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.

In the land of grand

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

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

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

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

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

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

A transition, courtesy of the travel journal:

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

How to learn a language

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yellowblue fever

04. 17. 10

Ok, it happened. A long-awaited soccer Experience. For anyone familiar with Aggie football, the spectator dynamics will be perfectly familiar. Sunday afternoon, Matt and I went to the Parma-Genoa game. We sat in the Curva Nord, the famous crazy fan section, where you stand for the entire game. Starting to sound familiar, right? The game starts and next thing we know we are under a white plastic tarp, which becomes blue, and then yellow. We are under a giant flag that covers the entire side of the stadium. From beneath it we are singing the fight song, or some such thing. As it starts go get a little too steamy under there, we are released and the game begins. At the bottom of the stands, a portly man (gentleman is the word that usually comes to mind when one says portly, but gentleman he was not), balding and loud, lead the cheers. Like a yell-leader but without the nifty jumpsuit. Who needs scantily clad women with pompoms when you have a topless man yelling obscenities? Isn’t a potbelly as good as cleavage?

He and his cohorts lead the crowd in chanting several cheers, perhaps more accurately described as jeers, including the popular ‘pezzo di merda, pezzo di pezzo di merda.’ Not all the cheers were obscene, though. One that was fairly easy to pick up was ‘Forza, Parma,’ sung to the tune of ‘La Bamba.’ There were huge hand painted flags waving around, and I was glad we heeded the advice to not sit front and center. Also fascinating to observe were the physical reactions and gestures employed by the spectators. (Tifosi = fans, from tifo, typhoid, because of the feverishness of it all.) Of course there was clapping, but whistling was only in angry disapproval. There was lots of celebratory fist shaking. When the ref made terrible calls, or terribly missed calls (there were a lot of these that even I could see) the stands erupted in raised hands making a gesture that is hard to explain verbally, but is the Italian way of saying ‘go away’ or ‘leave me alone.’

As far as the actual sports-relevant content of this post, I can’t offer much. Near the end of the first half, Genoa scored a goal. Later, another. Parma responded. Good good. Parma tried to respond again, missed, but a Genoa kicked in the blocked ball. Works for us. Alas, though probably good for that poor Genoa player, Genoa scored again, making what would ultimately be the winning goal. In this one game, I saw more goals scored than I had seen, combined, in all the games I have watched previously while here. There was also way less overacting of anguish for each missed goal.

By the last few minutes, the fans began to dwindle, leaving trails of smoke in their wake. I don’t know what the security guard at the entrance expected to accomplish by asking me whether I had a lighter. I was surrounded by cigarette exhaust for the entire game. As I made my way home, wearing my new blue and yellow Curva Nord scarf, I kept getting stopped by strangers. Suddenly I was an ambassador for the team. Who won? What was the final score? So, next time you go to a soccer game in Italy, if you walk the streets wearing team paraphernalia, expect to meet a lot of inquisitive tifosi.

Aaand stuff:
I’d heard about it, but it has finally happened. Someone said ‘hi’ to me by way of farewell. I guess if in your language it’s the same word, it would not seem strange to think it is the same in other languages.
I finally saw a guy wearing jeans with an American dollar bill sewn onto the back pocket.
Unlike in the US, where velcro shoes are mostly relegated to toddlers, losers, and the elderly, velcro sneakers seem to be rather popular and totally socially acceptable here. In a similar vein, people of all ages and all genders tie their sweaters around their waists here. I haven’t seen it so widely done since around middle school.
There is a strange preponderance of wedge-heeled sneakers. I do not understand this. To me, it seems like the worst of both worlds. Sneakers are supposed to be comfortable and good for getting around. Heels are supposed to be classy and somewhat formal. These seem to be none of the above. Unless a lot of  people have height inferiority complexes, I just don’t get it.
I got my first facebook friend request from one of my students at Toschi.
It’s still disconcerting to see fifteen year olds with a carton of cigarettes on their desk next to their pencil box. Or to hear them tell their teachers they need to go smoke. Or to know that people regularly smoke in the bathroom – and apparently there are no smoke detectors around.
I watched one of my students clean out her nails with a box-cutter. Oh art school.

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.

Mixellaneous

When I got gelato with Vicky I had a rather amusing and gratifying experience. Thanks to the perpetual confusion about the proper order of things, when we tried to place our order, we were sent to the end of the line because we were supposed to have paid first (though I'm pretty sure the last time I was there I paid second). Anyway, probably because of our confusion, she assumed that we were not Italian, and so when we approached a second time, receipts in hand, she tried to inquire about our cup/cone preference in English. I responded in Italian, and her face underwent about five transformations of shock. Oh! She never explained it, but it was clear that all of a sudden she realized that this 'silly tourist' actually spoke 'perfect Italian.'
Success.

Graduations happen three times a year here, and when you graduate, you wear a crown of laurels. You spend the day at bars with your friends, who find ways to good-naturedly humiliate you all day long. For example, when my sister's friend graduated, they dressed him up in a giant diaper made of a bedsheet, put him in a grocery cart, and pushed him all around town and the main square. If you don't know about this, you may be confused by the leafy crowns and tomfoolery you seem to find everywhere. We inadvertently found ourselves in the middle of a private graduation party, but no one seemed to care. They were too busy lofting the grad onto their shoulders, blocking the exit we were subtly trying to approach, and taking pictures.

Dear Six,
Really? Really? I was writing you a love letter on my way to meeting you, to say how glad I was that we had finally figured each other out, that I might be willing to call you more than a friend, that I appreciate you. Even if you have now been truncated and don't take me exactly where I want to go anymore, I know that's not your fault. And then you had to go and mess with what we had going for us. I was early, but you were earlier, and I got stood up. You're always playing games with me and I'm tired of it. If my train hadn't been delayed, I would have missed out on a lot, all thanks to you. At this point, the only thing I can say in your favor is that, while you toy with my emotions, you haven't made any attempts on my life. I love Five, but two accidents is two too many.
Peace.

Despite the fact that 'I Gotta Feeling' is practically mandatory at every party and everyone sings along, apparently it is not mandatory to know what you are singing. I have now been asked several times what the song is about.
Lady Gaga or, more specifically, Bad Romance, is so popular everyone hates it. It seems like marketing executives show up at meetings and say, 'Hey, what's that song that is on all those other commercials?' 'Oh, Bad Romance? Yeah, that's a great song.' 'Why don't we use that in our commercial, too. It's popular, so our product will be popular.' 'Great idea! Let's go for it!' So good luck going a day without hearing the lilting strains of 'Ra ra ah ah ah. Ro ma ro ma ma...'. If ad execs aren't using this, they're using some seriously arbitrary or misguided American music, cutting it off right before it gets weird, not that many people here would notice. An ING commercial has snippets from the Gorillaz's Clint Eastwood, which may or may not have drug references in lyrics that manage to still be heard as the music and commercial fades out. An Audi commercial features the song, The Cat Came Back, which my tandem partner liked so much she put it onto a CD. I never knew how gruesome the song's lyrics really are.

If I have understood correctly, it is now illegal to use 'gay' or 'woman' as a derogatory term. Ergo, you can't say things like, 'you drive like a woman' or 'that's so gay.' Punishable by fine? Don't ask me for more specifics; I don't know them.

One of my students says his grandfather is one of the people responsible for bringing baseball to Parma (Italy?). When I asked him whether he likes any American teams, his response, of course, was the Yankees. But he also likes the Patriots, so what can I do?

There doesn't seem to be a taboo about talking about money. I have been asked how much my house cost, to share with the class how much my cellphone plan in the US costs, and the price of pretty much anything else I have bought here. Other friends of mine have been asked about their parents' incomes.

Zodiac signs are somewhat more relevant here than in the US. My host mom asked me mine on the first day here. Your horoscope is part of the morning news, right before the weather report (which usually only includes today and tomorrow, not the whole week.) People are always asking you your sign, and not in the cheesy pickup line kind of way. I can't figure out why, though, because it doesn't seem like they put particular stock in any of the expected traits associated with them.

A few posts ago I mentioned that I saw a da Vinci in Parma's museum. What I did not mention in my hurried conclusion was that it is the selfsame Portrait of a Woman that is at the center of the movie Ever After. Just thought I should put that out there, for the many of us who loved that movie back in the day.

Stories of snow and students

3. 08. 10
Just a couple of weeks and I’m out of practice with getting up bright and early. To be fair, bright and early was never as early as seven thirty. Time to discover what the Toschi fates had in store for me. Apparently, good things. Despite my least favorite introduction as The American (or in fact, probably because of it), all the kids seemed delighted to have me in their class. I made a friend in Chiara, who proceeded to offer to show me the ropes of the class and gave me a list of places to go and things to do in Parma. She told me she was going to New York and I recommended some museums and stores to her. My previous apprehensive predictions of moody, ‘too cool for school’ teens was unfounded. After two hours of sitting around in the graphic design class, I finally discovered the true nature of my term at Toschi. Other than those two hours, all of my other shifts will be spent helping to teach English. Today, to a bunch of first years. I was kind of shocked by how the class was allowed to behave. Students made no efforts to be dissembling in their disrespectfulness, and were constantly chattering amongst themselves. The teacher suggested that they would all probably have questions for me, and encouraged them to each ask me a question. She also asked me to draw a map of the US on the board, demarcating Texas and Houston, so that everyone would know where it was.  After a while, it became apparent which students bore the winning combination of good English skills and outgoingness, one girl in particular. From there, the class quickly became an exchange between her, me, and the teacher. The rest of the students did their own thing.

We started watching Stagecoach in my cinema history class, and the dubbed Italian tried to emulate the hokeyness of the original English, much to my amusement and slight confusion.

Today is the International Women’s Day which, even though it started because of events in the US, is celebrated much more in other countries. Here, it is traditional for men to give women a certain yellow flower and then for the women to go out for a girl’s night. This might just be dinner with your mom or your friends, or going to a male strip show, which happens at pretty much every bar/club in town.


3. 09. 10
Take two at Toschi. This time it was an older group of kids. I redrew my map and answered more of the same sort of questions. This time, though, the kids were way more uninterested. When the teacher asked one student if there was anything he was interested in asking, he looked at her point blank and said, ‘honestly, I have no interest whatsoever.’ Ouch. Ok.

We finished Stagecoach today, watching the rest in English, and it turns out the characters spoke so funnily that for a while I had to use the Italian subtitles as a crutch to understand the English before I got used to it.

Tonight we saw that Hurt Locker was on, and since it was so awarded we decided to watch it. I realized that the only best picture nominated films I saw for this Oscar season I have seen in Italian (this and Avatar).

I am constantly amazed by Italian language and regional identity. Please allow me a (hopefully brief) linguistic foray. Despite Italy’s really long history, a unified Italy and the Italian language have not even existed for two hundred years. Every region has its own dialect, which is still spoken, and southern dialects are completely incomprehensible to northerners. (A great example of how the distinction between dialect and language is more often politically based rather than linguistically based.) Anyway, in addition to this, there are also, naturally, various accents detectable in spoken ‘standard’ Italian. Here, it amazes me that my host parents can identify the exact region or even city of origin of a speaker within a minute after they start speaking. We have accents too in the US too, though our speech is much more homogenized thanks to the prevalence of TV and ‘neutral’ pronunciation, but while I may be able to tell that someone speaks differently, it is rare that I can so confidently ascertain someone’s origins so precisely. While part of this is that there is a more definite distinction, it also requires being familiar with which differences correlate to which region.


3. 10. 10
Yesterday, I thought I might have earned my snow legs, since as I saw that snow was starting to fall, I had no reaction whatsoever (other than reiterating to myself that it was probably a bad idea have wet hair while standing outside for 15 minutes waiting for the bus). I figured that once you lose a sense of excitement about snow, you’ve been around it long enough. Having seen this light swirling sprinkle that didn’t even stick, it was hard for me to believe the woman who later told me that there was an expected snowfall of 40cm. Snow is sneaky like that. As we watched Hurt Locker last night, we could see the snow starting pile up on the leaves outside. So far, with the light ‘rain’ we had been having, invisible until you’re in it, my window was only useful for determining whether it is sunny. Now, I have discovered that it is also useful for determining whether it is snowing and/or whether it has snowed.

Today, I can no longer say that I felt no excitement in regards to the snow. I wondered whether I might have my first real snow day. I kind of hoped that class wouldn’t be secretly cancelled, since I was already on my way. Parma was like a white ghost town, and I was the only passenger on my bus. Things were so backed up it took almost twice as long to make it to class and we actually caught up with the bus that left before ours, ten minutes prior. There were fewer than 25 of us in a class that easily tops a hundred, but the professor lauded us for being here today and for showing up in general, since attendance is not in the least bit mandatory, though surely advantageous.

This morning I had the presence of mind to bring my camera with me, for once, and I took several pictures. (Link under the photo album listing on the right, also pictures of my citrus fruit.) I wandered through the park taking pictures on the way back to my stop, and I was lucky enough to make it there just as the bus was pulling up, so I didn’t even have to wait.

When it is snowing:
Have you ever wanted to see how an iceberg forms? Watch a car with a foot of snow in it’s roof brake, and you’ll have a pretty good idea, though lacking the splash.
In need of a good boot polishing? After crunching through 35 centimeters of snow, they will emerge as clean and shiny as new. Also, after crunching through so much snow, thigh-high boots suddenly seem almost practical, and tales of people skiing around town seem quite logical. 
Don’t stand under trees heavily laden with snow.

For the record, our wintry weather patterns come to us from Siberia. Sweet. This is the biggest/longest/worst blizzard in several years. They defined blizzard as ‘those things that usually happen in Canada.’ I guess they don’t happen very often in Italy, but our entire region (state) is blanketed, and Ravenna is flooded by a swollen sea (when I told this to someone earlier today, I called it the ocean and was told very vehemently that it is the SEA; there is no ocean).

A few hours later: I have now seen yellow snow, courtesy of dogs. All of my shoes are wet inside.

We had a really interesting strange curious lecture on immigration today, complete with an immigrant to interview! (please note the presence of sarcasm) Olga, from Moldova, somehow managed to exist on both poles of perspectives regarding immigration issues, and consequently I couldn’t decide whether to agree with her or completely disagree. ‘Americans don’t understand what it’s like. It might be difficult or expensive to move to another country, but for people from a poor country it is practically impossible.’ ‘If immigrants weren’t criminals, Italians wouldn’t think so lowly of them. It is their own fault that they are marginalized by society.’ I am looking forward to the completely uncontroversial lecture we will be having tomorrow, on Parmesan food.

I have a paper due ‘today’/by the end of this week, and I keep telling myself I will work on it. Instead, I got a call from my host sister asking whether I wanted to see Alice in Wonderland with her. I weigh the likelihood of me doing any work or just ending up sitting at home wasting time and decide to go for it. In retrospect, it may or may not be the best idea to try to watch a dubbed movie that is mostly gibberish in its original language. Also, ciciarampa (chicharampa) ≠ jabberwocky. Still, it was fun.


3. 11. 10
Snow was not so much fun today. It decided to be sunny, which meant that the world was drippy and soggy and the crisp white snow was brown and gross. As much as I appreciate snowplows, I wish that they could do their duty without obliterating sidewalks and making it so inconvenient to transition from sidewalk to street. I do not like plunging into knee-deep brown barriers of snow. I also do not like being splashed by cars. Never in my life until twice today. Thanks guys.

Today was the day of all days. Early start and back and forth across town all day long. I woke up at 645 (!) so that I could be at Toschi by eight. I was to teach English with a different teacher, and she decided to sit back and relax after introducing me. She suggested that they ask me questions, but pretty much left it at that. Luckily, I had been warned by other American students that this sometimes happens, otherwise I might have been quite taken aback. Instead I took charge. For some reason, the classroom is really deep, and of course all of the students were sitting as far away as possible. I knew that I would never succeed in engaging them if I stayed behind the teacher’s desk. So, I walked over and joined them. If you had to guess two topics that I can talk about endlessly, what would they be? If you guessed Texas and Linguistics, you would be right. (Football would also be a good guess, but is probably less interesting and requires more explanation and confusing visualization.) Anyway, I was pretty proud of myself for being able to hold their interest and talk about things that drew questions from students. Several more participated than usual. I also asked them questions to get everyone to participate at least every now and then. If I have to be up so early, I am glad to be with a class like this one. They asked why I had chosen to work at an art school instead of doing something more relevant to my linguistic interests. Umm, because I didn’t have much of a choice. No, not what I said. I said that every time I talk to someone in Italian, they are helping me learn, and I want to return the favor. Furthermore, hearing the mistakes Italians make when speaking English reveals differences in grammatical structure that in turn help me learn about Italian. All true.

My next class was a bunch of youngsters. I wondered whether this teacher would have me draw the map for a third time, but instead she culled a group of students to go with me and practice conversation in another room. These kids were a little harder to get involved, even if they were good at English. Again, one girl who spoke and understood best seemed to dominate. I was happy to practice with her, but I didn’t want the other kids to sit around for an hour. I came up with what I thought were fairly interesting questions, but they mostly stuck to basic answers. At the very least, I imagined that asking about their favorite and least favorite classes might yield some useful complaining, but alas not much. Since they were all architecture students, I asked what they would build if they could build anything anywhere. My house. A skyscraper. A soccer stadium. In New York City. In Milan. Next. Oh well, at least I got them all to talk.

Then I rushed over to the opposite side of town for the food lecture, after which I rushed home for a quick lunch. Horse again! I won’t be able to finish a whole horse while here, but maybe a leg?

Then back to Toschi. More helping with the kids preparing for the test. One guy sat next to me and pretty much asked me to check each answer before he submitted it. How do you explain to someone how or why something is wrong without giving the answer. Also, you try doing these exercises. Do you know what the present perfect simple tense is, or what the present perfect continuous is? Can you explain them? Try a sample question:

They knew he ________ at his computer because there were crumbs all over his desk. Use the verb ‘to eat.’

Would you say ‘had been eating,’ ‘had eaten,’ or ‘ate?’ It doesn’t help that they are learning British English, which means that there are arbitrary things that don’t make any sense to me.

One guy kept looking over and I thought he might be having trouble. When I went over to check on him, it turned out he is really good at English and was in fact just super bored and hoping to do some conversation instead of exercises on the computer. Also, he much prefers the American accent to the British accent. So, even though at first it seemed like Sky and I would be pointlessly sitting in the computer lab ‘in case anyone had any questions’ it was not as dull as I expected.

In Italian, instead of saying something is nice, literally, people say something is pretty. So, when we were asking these students about school during last week's English class, one boy replied that he thought it was not so pretty to talk about school, and that it would be prettier to discuss Saturday night activities. In Italian, as far as I know, there isn’t a single word that means the same thing as ‘funny.’ Consequently, when I told someone that I thought the exercises they were doing were a little funny to me because of the differences between British and American English, he thought I was saying that they were fun, with which he disagreed. Just some little observations that amuse me.

Today, I met three (male) Andreas and two Fabios. I also had an epic three hour nap.

America in four questions

3. 02. 10
Having no class in the morning, Matt and Ellie and I met up to study for our test on Thursday. After our meeting that resulted in little studying but in my acquiring of Matt’s notes, I swung by a store I had seen several times and wanted to visit. Lover of fruits and lover of culinary exploration that I am, I had been longing to try a cedro, a mysterious, gigantic, lemon-looking fruit. The most expensive piece of fruit I have ever bought, at 4.8 €/kg, which this weighed. I got home and Lety thought it was hilarious. She asked if I paid 20 for it. She also couldn’t believe how big it was. Subsequent wikipedia research has revealed that it is what we call a citron in English, and it may or may not actually be pleasantly edible in it’s current form. Never fear, one way or another, I will prevail. They are originally from Asia but also grow in Calabria, Italy. What I do know is that for now it is rock hard and rather daunting. We will wait a while and see what happens.


3. 04. 10
After my test and a swift lunch of horse, I was off to Toschi for my first day of CBSL. Sky and I were to help teach an English class. Toschi is an art high school, and I had to laugh because apparently art kids are art kids no matter where you are. Plaid, combat boots, piercings, and crazy hair.  One girl, aptly named Azzurra (Azure) had short dark hair on one side of her head, long bleached dreads, and faded blue hair on top. All that was missing was a smattering of goths. They seemed like a happy bunch, and we had fun chatting for ‘five minutes’ that turned out to be an hour, while their teacher went to set up their CD in the computer lab. I explained y’all to them, and they asked about Texas and whether it is a big desert. I’m not quite sure where that conception comes from (tumbleweeds?) but it comes up a lot.

Then home for just over an hour and a nap and a nightmare and then on to class. It occurred to me that I might be able to actually get of one stop after I usually do and be closer to my destination, so I gave it a try. Note to self: don’t experiment with new routes when you are already running late. In my defense, I thought it might be a shortcut, but I turned out to be wrong.

My next stint home got me an unexpected ride to Leonardo’s house for the dinner he was hosting. There, I had my first real ‘you are American let me interview you on everything I think is American’ experience. The questions I faced:
So NASA is in Houston. What else is there? Is that it?
(follow-up questions included, what is the population of NYC?)
Is it true that in the US if you don’t have health insurance they won’t treat you? If you are taken to the hospital after a car accident and it turns out you don’t have it will they send you back to the scene of the accident to die?
How does your car insurance work?
And most importantly:
Where does Brittney Spears live?



As a side note, I have happily expanded my knowledge of Italian to include some sign language. Elections are coming up so every day there is a long instructional thing on tv that also has an interpreter. My host mom thinks I am fascinated with their electoral procedures, but in fact I am busy trying to figure out signs. I now know ‘candidate,’ ‘elect/choose,’ and ‘name’ and ‘surname.’ The last two are of particular interest because I know their ASL equivalent and can compare them.


3. 05. 10
This evening, Ellie and Matt and I met up with Richard, who helped pair us with our tandem partners, and went to a wine place, an enoteca. There was a thousand-euro bottle of champagne on the menu. Richard told us about some of his favorite places around town, and we looked forward to trying out his recommendations. Originally, the plan had been to meet up at this place and hang out for a while before going to a club or something. Instead, we ended up staying until past one thirty.


3. 06. 10
I met went to the library to meet Matt for lunch after his stint reading to children, and to renew my lease on my two books. As I stood before the front desk, I realized I didn’t know how to say renew or check out, but luckily the woman ahead of me wanted to do the same, so I was able to pick up the necessary vocab just in time. Matt had never had horsemeat, so we set out in search of Richard’s favorite equine butcher. First we went to a place that serves these great artichoke panini and ended up getting two for the price of one. Next all the way down to the bottom of Farini for two etti (hundred grams) of ground horsemeat. On our way back I was struck by a desire for beer, what better to go with raw meat? And so I picked up another Moretti at the grocery store next to Matt’s house. He liked the horse, even if there was a nagging little part of his brain that was not so cool with him eating raw meat. Matt had really been wanting to go to the Citadel, and I was curious so I was game to go a-hunting for it. We overshot it on the bus and even though I still fail to be properly oriented in Parma at all times, I do know how to read a map and memorize a trajectory, so I successfully led the way. It ended up being, essentially, a really large park enclosed by ancient walls. It was a beautifully sunny, crisp day, and it was nice to be able to just sit outside and do some people- and dog-watching.

Richard invited several of us to go out for dinner, but I was the only one who didn't have pre-existing plans. He and Nikki picked me up and we went to Twickenham, a vast pub and pool hall, where we met up with several friends of his. I was famished and it was time to give in and be American. I got a hamburger with an egg on top and, unexpectedly, four little French fries in the midst of the ketchup under the bun. I also went with the recommended beer pairing – this place had three beer menus, too many to choose from – and was pleasantly surprised. I guess you know a beer’s got to be good if its name is so German it sounds like not one but four sneezes and includes the word Oktoberfest. Even better, when it arrived, I discovered that I would be drinking beer out of a proper stein. After this I was still hankering for some grub, so I got a piadina, and unlike the one in Ravenna this one had a much thinner bread. I’ve been told it differs from place to place. We watched the Roma v. Milan game, and had a good time just chatting it up and hanging out.


3. 07. 10
Today I went to mass at Maria Annunziata. You would think that after a while churches would all start to look the same, and maybe they would if you saw all sixty of Parma’s in one day, but as it is this church was still quite beautiful, despite how many I have seen. Certainly more modest than the cathedrals, but resplendent nonetheless. Home for lunch and Cristina asked whether I would be interested in going to Milan to do some shopping. Sure!

On the way we stopped by an AutoGrill, which as my sister said, if you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all. It’s true. An AutoGrill is like a super-sized Stop and Go. It is a gas station and has multiple stories that include a shop and a restaurant and such, like an über rest-stop. Also, they are structured so that you have to go through the entire store before you can exit. Until we went in, I had forgotten that I had been in one seven years prior on my first stint in Italy. Despite my best efforts, I fell asleep afterward until we arrived in Milan. The only way I can describe Milan is like New York City, or New York City plus Paris, because it has the city hustle and bustle I associate with NYC but of course with a very European inflection. The Duomo was breathtaking, though our visit was brief. Out in front, there was a piano installation on an underground stairway, and I made music with my feet. Despite the description of the invitation, we didn’t do much shopping. Still, I got to see a) the overwhelmingly expensive window displays and b) a couple of overwhelmingly large multi-story stores. As I say every time, I hope to be able to return, and really see Milan. We stayed for aperitivo, which was a huge buffet of everything from marshmallows to meatballs to baked pasta to bacon.

Unfortunately no pictures from Milan because I forgot my camera/was only expecting to be shopping.

Wee week

2. 19. 10
Quite possible the most useless day day of all time. No class, no buses, no nothing. I got up ridiculously late and had trout for lunch. I think this might be the first time I have eaten a fish that still had a face. Then nothing. I was supposed to go out with Alice and Ellie, but my phone was being insanely useless (aka refusing to send texts) and I was getting fed up. Then I hit the slump. We are all supposed to go through this elaborate acculturation process, part of which is the downward curve of life sucks and I just want to go home. That’s what happened to me Friday night. I had been toeing the line a few nights before, but it was in the dark of lonely night, so it didn’t seem that unusual. Suddenly, I was tired of everything. Tired of having to speak in grunts and gestures, tired of not understanding things that were said to me, tired of useless cellphones, tired of wearing the same shoes and jacket every day, tired of not being able to be with or even regularly communicate with people I care about… my list of grievances was growing rapidly. Then Matt invited me to meet up at a free concert. At this rate, I was never going to be able to communicate with Alice in order to make it to the club, and I was no longer in any mood to go, so I met up with Matt. I wondered whether this would manage to revive my spirits, or whether I would just bring him down into my funk. I showed up, timelyly, at intermission. It was, in fact, a great concert. It has been a long time since I had been to an orchestra concert, and it reminded me of a lot of good times. I played my usual game of finding interesting things to observe so I could occupy my wavering attention span and keep enjoying the music. I was very impressed by the fact that not a single person tried to clap between movements. My cloud turned a little less dark gray. The concert ended and we started wandering. We walked over to Garibaldi, looking for a café or some such place. We had no real destination, and consequently ended up doing a lot of walking. We ended up at the main square and went into one of the few places that seemed open. I had pistachios for the first time. An employee came upstairs to smoke, and then turned to us and said Ciao. Ciao, we replied. No, no, no, they were closing. Oh, ciao as in go away. Good night.

2. 20. 10
I met Matt around three, first stop, gelato. Next, second museum site. I tried avoiding the main streets I am walking a rut into, and while we took a lovely detour, it inevitably led to the usual paths. This part of the exhibit was a collection of fashion drawings and pieces, and for the most part I found it unremarkable. There were some drawings by Armani and other big names, and some small-scale dresses made by someone named Adelina. There was also a DIY-type video, essentially about making clothing out of squares of fabric, and one such iteration managed to make it into my dream. Other than that, not much of note, in my opinion. We took a little break and sat outside and did some people watching in the sun. Sun! It was the first time I have been outside in only one layer, and comfortably so. We headed to the third and final exhibition site. This one was all about architecture and design. Sound dry? It was probably my favorite. While the main exhibit, which I saw a few weeks ago, was presented in a thought provoking way, this was just fulfilling. There were some architectural drawings for fantastical buildings I doubt were ever realized, but I could have stood in front of them forever. I just wanted to breathe them in. They made me want to get my fingers charcoal-black again. There were these silly objects like ‘portable’ TVs and crazy ashtrays. There were design plans for things like silverware and pots and pans, things we don’t often think about thinking about making. Also, the exhibition space had a great character, interesting in a way that added to the feel of the exhibition without distracting from it. After dinner we were supposed to go to Veronica’s, a small club where my host brother DJs, but prontobus was not having any of it. I got hung up on twice and the third time they said, nothing we can do for you, good luck. So we just stayed in and hung out.

Also, today I put my own advice to good use, and tried wrapping my scarf Italian-style. Interesting. I usually go for maximum coverage, but this was also definitely quite warm.

2. 21. 10
The kind of day I had been needing. I woke up early to catch the train to Colorno, but apparently I didn’t wake up early enough. Or rather, I forgot that my time of arrival depended on the esoteric schedule of the six, which today was once every half hour. There was no way I would make it in time. Maybe I had the right music in my ears, maybe it was the sun that was warming my back, but I didn’t even worry about it. I would take the next train, whenever that might be, and catch up with the group when I could. So the six came and I got on, thinking I was headed to the train station. Instead, as we traversed Parma down streets I rarely travel, I saw some people going into a church. Could it be that mass was starting? I got off on the next stop and headed back to investigate. I briefly wondered whether I might inadvertently be going to a non-Catholic service, and then I remembered that I was in Italy. I have yet to see any place of worship other than a Catholic church. I can’t remember the exact number anymore, but there are over 50 churches in Parma. So, finally, I was in a church and it was for mass, not for tourism. Finally, I was in a church full of people who wanted to be there and understood what it meant. With the train gone and no one waiting for me, I felt no hesitation about being an extra hour late. I have sometimes tried to imagine the translations of certain prayers, but now I would finally know how they really go in Italian. I couldn’t always understand anything, but I could recognize the scriptures and I followed the sermon, and of course I know the order of mass well enough to know what was going on even if I were unfamiliar with some of the words. Mass! Sun! What a wonderful start to my day. Mass ended and off I went to the train station. I debated waiting for the illusory six, got on the one, realized that it wasn’t really going where I ultimately wanted to go but got off a few stops closer and continued on my way. At the train station, I learned that the next train wasn’t for another hour, but that it was only fifteen minutes from Parma to Colorno. Fair enough. My iPod and people watching made the time go quickly.

Incidentally, I have been sighting much ridiculous hair of late. The other night I saw a guy with a short, wide mohawk, or maybe just a fat racing stripe, shaved sides of his head, and sideburns. Another guy, a redhead, had a buzz cut and a crop of dreads shooting out from the back of his head, a good seven or eight inches long but seemingly immune to the effects of gravity. I saw a girl with bangs cut at a severe diagonal to cover one eye but allow her to see through the other. At the train station, I saw a guy with a rat-tail gone mullet; all of his hair was normally short, and only the bottom edge of his hair wound wavily down his back. I gagged while imagining a transposition of this look onto an assortment of my guy friends. I also saw several men who appeared to be on some kind of sports team, muscles straining under their clothes and heavy duffel bags in tow. I saw a ton of people whose Milanese-ness would have been unmistakable even without the impending departure of a train thence bound. Call them stylish, call them metro, call them frou frou, but they were Milanese indeed. In the midst of all of these people, I spied some familiar faces. Two girls fro Boston College and more of their cohorts were getting tickets. It turned out we were all going to Colorno for the rugby game. I had been looking forward to a train ride alone, albeit a 15 minute one, but it was nice to feel like I had a safety net.
In Colorno we met with Giulia and Matt and Isabella and Sky, who had finished a tour of the Reggio palace and a subsequent lunch. How timely. We walked across town to the ‘stadium.’ Field with bleachers would be more accurate. I got a huge meaty sandwich and feasted. Meat. I was happy. The game started and I realized I knew absolutely nothing about rugby, and considering the number of friends I have who play, this seemed like a small crime. I managed to figure several things out, but much remained that I couldn’t quite work out. Regardless, t was really fun. I might say it is my new second favorite sport, or maybe that while nothing can replace football, my life is certainly better with rugby on the horizon than with neither.

After the game, seeing as how there is in fact nothing to do in Colorno (though there is a forested park I hope to come visit one day), we went back to the train station. I overheard some students voicing a desire to at least go back via a different route and, secretly agreeing, I voiced this suggestion to Giulia. A lovely little detour. The thing was, we still had almost an hour to wait before the next train. Matt suggested a game and it was really fun, even if some of the people were cranky incompetent bad sports (to put it nicely). Either way, the time passed quickly and soon it was time for our short little jaunt home.

Ellie had been in Imola all day, so she messaged me and Matt to see whether we wanted to hang out tonight. We did, so after dinner with our respective families, I took the 4N and we all meet up at Garibaldi. Ellie’s host sister came too, and suggested Mastiff, a nearby pub. I tried a ‘red’ Belgian beer, Leffe, that came in a goblet. Interesting, worth trying, but I still haven’t found a favorite here.
All in all, a good day.

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2. 26. 10
This is the first time I have been a week behind in my journaling. It would seem that as I settle into the routine (but never boring) life here, I feel less compelled to write every single thing down. Here are some snippets and highlights:

My accomplishments after a month in Italy:
Learning how to cut bread such that the soft bread in the middle is not mushed together and leaves a hole in my slice.
Pouring milk slowly enough that it doesn’t come out in dollops and splash everywhere. (Of course, as soon as I wrote this, I jinxed myself and have been dolloping and splashing worse than ever. But I did learn how to open a carton the right way.)
Occasionally understanding speech whose clarity is impeded by food, yawning, or other such things.

Words I learned watching millionaire:
Seppia - cuttlefish
Struzzo - ostritch

Apparently I was starting to get a little complacent in my bus travel, and needed to be reminded that it is never quite so simple. The other day, already hustling to catch a bus that would get me to class a little late, I saw a little bus coming to my stop from the opposite direction it normally does. Since there is only one bus line that comes to this stop, I thought it was weird, but didn't think much of it. I got on and waited for us to get going, debating whether I should ask the driver where he was headed. As a larger bus pulled up behind it, I wondered whether I should get on that one instead, but figured I would stick with this one. We start going and we start going away from my intended direction. Crap. What now? I push the stop request button and get off on the first possible stop, now farther away than where I started. I walk back to my stop, and as I am arriving I see the little bus returning to the stop as well. What? Too embarrassed to stand there and have him see that I got on the wrong bus, despite what now felt like glaringly obvious indicators, I continue walking until the next stop, which is around the corner, and catch the right bus in the right direction.

Sights and activities:
The unexpectedly beautiful interior of the baptistery, art history lectures in three churches, the National Art Gallery, an amazing wooden theater

I learned that Italy's best forensics team/lab is housed in the police station in the Parco Ducale, and they get called out to go all over the country to solve crimes.

If I recounted my days as the words that I learned or tried to learn, this week would be:
finocchi - fennel
liquorizio - licorice (I learned this courtesy of sampling a licorice moonshine from southern Italy)
??? (coccinella, but I cheated and looked it up) - ladybug (I saw one, and apparently they bring good luck)
snaturare - distort
barbabietola - beet
tuorlo - yolk
albumen - albumen (white part of the egg)
picchiare - fight/hit
incubo - nightmare
luce?? (lucertola, but more cheating) - lizard
anice - anise
fango - mud
lische - fish spines

Today, I saw a da Vinci at the museum, learned how to de-bone a fish, and am headed to the park in Colorno to enjoy my afternoon off.

and then it was Carnevale

2. 10. 10
Pesto for lunch! Mostly an uneventful day. The only main point is that we discover that a) university classes start on the 15th, not the 22nd, as we had been told from day 1, and b) I have been put in the critical cinema class. I am annoyed both about the misinformation and that my decision has been made for me, but there doesn’t seem to be much I can do, or I am not willing to do much about it. (This has since become much more positive!)

After dinner was a big soccer game, which had been postponed from last week because of the snow, between Parma and Milan Inter. This was the first time I have watched soccer on tv for an extended amount of time. It was… interesting. For a while I was the only one watching with Paolo, and I think he was glad for the company because no one else in the family cares a stitch about soccer, so he would talk to me about the players and team politics/gossip during lulls. He said it was a terrible game that made it seem like the objective of soccer was to not score, as the ball stayed in the midfield for the majority of the game. Parma finally had an exciting goal, but Milan Inter responded a few minutes later. It is funny how, in any sport, both teams can be struggling for so long, and as soon as one team breaks through the other team is suddenly able to as well. Anyway, while I am used to hearing yelling at the tv during sports, and often do so myself during football, this was my first time seeing/hearing real outbursts that involve getting up and stomping around and such. Even funnier to me was that mom would good-naturedly argue back. Who argues with someone yelling about the injustices their team is suffering?

After the game, a 1-1 tie, they interviewed the coach, who is Portuguese. Apparently, his Italian was pretty bad (even though it sounded fine to me), and my parents thought it was quite hilarious, and had a ball correcting him throughout his interview. My only consolation (?), as this was making me rather self-conscious, was that they crowed, ‘Adelina’s Italian is better than his!’

2. 11. 10
Class was a walking tour of certain historical sites in Parma: the bridge, which is from Roman time and the only/oldest part of it left; Piazza Garbialdi; and Il Duomo, the church. Because we were finally going to get to spend time outside, it was drizzling. Because we were having a lecture outside, a car alarm felt the need to blare for several minutes and our professor felt no need to desist from speaking. I admit I did not learn very much. I do remember that I learned about Parma Yellow, the color of many buildings here, and that the statue of Parmigianino is one of a local painter. How did I not notice he was holding a palette? I was pleased to finally get to go into the Duomo, which is beautifully painted inside. A once in a blue moon experience, class got out early. We decided to take advantage of this and our central location to spend some time warming up in a café. I had been feeling under the weather all day (ha, how appropriate), so the tea was at least well appreciated. Next we went to get our tickets to Venice. Hooray!

Dinner is risotto alla Milanese, aka risotto with saffron and delicious.
The food sins of Italians: Philadelphia cream cheese and mayo.
I have nothing against cream cheese, but it is inconceivable to me to prefer it over the array of savory goodness that we have on the table every night. My family thinks that Americans put ketchup on everything, but they put mayo on fishsticks and mix it into their paella and squirt it with gusto onto slices of turkey. Would you like some more turkey for your mayo?

I discovered that my mom thought that Americans can buy their way out of jail. She mentioned bond to me, but said it is not like in the US; you actually have to go to jail. What? No get out of jail for (not)free card. It might sometimes end up working that way, but officially, that’s not the system.

Have I mentioned that every time I mention Houston, people shout ‘Houston! We have a problem!’? At least people know it exists. Italians’ sense of US geography is about as bad as my sense of Italian geography, though I am making strides towards improving it. My host dad asked what was above Texas, and after I replied Oklahoma he asked if Canada was above that. Someone asked me whether Houston was near Miami. My host dad said it was funny that in Europe the West is on the left but in America… oh wait, what? People here know San Francisco, Los Angeles, Houston, Chicago, and New York. Other than that, it’s a crapshoot. It’s like when you meet someone from another state and reference places in your own, assuming they will know what you’re talking about. You do; why wouldn’t they?

I have been seeing HappyBuses since I got here and had been rather curious about them. I have now discovered that they are the school buses for elementary students. Like short little red airport shuttles, I see children sitting in rows of seats that look like our plastic classroom chairs. Would your outlook on school be any different if you arrived in something called a HappyBus instead of a graffiti-ed, jostling contraption with no seatbelts?

I watched an Italian movie tonight on TV. Aside from the simple but slightly bizarre plotline (37 year old man and 17 year old girl fall in love after he hits her while she’s on her vespa) my previous theory has definitely proven true. Understanding Italian Italian is way harder than understanding translated English Italian. When it is translated, there is a certain limitation on the pace, and there is little room for colloquialisms or turns of phrase that muddle the meaning for me. I could still understand what was going on, but it was much more idea-based and gisty than dialogue-detail-based.

2. 12. 10
Lunch included sliced tomato and seasoned buffalo mozzarella. Yum yum yum.

Today was the chocolate festival, and we had agreed to meet up in the afternoon to go scope it out.  For some reason I thought I wouldn’t want to use my camera, so I have no pictures. However, even if the festival was smallish, it was still more than enough chocolate. Dark chocolate, slabs of chocolate, metallic chocolate, chocolate-covered fruit, pralines, chocolate animals, white chocolate, hot chocolate, chocolate liqueurs, and on and on and on. Me being my usual me, I decided to look at everything before I decided what I wanted. Of course there were samples, but also of course it was of the basics, plain light, plain dark chocolate, nutty chocolate. I started out with a truffle, simple, classic. Then I got a mirtillo, which I at first thought was like a blackberry truffle but turned out to be filled with some kind of liqueur. Either way, delicious. I took an errand break and returned to meet Matt and Ellie, this time getting another liqueur, this time with Grappa, an Italian alcohol, and the woman recommended that I get a little brick of a certain dark chocolate. Both were quite good. We went around again and I got another mirtillo.

What to do for the rest of the night? We went to Matt’s house because his mom had already made him dinner, and Ellie and I played vulture and swooped in on tidbits of his delicious meal. Tortellini in beef broth = scrumptious. I have a secret (not so secret, anymore!) goal to get to see everyone’s house at some point or another, just because I think it is nice to know people’s home base. In Italy it is much more common to go out than to have people over, so this might prove difficult to accomplish. Still, two down, six to go. Afterward, Isabella’s family, members of an environmentalist group was hosting a candlelight aperitivo party at a nearby restaurant in honor of Low Energy (usage) Day. We decided to drop by and make an appearance. I intended to mingle and work on my Italian, but I ended up socializing with people I already knew, which was just as fun if more bilingual. Afterwards I was going to go home for dinner, but I got talked into going out with Giuliano, Liam, Leonardo, and Isabella. I was leaving for Venice early the next morning, so I didn’t want to get home too late, but I figured that since it was barely nine it would be fine. Ha. We managed to take an hour to walk up Azeglio to the center (normally maybe a 15-minute walk), where we found a pizzeria, La Duchessa. I admit I was pleasantly surprised. I have been advised against centrally-located establishments, but the food was really good and reasonably priced. Of course, after the Italian interpretation of going dutch (splitting bills mathematically instead of by what you order), I ended up having to pay way more. Over dinner, we took turns trying to explain and translate and find equivalents for our respective phrasings of things, for example the proper use of ‘oh snap.’ We eventually started heading back down Azeglio to the car. I walk too fast for most people, and I walk way too too fast for southern Italians. They were physically holding on to me to keep me from leaving them in the dusty dark. I really hate walking slowly. We finally made it to the car and then to my house at the lovely hour of 130am. How did our quick little dinner turn into a four hour adventure?

2. 13 and 14. 10: Venice and back
Wow wow wow. Venice. Venice. Four hours after falling into bed I woke up at 545 and couldn’t get back to sleep. The advantage of having missed dinner at home last night was that there was plenty of food waiting for me in the kitchen. Hard-boiled eggs, which no one would ever eat for breakfast but are perfectly acceptable at dinner, plus a slew of other things, gave me a good start to my morning. There was also a pile of homemade potato chips that were perfect for a travel snack; I knew snack breaks in Venice would be expensive and far between. I debated waiting it out for the nefarious 6, but opted to take the 5 to Corridoni and walk over to the station with Matt and Morgan. Well, by the time I arrived that walk turned into a bit of a stilted sprint, but we made it fine and got onto our first train to Bologna. I was happy to eavesdrop on a bunch of raucous Spaniards. This would become a recurring experience on this trip. About an hour later we changed trains. Clearly, Venice was the place to be this weekend. If we thought the cars were packed when we got on, it was nothing compared to how it was by the time we arrived. I managed to get a seat with three British girls, and I wondered whether they knew I understood them, since I had only spoken to them in Italian when I asked whether the seat was available. It didn’t matter too much anyway, because I fell asleep for most of the two hours of the ride. Every now and then I would feel people touching my hair as they placed their hands on my headrest while walking by. I don’t know what the maximum car capacity is, but we seemed to be quite close. People were standing in the aisles and clumping in the areas between cars. As we got close to the last stop, I watched my seatmates reapply enough makeup to open their own makeup store.

Venice. What? As soon as we got off the train, there were masks and hats and wigs and masks and masks for sale at the station. After making purchases and a restroom break on a train to avoid paying and getting our return tickets, we eventually made it outside, and it was Venice. Venice! Canals, churches, boats: Venice. More masks and face-painting available. Resourceful Matt found a hotel and a map, which would serve us well for the rest of the trip. The thing about the way Venice is laid out is that when everyone wants to get to the same place and there are only limited ways to get there, everything is one big bottleneck. The good news is that as long as you follow the crowd, you can be pretty sure that you’ll get to where you want to go. We take a lunch break for some, a photo adventure break for others. I find my photo-passion of the day in the form of laundry drying on clotheslines. I sometimes feel like take the same pictures everywhere I go, but it is how I find myself and what I love wherever I am. It is really nice to get a taste of what I might call the Real Venice, or the common Venice, what Venice really is for the people who live there. We get back ‘on the road,’ and it is nice to not be sardined into alleyways now that we have been briefly left behind by the crowds. We follow the signs to Rialto bridge (originally the only bridge over the Grand Canal) and San Marco (labeled S. Marco and henceforth referred to as Smarco). Eventually we find people again. We become one with the surge, and are bombarded by the languages of affluent countries. This is the first time during my stay that I hear almost as much English as Italian being spoken on the streets. I mentioned earlier that I had started inadvertently speaking French; today German found its way out of my mouth as well. We stop at a gelateria and I get fiordilatte, literally milk-flower but I think more accurately translated as sweet cream. It might be the best gelato I have had yet. It was exactly what I was craving. There seems to be a popular local flavor, sometimes called Doge, composed of some kind of liquor and berry, a white and purplish swirl. At some point we pass by the fish market, right before Rialto. No fish left, but other produce is out and I also see a horsemeat store. Rialto is a) huge b) crowded c) all of the above. Had I been wearing roller-skates and not been going up and down stairs, I could have just stood, and I would have arrived on the other side. Walk walk walk. We briefly wonder whether we are going the right way, and in that instant I see a sliver of a lavish façade over the heads of the crowd. We get to the end of the alleyway and it opens up onto a square over which looms a wall of Smarco. Is this big? Not compared to what we see when we get to its corner. The entire piazza, vast in the blinding sun and black under the swarms of people, is before us. Time to breathe a little bit. Where do we go? Who knows. By this time (actually long before this time but by now I can’t remember when or where exactly) I have acquired my mask. We are one with the tourists and inferior to the locals, the real partygoers, whose extravagant ensembles can’t be described as anything but Venetian. We are awed by the mosaics of Smarco; we are squeezed through the capillaries of space that exist in the crowds (and realize that if you ever find a reasonably sized opening it is probably because you are walking through someone’s photo-op); we are in Venice during Carnevale.

Everyone here speaks everything. Is this where I should have grown up? Venetians know that they rely on tourism, so it seems like anyone who wants to get business speaks Italian, English, Spanish, and French, if not also German and more. I hear one woman make the same announcement in all of these languages, and I am a little jealous. We make it to the Canal and look over the waters and see the gondoliers waiting for customers. What now? We try to go see whether we can get into the tower that towers (ha) over the square. Everyone but Matt and I decides that they want to go sit and drink. We wait a bit and move not a step. I reason that the tower will only be worth it when and if we make it to the top, whereas the church behind us will start yielding as soon as we manage to make it inside. Matt wonders whether churches are just churches, ultimately, but he accepts my logic and we shift endeavors. After more crushing and pressing and squishing we pop in through the doorway and our mouths fall open. Not a church forgettable amidst the mass of churches we will see.  Of all the churches I have ever seen, this is in the top two with St. Peter’s as far as wow-factor goes. The ceiling is entirely Byzantine and post-byzantine mosaic. The floor is as intricate, huge patterns of porphyry and marble swirling and spiraling and tessellating throughout the Basilica. The walls have slabs of stone sliced thin so that each slab bears the same veining pattern, creating a tapestry-like pattern on the walls. It is a testament to the awesomeness of nature as much as the creativity and skill with which man has been endowed. I could have sat and gaped all day. I sit and say thank you. As usual, photos are not allowed inside, though that does not stop most people from flashing away, often right next to the signs that insist otherwise. We go to the upstairs museum and terrace, so even though we didn’t make it up to the tower, we do get some nice elevated views of the square and of the people who surround us. It is all, to put it simply, breathtaking. We make our way down just as they start to close, and meet up with the rest of the group. It is decided that we will take a gondola ride. Is it a little exorbitant? Is it touristy? Is it fun? Yes. As we say, when in (insert name of relevant Italian city), … Our gondolier, whose name I unfortunately either never knew or have completely forgotten, takes us around and answers all of our questions. We go by the Doge’s palace and the prison, from which Casanova escaped. I admit that upon arriving, my first thought went to that movie. We pass Casanova’s last residence (apparently he never had a home; he always slept ‘wherever he could find lodging,’ to put it euphemistically) and Marco Polo’s family’s house , the latter of which bore an Italian inscription: the house of the family of Marco Polo, who traveled to faraway Asian lands and described them. I was sitting closest to the front, and every time we rounded a close corner I held my breath, expecting to scrape up against it. We never did, even if we were less than a centimeter away. Nameless Gondolier won my admiration. We passed by another gondola being serenaded with Venetian ballads and accordion. Our gondolier said he was not much of a fan of such music, and later broke into a spontaneous rendition of the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Under the Bridge, and we all joined in. It was a rather surreal experience.

Dinner time. Where to? We wandered and wandered some more and ended up somewhere whose name I have forgotten. More surreality. We finally pick our restaurant, and as we try to enter we are preemptively met outside by the head waiter, who asks if we have reservations. No. Ok, well you can eat here, but you have to eat upstairs. Ok… You will be in a room by yourselves. Ok… So because we didn’t make a reservation we get to eat in a private room. Sounds good. Dinner for me was spaghetti alla carbonara, a creamy egg-based sauce and pancetta (the Italian version of bacon). I had had it before in the US, but it was too rich for me. Here, it was just right. I tried Lauren’s lasagna and it was incredible. Eventually other people were seated at the other tables in our private room, but it is funny to think that this dilapidated bunch of kids got a private room in a swanky restaurant, if only briefly.

After dinner, it was definitely slump time. We would all have been happy to settle into our wicker chairs for a nap, but it was all too clear that the waiters were ready for us to be on our way. Back out into the night, and Matt was happy to point out that there was still half of our ‘day’ to go before we would get on the train home. We sat on a bridge that dead-ended into the now-closed glass factory and talked. We were treated to people peeing nearby, tried to say hi to grumpy water-taxi-ists who ignored us, and were accosted by a group of drunken Italians from Siena. They asked if I was Spanish and I went with it, even though they ascertained that everyone else in the group was American. After a while we decided to try and find one of the parties we had heard about. We saw an illuminated, giant, mechanized praying mantis, spider, and ant, make their way through the crowd, spraying who knows what onto onlookers. We wandered west of the square, which seemed to be the general direction of ‘the people.’ We found ourselves in a fancy shopping center, and I saw gem-encrusted shoes for 1000+ € and some crazy Gucci pumps for 1480€. The night was still young. We found an Italian ska band performing, and a very good-natured mosh pit. After a bit we moved on. We found another piazza and another and another church and we sat for a while. We watched a rat scamper. We kept going and found a crepe stand. Nutella crepe for me! Quite good. More wandering and then sitting. I finally made it to a white domed structure behind which the sun had set; my desired destination for much of the evening. We wandered; we sat. We started heading back in the general direction of the train station. We made it to Rialto quickly and easily. After that, not so much. All the signs were for Piazzale Roma, which was west of our destination, so we tried to compensate. We ended up there anyway. The only good thing was that the scale on the map was such that things were much closer than they seemed. When all seemed lost, by which I mean when my navigating senses were numbed and we had reached not where we wanted, we took a few turns and suddenly there we were. Venice is like that. We later figured out we went over a bridge that wasn’t even on the map, a very modern and somewhat out-of-place-seeming, sleek and illuminated Calatrava.

Even though we were over an hour early, our train was there. It was a good thing we got on then, because several of the cars were already packed. I felt like I would never be warm again. We waited; we talked; we snoozed; we arrived in Veneto. Now onto the train to Parma. Home sweet home at 9 am. I thought I was doing pretty well as I waited for the bus. Then I got on the bus. I couldn’t sit without my eyes closing. Lucky I am the last stop, otherwise who knows where I would have ended up. Home, hi, good night, thought I would sleep until 1; slept until 430 and could have kept going.

Travel lesson that I should have learned by now:
Bring extra batteries, because ones that say ‘lasts as long as Duracel’ don’t.

P. S. Did you know that Venice is shaped like a fish?

After my post-Venice sleep, there wasn’t much left of the day. Pizza for dinner, which never gets old. Then Cristina and Antonio showed up with Indian takeout, and I ended up having a second dinner. Fantastic. Even if they got things they totally didn’t order, it was pretty good, and if I ever feel like I need a break from Italian food (not like that’s ever going to happen) now I know where to go. It was pretty funny to observe their reactions to the food. I guess the color of tandoori chicken can be pretty shocking if you have never seen it before. There was a soccer game tonight, and little Pietro and his dad came over to watch it with us. It was even less exciting than the previous game, with a final score of 0-0, but still fun. Also fun to hear a child’s commentary on the game. Milan Inter was playing Napoli, and I learned that when a law was passed requiring that everyone wear seatbelts while driving, people in Napoli started selling shirts with a thick black diagonal stripe. That's how they roll, there.