I want to learn:
Ascend
Anyway

Wherefore art thou, Romeo?

1. 24. 10: Verona

Last night was quite the night. It seems like even clubbing is entrenched in procedural beurocracy. To get there, we take the disco bus, which you have to pay for and then get reimbursed for once you arrive. You have to buy a card to be able to pay to get in, but thankfully Cristina let me use hers. You get a pass which you later go pay for to get a receipt which you show to the bartender to get the drink included in your admission. You have to stand in a line (but there's really no such thing as lines in Italy, just more aggressive and less aggressive clumpers) to check your coat. So, we met at 11 and did not end up dancing until after 1. The club, Fuora Orario, is really close to the train tracks, so it is modeled after a train station, and has train cars wher eyou can sit and eat. It has two separate areas, one for house and pop, one for rock, and the inbetween outside I was told was hiphop but seemed to be mostly reggae. It seemed strange to me to have rock/metal playing in a club, but watching Italian metalheads was pretty entertaining. We took the last bus back -- at 315 in the morning -- and after getting to the central piazza we started the long walk home, which ended around 430. (I now know it really isn't that far, but I guess we were being kind of leisurely, and were not 100% sure where we were going.)

Cristina invited me to go on a day trip with her and Antionio, and my mom suggested that I invite Matt, 'l'unico ragazzo' (the only boy, as everyone refers to him). An hour and a bit later, we were in Verona, home of Romeo and Juliet. The way was gray and full of fields, but we also passed an Ikea and the Barilla factory (Barilla products come from Parma; support our local economy!). Also, we passed under a bridge built by famous architect Calatrava. Apparently, you have to pay to use the highway here, so you get a ticket when you get on, turn it in at the exit, and are charged based on how far you went. Verona: what a beautiful city. Granite paving in the piazzas, and an arena like a small Coliseum that is now used for concerts and such, and everything old and ornate. It seemed as though with every step there was another picture that demanded to be taken. We started out with coffee to warm us up and wake us up, and I had a cappuccino, which I definitely prefer to straight coffee. We also got the good advice never to get a coffee in the main square, particulary in a touristy area, because it will be significantly more expensive. I have noticed that here in Italy there are often many more expenses (e. g. paying for the highway) but food is often much more reasonably priced. Next, the Arena. Of course, my camera batteries died. For the rest of the night I had to be rather judicious with my picture taking, but between restraint and letting my camera rest every now and then, I managed to take pictures of most things I liked, and the rest I can acquire from Matt.

All along the main streets were a ton of stores, from Luis Vuitton to the Disney Store to Italian clothing shops to fur stores. You know somewhere is touristy when the word SALE on the storefront is written in English, Spanish, Italian, French, and even sometimes German and Russian. It is definitely a new experience to see so many people wearing fur coats, but then again I have never been anywhere cold enough for it to be remotely reasonable. We visited Juliet's home and saw the balcony from which she and Romeo allegedly had their famous exchange. It is traditional for lovers to write their names on the wall or on a piece of paper and attach it to the wall, so it is an interesting blend of old meets new as you approach. Also, there is a sculpture of Juliet, and it is customary to put your hand on her right breast when you take a picture (I have no idea why), so it is quite worn and polished.

We walked over to the river, which at night was of course a beautiful sight. We had panzerotta, like a pizza empanada more than like a calzone (in terms of the dough), with cheese and tomato inside. Delicious, fresh out of the oven, and perfect for the cold night. Next we sought a place to partake in apperitivo: an evening drink with free snacks. We had Sprizz, some citrusy mixed drink invented in Verona.

(relief map of Verona in the Piazza, the big round thing is the Arena)

When we had been up in the Arena, we saw children scaling and sliding down this big star/comet sculpture. Walking by it on our way back to the car, we decided to do the same.



What I learned today:
A  player on the Parma soccer team lives in our building. He does Gillette commercials. He is also afraid of Jody.

It continues, to be continued

I am trying to catch up, but lest things become too drawn out, what follows are excerpts from journal entries. You will just have to believe me when I tell you this is the abridged version.

1. 22. 10
Scavenger hunt (caccia tesoro) in the town center:
I met up with my partner, and it quickly became evident that we did not care too much about achieving the directives of the hunt; we were more interested in going wherever our eyes drew us. We found a chocolate shop with at least ten different flavors of chocolate gelato (milk, dark, pepper, orange, cherry, etc.). Honestly, any food item in any window looked scrumptious. Pizza, sandwiches, pastries; our mouths were always watering. We wandered everywhere and anywhere. We went into a department store and I got some shampoo. It’s funny to try to navigate toiletries when you’re not sure exactly what they say or even what they are, and even funnier when you find things like ‘gluteal volumizing lotion’ (increases by 2-3 cm and improve firmness of skin!). One thing I see everywhere, for men, women, and children, are shiny puffy purple jackets. If you see them in the US, you will know they were here first.

A couple times, when we were feeling a bit more on task, we asked people for directions to certain areas. Despite the overwhelming friendliness and eagerness to help, even if you can understand the words of the directions they are giving you, that does not mean you can understand what or where the reference points are, but at least you get a gist of the general direction you should hope to go. It seems like on every few blocks there is a statue or a memorial or a church, and we saw so many buildings that seemed significant, but often we could not figure out what made them important.

After about two hours of wandering in the near-zero (Celsius) weather, we decided it was time to rest our feet and warm up with some of Italy’s famed hot chocolate. It was…different. I actually like it because it wasn’t overwhelmingly sweet, but in terms of appearance and consistency, it was essentially a cup full of melted chocolate, and I ate it with a little spoon. As we were preparing to leave, we were exposed to the first of many inescapable reminders of the American invasion, and ‘Fireflies’ started playing on the radio. Is it appropriate here to say, ‘small world’?

I got on the right bus to go home this time, but my life on public transit seems incomplete without the little details. I was the last person left on the bus as we approached my stop, and there was another bus parked to the left. Perhaps the driver was a little overconfident, but we hit the other bus. Exactly next to where I was standing. No big deal, and as I got out the driver smilingly hopped out to assess the results and consult with the driver of the bus he’d hit.

In language classes, when it is obvious that everyone is lost, there is always a point when the professor is willing to switch into English just to make sure everyone understands. Here, there is no such option. Listening to my mom and sister discuss amongst themselves which buses I should take next week to get to the university, I half wish I could say, ‘ok, just so we’re clear, I should …’ but I can’t. I have noticed that it is also harder for me to know whether people are talking to me if they are not looking at me or we are not already in conversation. I admit that I sometimes start to tune out when it is obvious people are talking amongst themselves, but when they decide to start talking to me again, I don’t notice, and they think I can’t understand. I feel like half of the time I legitimately can’t understand, and the other half of the time it’s just that people speak too quietly or a little too quickly. There’s a great David Sedaris story from Me Talk Pretty One Day, in which he describes his experience in listening and trying to understand French as something like:
Today, Pierre and I adidkeml innoghin after I reesdniww groosghi, and then we barefferidi. Would you like to join us tonight?
I had not previously been in a situation where I quite understood, but that is a good approximation of some of the conversations I participate in. Obscure a few key words from an exchange, and suddenly its entire meaning is obscured. It is as though I am popping in and out of a cloud of (mental? auditory?) smog throughout the conversation.


1. 23. 10
When I got home today, I was going to go around the back of the house and up the stairs like I usually do, but the front/garden gate was open, and Jody saw me. I kept walking, but she came out after me. There was a brief instant where I imagined her mauling me or some such thing, but I went up to her and asked if she wanted me to follow. She turned around and together we walked back to the garden gate and into the house through the kitchen. I think I am officially a part of the family if the dog recognizes me and bids me come in through the family entrance. I arrive home and find pizza bubbling in the oven. Mamma mia! (Incidentally, today was the first time I actually heard someone use that expression.) Delicious, homemade pizza. It was cheese pizza, but then we layered prosciutto onto it if we felt so inclined. Worthy of note: my family has an elictric cheese grater for their Parmesan cheese and a small industrial deli slicer for their prosciutto. Today, instead of wine, we all split a beer. Perfection! My mom also made me fresh squeezed orange juice -- spremuto -- with regular and blood oranges.

In the evening was the welcome party. I got to meet my tandem partner, Alice, with whom I will be meeting throughout the semester to do a sort of language exchange. We will work on my Italian and work on her English.


Miscellaneous observations:

• I can't half-listen. Either I am listening with all my attention and with all my senses, or I am not. When I can casually listen to Italian, I will be proud. Also, when I can understand someone who is speaking while yawning, I will be proud.
• Keys in Italy are very different. In America, we have one key per lock/bolt. Here, I have to turn the house key four times, with earch turn sliding one bolt. Every time I got home I would turn the key once, try to push open the door, and fail. Now I know. 
• It is amazing what little things you have never consciously noticed but have nethertheless built habits around. In America, you pull on most shop doors to enter, because doors should open out to facilitate emergency exits. In Parma, it seems like most doors open in, but of course there is the occasional exception to confuse you when you think you've got it figured out. This makes me feel foolish every time I bang a door shut instead of managaing to open it, or think a place is closed when the door won't pull open. I never thought opening a door would require so much forethought and concentration.
• The movie The Hangover is translated as The Night of the Lions. I don't know if this is the phrase they use to describe a hangover, or whethery that's just how they decided to title the movie.
• It has been said before, but there are roundabouts everywhere. It seems like the right of way is determined either by having the smallest car and the least fear, or the biggest bus and the least concern.
• In Italy, a plate at the end of the meal is as clean as the day it was born. This is because everyone mops everything up with bread, lest any deliciousness go to waste. Furthermore, there is always a different kind of amazing, bakery-fresh bread with every meal.
• Watching people grind while headbanging to heavy metal is hilarious.

Everything is new

Notes from day 1: observations and anecdotes


Italian TV is at once Americanized (e.g. we watch Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, the Italian version, of course) and yet so Italian. On the news today there was a rundown of the upcoming men’s trends according to a recent fashion show in Milan, and there was a commercial for a da Vinci that is visiting Rome from the Louvre.

In Italy, electricity is imported.

College costs about €800 a year, but people also have to pay for transportation and food, etc., because they usually live at home. My host mom felt like this was a lot, but when I told her that Scripps is about $50K a year (about €40,000) she felt a little better.

Upon getting home yesterday, I talked to my host mom for about two hours before I remembered that I should probably tell my parents that I arrived safely. Oops. On the plus side, this means that we were able to converse smoothly and solidly for a few hours. The first time we had real trouble was when we were talking about snowmen and I didn’t know the word for pinecone. No amount of gesture or poetic description sufficed, not even ‘the thing from which pine trees grow,’ which I thought might solve it. At long last, my host mom suggested I draw it, and then we got it quite quickly. (The word is pigna, if you’re curious.) After speaking in Italian for several hours last night, going to class today and interacting with people in English felt very strange. Even coming down to my room and trying to read something written in English last night took a bit of mental adjusting. My host sister asked me how long I have been studying Italian, and when I said two years, everyone’s mouths literally fell open. So, I’ll take that as a good sign. It’s always tricky when people ask you if you speak Italian well. If you say you do, and then you don’t understand them, you seem like an overconfident liar. If you say you don’t, but you do, then you seem like an overly modest liar. I generally opt for the latter of the two.

Italian/European keyboards are a little different. It’s not too tricky, but the left shift key is half as long, so I tend to end up with about a million < when I think I’m holding shift before pressing the letter I want to capitalize. Similarly, the return key is short, and instead you end up with ù. That one I’ve already gotten pretty good at adjusting for. At first, when I tried to log into things I would sit and wait for the computer (which is a bit slow) and eventually realized that I had never pressed enter, instead adding a ù to the end of my password. The trickiest was yesterday when I tried to type an @. This is located on our semicolon key, which here has four different potential character outputs (none of which is a colon or semicolon), and it took me a while of pressing different combinations of that key and others to get it right. (Not Fn, Ctrl, or Alt, instead it is Alt Gr, whatever that is.)

Jody, the dog, is some kind of Swiss mountain dog almost as tall as the table. Jody is the kind of dog whose wagging tail one should beware; getting in its way is like getting beaten by a stick. I have decided that I smell like America, and she is not quite used to it. I had resolved to avoid wearing sweaters until we got along better, but seeing as how it is below freezing every day, that is not a very realistic resolution. Instead, I have taken to slipping her bits of food under the table, as everyone else does, in hopes that I will win her over that way until I smell more like Parma. Anyway, she’s getting used to me.

I had real Parmesan cheese today off of a hunk of cheese bigger than a brick and about as hard. Another hard cheese emerged from the fridge like a slab of meat: on a styrofoam tray and wrapped in plastic.

It is funny to hear the way we are perceived as Americans. Even the program director, who has had many years of experience interacting with us, had some funny notions. She said that Italians are not like Americans when it comes to bathing, because we shower several times a day. When we tried to object, she insisted, ‘well at least once or twice a day.’

Printer paper has different dimensions. The toilet seat is rectangular; the toilet paper squares are rectangles, and the distance between the faucet and the drain in my bathroom is at least two feet. People use washing machines but hardly anyone has a drier.

I can now justify eavesdropping and TV watching as educational endeavors.

I had my first Italian coffee today, homemade. I’ve never been much for coffee, but I figured I should try it. I did like the locals, and after two spoonfuls of sugar, my thimble of coffee tasted delightfully less like coffee and more like warm if slightly bitter sugar.

In an earlier post I said I didn’t know the word for spoon (or any silverware), so today while helping empty the dishwasher, I asked
Knife: coltello
Spoon: cucchiaio
Fork: forchette
And while we have small forks and small spoons, Italians only seem to have normal-sized ones and tiny spoons (mostly for their tiny coffees and for doling out grated Parmesan, it seems), called cucchiaini.

Every time I do something, I wonder whether there might be some underlying significance to it that I’m not aware of. Last night, while eating, I noticed that my elbows were on the table. I noticed that other people’s were as well, but just to be safe I moved mine. Today, I found out that it’s polite or even complimentary (?) to have your forearms on the table, and having your hands in your lap is less good. But I’ve also noticed that some things they teach us are not quite as universal as we are told. For example, when giving flowers, you are never supposed to give an even number unless it is a dozen. When I mentioned this to my host mom, she seemed surprised to hear it, but my dad said it was indeed true. Also, here, the unlucky number is 17, not thirteen, and just as we allegedly fear Friday the 13th, the Italians ‘fear’ Friday the 17th.


I took the bus for the first time this afternoon. Here, it is the (quickly fading) norm to return home for several hours for lunch, and then return to school/work. So, while my host mom was kind enough to drive me to school this morning, on the way back she showed me where the bus stops were so that I could take them in the afternoon. Of course, I was about two minutes late for the bus, so I had to wait a bit and was a little late to class. I think Italy is going to give me motive to improve or at least suppress my bad habits: staying up too late/sleeping in and being late. Anyway, all went well. Fast-forward three hours. The thing about the buses to and from school is that they face counterintuitive directions. The bus home faces away from it, and vice versa. So also of course, I forget this crucial illogical detail, and get on the bus that faces home, and takes me far far away from it. I go several stops before I remember that this is the case, and several more before I decide that the route probably is not circular and that I should get off, and then one more before I see a woman at the stop whom I feel comfortable asking for help. She shows me where the stop is for the buses going in the opposite direction, and off I go to wait. At least when I have to swallow my pride and overcome my shyness, I also get to practice my Italian. While waiting at the stop, I get to observe some local teens, who look like angsty teenagers from anywhere, complete with heavy eyeliner, vans, and whiteout inscriptions on their backpacks. I get on the bus and sit for what seems like forever, but at least I get a good view of the city at night. Finally, I make it to where I started. Then it is time to figure out when to get off. I press the stop button a little pre-emptively, and fear the wrath of the bus driver when no one gets off, but nobody cares. As I walk back, now in the very much dark of night, albeit only 18h30, I wonder whether my host mom is panicking. I walk; I arrive; no panic. So, an adventure for today, and some lessons learned.


Dinner, delicious as always. Every meal, we eat one thing first, and I think it is all we will eat, so I eat and eat. Then, more and more dishes keep appearing, so I eat and eat and eat. Tonight was the first meal with wine, the first time we had pasta, and the first meal with the whole family. I am about 90% sure my brother had wheat flavoured yogurt ??? It was the color of hummus. My mom made an apple tart that was like something between a pizza and an apple pie, just in the sense that it was like a shallow crust dish with baked apple slices, but without an upper crust or all the gooey stuff we have in ours.

Word of the day: schermo = screen.

On the way

1. I made it to Parma.
2. A transcription of what I wrote in my journal while on the train from Milan to Parma. It is a little unorganized, but it is stream of consciousness, so so it is. Additional commentary in parentheses.

I am torn between wanting to take a picture of everything and not wanting to take outmy camera and mark myself as a tourist. All of the self-satisfaction I felt for packing 'light' -- gone. Anything more than a purse feels like way too much when you are trekking through Heathrow and then later the Milanese train station (not to mention trying to lift it onto the overhead shelf on the train. Later, when my host mom and I were carrying my bag up and down stairs, she asked whether I had brought all of America.) I can't tell you how strange and exciting it is to hear no English. I heard so many languages while in security at Heathrow, and some I had notions about and some were inscrutable. I probably seemed like a total creeper trying to peer at the passports around me and figure out where people were from. Ghana, Finland, India, Russia, Switzerland... On my flight to London, I almost didn't want to talk. I wanted to be Italian already, and my American English seemed to pale in comparison to that of the British flight attendants.

No matter how big, how small, or how many duty free shopes there are, ultimately an airport is still an airport and they are kind of all the same, so reality didn't start to hit me until we disembarked. There was a giant Emporio Armani sign over one hangar...? I got my bags; I got my visa stamped, and then where was the bus to the train station? I was lucky to have met up with a fellow student who had actually read the 'before you go' booklet. With her awareness and my Italian we would be ok. Where were we supposed to find this bus? Everything becomes much more complicated when the reality of your life unfolding is flooding your brain. Taxi drivers kept approaching us, 'no, grazie.' As we wandered confusedly and coatless in the zero degree Celcius weather, several called out to us, 'you must be hot, because it's really cold!' My new friend, not knowing any Italian, was oblivious. Though I managed to successfully convrese with several people, and inquire as to the whereabouts of this train, they were not much help. One woman had no idea; a bus driver said it was 'back there.' Finally, I spoke Italian to a cabbie who spoke Portuguese and broken English and we figured things out.

A while later, on the bus, I was struck by how much Milan looked like so many places and yet obviously it was its own place. It reminded me of Guatemala, of Newark, and more logically of Rome. Of course, the sky is as gray as can be, and the plants and fields and bare trees on the side of the road are sugarcoated in frost. At the train station, it was time for food. After standing before a five-foot tall display of sandwiches and waiting to be attended to, I tried to order and was told I needed to pay first. I couldn't really figure out what anything was -- a variety of combinations of meat and cheese -- but I figured I couldn't go wrong since it was all Italian. I ordered the Panini Party, which I thought was one with meat and cheese and some kind of greenery. Instead, what I got was something that looked like a giant, flat chicken nugget between two pieces of bread. Apparently, it was cotoletta alla Milanese, a common regional food, which was in fact not chicken, but rather what seemed to me a really unfortunate attempt at a chicken fried steak sandwich. At least the bread was good ... here's hoping to a better next meal. As it is, it can only go up from here. I learned that being able to speak Italian and being able to function in Italy are two very different things, especially if you're too proud to admit that you have no idea what you are doing or what you are supposed to be doing. Now we're hustling through the countryside, which with its fields and tractors and powerlines could almost be Texas, except for the bone and ochre and sapote colored buildings with tile roofs and vines and graffiti, and the heavy gray fog that makes it feel like I'm still in the sky. It is weird to see graffiti on parts of what would otherwise seem to be an idyllic landscape. I imagine it is because it all borders the train tracks.



After about half an hour of people watching at the train station, I saw a man with science-class type goggles on his head. Being in Milan, I thought it was a fashion statement--until I realized he was on a work crew.