Niceties

After weeks of early starts and full days, the pace of life slowed down when we got to Nice. On our first day, after our remarkably restful train ride, we spent the morning lounging and taking much-needed showers at the hostel, and then moseyed down to the beach in the afternoon. It was blue blue blue of ocean, white white white of rocks (no sand), and covered covered covered with people. As always, I had brought journals and art supplies, intending to be inspired and productive, but the only thing the beach ever inspires is dozing. I did briefly dip myself ankle-deep into the chilly liquid blue, and we stayed at the beach for a good two hours. Our first Niçoise dinner was at a Chinese restaurant, much to our friendly concierge’s dismay. 

The following day I headed out early on my own, acquiring a kilo of carrots on the way, and did some exploring. At the start it was gray and foggy and chilly and seemed unideal for going to the beach, but after a while the neighboring coasts reappeared as the sun decided to grace us with its presence. I recognized several local beach-goers from the day before. After spending a few hours attempting to become cooked lobsters we went to the local market. That’s where I got my now ‘famous’ ring. I also got a traditional baguette, which I gleefully consumed on the way back to the hostel. We stopped in the mall, far larger than the one in Parma, and I added a smoothie to the contents of my stomach. I had been craving one for ages. That evening we walked back down to the beach to catch the sunset, and discovered the docks and a war memorial and other things we deemed worth exploring further in the daylight. This night we did have a traditional meal, though the exact identity of mine was a mystery.

Day three we finally remembered that there was more to do than go lay on the rocky beach. It was Tuesday and I had intended to go to a few of Nice’s many museums, but it turned out that, unlike the rest of the world, Nice’s museums are closed on Tuesdays instead of Mondays. So, we started our day at the market, which in the mornings is all flowers and produce, in contrast to the array of old trinkets we saw the preceding afternoon. We continued on down to the water, but didn’t stop at our usual spot. We walked to the site of the ancient castle, transformed into a climb to panoramic views, parks, cemeteries, ruins, and a manmade waterfall. At the top of the waterfall I took in the spread of red-tiled roofs and the shifting azure expanse of the ocean. Further along were the Jewish and Christian cemeteries. The former was simple, cramped, and haphazard, while the latter seemed extravagant, ostentatious, and expansive. By now we were hungry, and I picked a direction towards a church we didn’t find, but which lead us to a new part of town. I ended up picking a restaurant after going into some other church where they seemed to be tuning a stubbornly dissonant organ.

 Partly because of the previous day’s museum surprise we decided to spend an extra morning in Nice to be able to make it to the Chagall and Matisse museums. On the way I nabbed a chocolate croissant and a chocolate éclair. Yum. At the Chagall Museum, perhaps more than the work, I enjoyed being able to employ my many languages, successfully reading French descriptive texts and eavesdropping on Italian visitors with more information. The sight I most enjoyed was his stained glass windows which, being glass, let in the light necessary to give his heavy colors some air and a sense of life, something I found somewhat lacking in his paintings. Next we went to the Matisse Museum, and I was proud of myself for deciphering the bus maps and communicating with the bus driver, two things that took me a while to master in ‘my own’ Parma. After seeing many artifacts from his household and plans for a chapel he designed, I have added the Vence Chapel to the ‘one day…’ list for my life. On the way back to the hostel we stopped at the same bakery from the morning and I got myself a quiche and another baguette, this time ‘normal’ instead of ‘traditional.’ We picked up our bags at the hostel and bid farewell to the owner, who had been flexing his biceps at me ever since I snapped off the shower knob a few days prior.

We took a train to Monte Carlo, then to Ventimiglia, and from there one bound for Milano. When I saw Italian text again, and finally heard Italian again, it was priceless. I was headed home, to a language I speak and to a home with a family.

Perusing Paris

A little back-note about Rotterdam. In our hostel, everything from bathroom lights to hallway lights were motion-activated. As I walked through raised walkways that connected the upper levels, lights turning on with my every step, I felt like a purposeful member of some starship crew.

And so the epic journey to Nice. We did so much train-hopping it was more like permanent floating. When I ordered some food during a change in Lille, for the first time in weeks I was able to do it in a different language, using more than nouns and numbers and pointing. I could conjugate verbs again!

When we finally made it to Paris we had no problem acquiring the tickets to Nice that had been so elusive in the Netherlands, and we found ourselves with eight hours to adventure. We dropped off our bags in storage; I changed to ‘look more French,’ and we set out to hit as many major sights as possible. Since the city was so overrun with people we opted for the ‘look, there’s that, take a picture’ approach, rather than spending hours in line to go inside one or two sights. Our first pause was Notre-Dame, and Brendan began to understand the scale of things in store. We walked along the interminable exterior of the Louvre and continued through the Tuilleries gardens. It was a hot and dusty day, and soon my black shoes were the color of the sandy paths. We stopped for some overpriced but quenching soft-serve near the obelisk, and again I missed gelato (how much more do I miss it now!). We could see the Arc de Triomf in the distance, but it is so huge that it would be our donkey’s taunting carrot for quite a while. I stopped for a ham and cheese crepe from a street vendor. When in France… . Eons later, after stopping in a store or two on the Champs-Elysees and watching an impressive street performer, we made it to the Arc. There I saw ‘Miranda,’ the last name of a distant relative, engraved on one of its faces. There seemed to be some kind of military remembrance or celebration underway, and as old men marched towards us, we marched on toward the rest of Paris. Our next intended destination was the Eiffel Tower, but we inadvertently spent the next hour making a large circle around the Arc, before we looked at a map and figured it out. You’d think a landmark that huge shouldn’t be hard to find. Eventually we made it, and took pictures and composed postcards. We saw the dome of Invalides in the distance, and it came time to start heading back. We stopped into a mini-mart to get some snacks for the ride, and I got to use my French to ask where the nearest Metro entrance was. Success! We took the eight to République, to take the five to our station, Gare Austerlitz. Easy. Too easy. We hopped on the five and started moving just as I realized we were going the wrong way. Oops. The rest was uneventful, and we joined our unexpected Texan companions in our sleep cabin on the train.

I woke up around 730 and was itching to see the famous South of France countryside, but with the shade down and everyone fast asleep, I would have to look elsewhere. I went outside to the corridor and marveled. It felt like the first time the train window showed me something truly unique and unfamiliar. The brush was different, and at times I felt like I was in a painting. The light was soft and diffused, and in the distance there were rolling green mountains. Once our companions woke up I raised the blind in our cabin, and light flooded in. Picturesque red-tile roofed buildings zipped by, and palm trees waved a frondy hello. Suddenly the ocean appeared. It was almost like being back in Cinque Terre. Already I knew that Nice would be the place for me. Already I wished I had more time to spend exploring this region.

Victory under construction

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

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

Here's what I saw:

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


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

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

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

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

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

On the other side

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

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

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

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

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

Onion fingers

Did you know: The discerning Parmesan palate can tell the difference between hand-grated and machine-grated Parmigiano-Reggiano.

For a city full of people who rarely make it to a nearby city, much less a neighboring country, a remarkable number of them profess to ‘♥ NY.’ Today, a cynic bore a different message on his chest. ‘NY doesn’t ♥ U.’ Well proclaimed, sir.

The weekend saw:
Going for gelato with Cristina and Jody. Definitely the best gelato I've had so far in Parma. Jody got some too. Seriously, this dog lives the good life. 
Liberation Day on the 25th with an outdoor concert and another exciting Panthers victory, this time against the Bologna Warriors. I sought the perfect pre-game busride music and, in the absence of 'Are you ready for some football?', I opted for CCR and the Black Keys. I needed some hearty American sounds. 

Dinner Monday was risotto… with strawberries. It was… pink. I don’t know how I feel about cooked strawberries, but if I avoided the chunks and seasoned it with the recommended black pepper instead of the usual Parmesan cheese, it was totally edible. After cleansing my palate with a copious amount of carrots and celery, it was apron time. A few days earlier I had gotten platanos (plantains) to make for the family (/myself if no one liked them, not that I would complain too much about that; more for me) and it was finally the moment of truth. Leti said it ‘had an effect on her’ to see me there, apron-clad, at her usual post before the stove. Washing, squeezing, peeling, slicing, and lots of frying later, it was actually the moment of truth. And… delicious. I was a little worried that no one else would like them, or perhaps worse, that they would feel obligated to pretend that they did like them, but it was pretty clear that the appreciation was sincere. Leti plans on making them in the future, perhaps as a novelty potluck item. I’m just glad to have been able to leave a bit of Guatemala in Parma, and a way for the family to keep me in mind and heart and stomach after I’m gone. Later, we added mangos to the fruity mix of the evening.
Up next is avocados and black beans.
I also got a new giant citrus, a honey pomelo, which lasted me several sittings. It was definitely more edible than the cedro.

I have now seen everyone’s bare feet except for Davide’s (but I think I would have to stay here at least another two months to see him as much as I have now seen everyone else. So statistically it would have happened by now.). No one has tried to apologize for their unseemly and unhygienic state. I am starting to wonder whether this was overhyped and I could have been blissfully barefoot all along.

I heard some serious revving today and turned around just in time to see a guy popping a wheelie. Purty cool.

A couple nights ago I had a dream of a not-unusual structure. Within some context or another, I am driving a car, and then the brakes don’t work. Sometimes, I can slow down but never fully stop, and sometimes they have no effect whatsoever. Despite red lights and other cars, I never crash, but I never stop. This time, I kid you not, I looked down at my speedometer and it said I was going 1000 miles (or perhaps kilometers!) (or whatever unit of distance) per hour. I remember thinking, wow, I didn’t think I was going that fast. Anyway, this one is easy to read. Time is going by too quickly, and I want it to slow down. Six days. Read that again. Less than a week. Until I leave Parma. Until I leave home. What?

I finally started doing what I meant to be doing all along. Tonight, I learned how to make pasta and tomato sauce, the Italian way. With some mysterious brown on the outside, purple on the inside, white on the inner inside, tear-shaped onions. It turned out well, and Leti actually let me do everything, instead of just showing me and having me watch. Everyone said they were good, and I guess I am not the most confident chef, because I wasn’t sure whether to believe them. But, Cri is a very particular eater, and she seemed earnest when she said it was good. Leti wanted more and gave me a thumbs up when she discovered that there was still some left in the pot. So, either they’re good actors; I’m gullible, or, as I choose to believe, it really was good. I mean, obviously I ate it too, but coming from people who claim to be able to taste the difference between hand-grated and machine-grated cheese, they would be more likely to take up issue with any of my cooking flaws. Paolo did say it tasted different, somehow, and I agreed and was ok with that. I have noticed that no two people can make the same dish really the same. It’s like the flavor of the person goes into the food.

Alina arrived on Monday! That afternoon we got her acclimated and oriented and had some gelato. Tuesday I was free all day so we had plenty of time to spend together. I practiced my tour guide routine, in Italian this time. We went to a panini place and I had a horse sandwich so she could close her eyes and hold her breath and have a taste.
I think at some point early on in the blog I mentioned that I had the desire to go an entire day without speaking English. Alina made my dream come true, or as close to true as I think I will get. We did use the occasional English word, but we definitely did not have any English conversations. We went to the movie theater and saw an Italian movie, but for some reason there was one random character who kept switching back and forth from Italian and English, though he was obviously not a native English speaker. Last week I watched a movie on TV solely because the blurb said it took place in Houston, and I hoped that I would be able to show my family some scenes of Houston. Instead, the ‘Texanest’ things in the movie were a cow phone that mooed, a mailbox painted like a jersey cow, a couple of Texas license plates, and maybe some Tecate. There were also lots of guns involved, but that was relevant to the plot, not Texas. They didn’t even bother to throw in a Houston skyline for good measure. Instead, I later found out, the whole thing was filmed in Los Angeles. I have no idea why they bothered to set it in ‘Houston,’ or felt that that was relevant enough to be included in the synopsis. So, imagine my surprise when, all of a sudden in the midst of this Italian movie yesterday, there appeared a pair of ‘Texan’ characters.
Today Alina did some touring on her own and came to watch my final presentation (I’m (mostly) done with classes and classwork!) and I was fortunate to have her and Leti’s smiling faces offering me silent support. We had lunch at home and took pictures on the infamous Six on the way to her departure.

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.

Kicking and screaming

This football game included many more graying heads and receding hairlines than they normally do. Players’ birth years ranged from 1966 to 1991. Jeering at the team’s Old Man Winter would turn several heads – if any of them understood you. This game included some slightly unusual cheers, like De-Fense, Go! and Of-Fense, Go! Only one of the teams had a cheerleading squad, whom the announcer thanked after every cheer. Some of these ladies, in their turtlenecks, could have used a couple more rehearsals before the game. With a final score of 47-44, and way way more two-point conversions than normal, it included a lot more points than many games. Conclude what you will about the quality of the defense. This field was shorter than standard, with ten yards between the two forty-yard lines. It included some really low punts and some barely-made extra points. In sum, this was the best football game ever.

On this perfectly sunny day in March – with more flowers and fewer people than football usually sees, too – the Parma Panthers triumphed over neighboring rivals, the Reggio Hogs. The game started with a low wobbly kick and if this seemed to portend the quality of the game to come, the assumption was at once accurate and erroneous. The offense charged forward, converting after almost every play. The Hogs squeezed in a field goal and in no time at all the Panthers responded with seven. Speaking of time and scores, that was up to you to keep track of. When asked where the scoreboard was, I joked that it is in your head. Shouldn’t be too hard, right? Well, when each team flies across the field, Parma with its golden-handed receivers and “tiny but swift” running backs, and Reggio with its unstoppable giant of a quarterback, the numbers start to become a blur. At the third quarter, Parma was maintaining a comfortable cushion, closing at 24 to 16.

With the start of the fourth quarter, however, Reggio’s dreaded dreaded quarterback, charged the Hogs forward, dreads flying, to a score of 32-31, moving Panthers fans to start yelling to the hapless defenders, “grab him by the ponytail!” Suddenly, this game that at the start seemed like it would be one of those games where the fans get to calmly love their team was one where you couldn’t look away. If there were an electric current running through the seats, no one would have noticed; they were jumping to their feet with every play. Even worse than the impossibility of remembering the score, whose ambiguous closeness only added to the suspense, was trying to keep track of game time. How are you supposed to avoid delay of game penalties when you don’t have a play clock? How long can fans gnaw their nails when they know the fourth quarter is drawing to a close but have no idea by how much? Maybe Parma could at least invest in a sundial, provided you could convince the sun to stop at the right times. And why wouldn't the sun cooperate? This is football, after all.

A smattering of Hogs fans, seated in the midst of a larger smattering of Parma fans, would not be out-yelled. Mostly, one particular Hogs fan would not be out-yelled. Fortunately, a Panthers-loving young lady brought her drum, with which she rallied her fellow fans – or at least the ones who weren’t busy chain smoking. Other grizzled Panthers fans cheered on their balding buddies, perhaps co-workers, who gave their aged sweat to the team. All kinds of colorful expressions were flying through the air. Spectator mothers gave their benched sons thumbs up. A player ejected from the game earlier on alternated between smoking, pacing, and rattling the fence. Voices were giving out, right and left. Anxious fans were yelling at the announcer’s booth to reveal how much time was left. How much longer did we have to hold our breath? An impossibly long three minutes after five minutes was announced, there were two minutes left on the clock and Parma had the ball. Fans started high-fiving anyone in their vicinity after every successful play. The Panthers locked it down with a touchdown, which put them a point up. The man in front of me did a jig. The Panthers went for the two-point conversion and, after their success, the man in front of us grabbed my dad’s stomach and gave it a celebratory jiggle, before commencing the high-fives all around. It was over! We had won!
Oh wait, it wasn’t. There was still a still unknown but surely small amount of time left on the invisible clock. With a few spiked balls and some solid Hail Marys, the Hogs might still have a chance. The game came down to the wire, and the lackadaisical springtime feelings of the early afternoon were long forgotten. Parma’s defense remembered that they had feet and should run with them and bodies that they should tackle with, and the Hogs were held at bay. Panthers received the ball, spiked, and celebrated. It was a storybook finish, a book come to life. What year is better than one in which I get to have two football seasons?



Infinite thanks to John Grisham's Playing for Pizza for making this possible in my life. For once in my Italian life, I didn't care about being loud and invasively American. This was football!
For more game details visit the Panthers' website
Good luck understanding the botched translation.

A cheesy tourist

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

A weekend of Vicktry

03. 12. 10
Toschi again this morning for two English classes. The first one was with  teacher who was new to me, and she wanted me to ‘help her’ aka teach/lead some exercises. Again, students obviously couldn’t have cared less, and pretty much no one had done the homework we were supposed to be going over. She wanted me to help them review ‘the first form of the conditional.’ (If this is as unfamiliar to you as it was to me, an example would be: ‘if it rains today, I will stay inside.’) Some of the kids could not get what they were supposed to be doing, and most of them were just completely disengaged. I had to reach into my teacherly bag o’ tricks. I finally got the ball rolling a little by having one student make up the first half of the sentence and then pick a classmate to complete it with the second clause. Then this person got to start the next sentence. This broadened the participation and kept me from having to call on people, which is hard to do when you don’t know people’s names and can’t point because students won’t look at you. My technique worked well enough, but students were either not motivated enough or they weren’t able to come up with clauses on the fly, so it was a little stilted.

My next class was with my now-favorite teacher. As I stood in the front of the class, waiting for the teacher to show up, a girl walked by and said to her friend, ‘esta chica no la conozco’ (I don’t know this girl). Shortly thereafter she and her friend came over to say hi and ask whether I was on ‘interculture,’ essentially an exchange student, and I explained. I also asked her, in Spanish, whether she spoke Spanish, not so much to call her out on her previous comment, to which I had not taken any offense, but to start up conversation in Spanish. Nonetheless, she felt very embarrassed about her offhanded comment that had been made assuming that I wouldn’t understand her. She turned out to be Chilean, and we had a rapid-fire conversation switching back and forth between Spanish and Italian and maybe even a little English, as needed, which would have made my head spin had I taken the time to think about it. Anyway, this class went by quickly, and was small enough and had enough interested people to keep it lively. The teacher asked me to read them an article about the birth of hip-hop culture, and then make up some comprehension questions to ask them.

Throughout the week, I have found myself in several situations that make me feel like I know nothing about the mechanics of my language or the structure of my country. If somebody said, ‘explain your educational system,’ how would you respond? It’s not that I know nothing about it, it’s just that it is such an insanely broad question. Now factor in the fact that the people listening have the ability to understand maybe half of the words that come out of your mouth. I can’t just say, ‘I don’t know;’ I have to answer something. I have this scenario that flashes into my mind when I face a question I feel unprepared to answer:
I rattle off my logic-based assumptions and generalizations as though they were certain truths. Some time later, one of the students encounters someone else and has a conversation regarding this topic. The other person says something different than what I taught. My listener authoritatively counters that ‘an American told him so’ and therefore he must be right. Further research uncovers a very different answer than what I gave. It is concluded that that crazy American girl had no idea what she was talking about.

Anyway, home for lunch and all that. I actually managed to start my paper probably around way too late o’clock.


03. 13. 10
I wake up at a decent time and actually manage to do some work and cleaning before the big moment. Around three I head to the train station and shortly after my arrival a one Miss Victoria Fantastic rounds the bend and the sun breaks out from behind the clouds and angels sing. But really. It was hard to believe that three short days ago I was wading through snow. The sun had come and melted most of it away, such that save for a few dirty white patches you wouldn’t know Parma wasn’t in the throes of glorious spring. After some arbitrary wandering I passed off as sightseeing, we arrived at Café Chagall. It was the first place I went in Parma, and I suggested an Italian-style hot chocolate to Vicky. Cappuccino for me (shocking!) and a mug full of melted chocolate topped with whipped cream and cocoa powder for Vicky. And then the talking commenced. Needless to say, we had a lot of catching up to do, and catch up we did. We spent at least as many hours there as I put sugar packets in my coffee. Eventually we decided it was time to head home, but swung by the grocery store to grab some 'thank you for hosting me' wine and some drinks of our own. On the bus, Vicky gets the pleasure of experiencing fifteen minutes in the life of a sardine. Even better, we get to ride around next to the wide-open rear door. I’d seen it happen before, but I’d never been the one watching the pavement zip by, inches from my feet. We arrive home just in time to see everyone leaving. We cook for ourselves, meaning Vicky cooks, and she falls in love with the kitchen. We have leftover pasta, fresh pasta, scrambled eggs and pancetta, leftover spinach, and my contribution of sliced mozzarella and tomatoes with oregano and olive oil. We then met Matt for a night out. Vicky and I got dolled up and I finally wore the dress I bought during my first week here. For the irony of it, we went to Irish, a – you guessed it – Irish pub. There, after enjoying a Guinness, I had the pleasure (?) of being called upon to defend Houston and America as a whole to a drunken Italian fellow. Even if we never made it to anything close to an agreement, I got to practice several of the argumentative Italian gestures I have acquired so far.


03. 14. 10
Vicky and I woke up reasonably early and went to the modern church west of my house. It is a big gray cement spiral that could almost look like a prison were it not for the cross cut out of one side, and it has held my curiosity for quite a while. The interior had some beautiful paintings and some interesting lighting effects from the windows, but left much to be desired after the intriguing exterior. Also, the acoustics were really not optimal.

Afterward, we decided to head into town on a quest for horse. Unfortunately, afternoons in Parma, especially Sunday afternoons, tend to mean everything is closed. After wandering around looking for a place whose exact location I did not know, we caved and went to a pizza place. Because things weren’t open yet, we decided to go shopping. Whoopee! A successful endeavor for the both of us. Next, I took Vicky on ‘the tour,’ and gave her a condensed regurgitation of our lectures regarding the Duomo/cathedral, the Baptistery, two other churches, and the plazas and their namesakes. Maybe I should get a job as a multilingual tour guide. We saw a street performer and were treated to an impressive yet creepy accordion rendition of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. We freshened up with some heavenly gelato: pepper chocolate and berry for me and orange chocolate and mango for Vicky. Sunday ended up being full of the most stereotypical Italian/Italian touring activities: pizza, gelato, churches, and shopping. Italian indeed.

When we came home, Vicky took a nap and I finally finished off my paper. Tonight, we would be having dinner with the family, and Letizia went all out. Risotto alla Milanese, peas and carrots, a pork roast, bread and cheese, and an Easter cake shaped like a dove (colomba). The wine we brought, a Parmesan Lambrusco, was well received. With gestures, miming, and my translations, a successful conversation accompanied our splendid feast.


03. 15. 10
I had morning classes at Toschi, so I left my darling Vicky bright and early. First I had two periods of graphic design, but people were still finishing up their projects, so I was left to my own devices. I had been instructed to bring my laptop, so I fiddled around on photoshop, developing some ideas for what I ultimately want to do in this class. Near the end of class the teacher came over and said, ‘oh tell me what this beautiful thing is that you are doing!’ So began several minutes of ego inflating. I told him I wanted to work with some of my pictures and make either an alphabet using my pictures of Italy or maybe make illuminated letters or something like that. He asked to see my pictures and marveled and cooed over all of them. What an eye! What good taste! What strong images! Excellent! And so on. Yay me.

Next was English class, and I sat in the back with a handful of advanced students. We talked some, but the problem with a conversation is that only one person can talk at a time, which means that everyone else disengages. I get more and more respect for teachers every day, but at the same time I feel like on some level it is the teachers’ behavior that has taught students that their behavior is acceptable.

After class I met Vicky in the main plaza. Quest for horsemeat, take two. Due to the limited time available and the fact that I still didn’t know the exact location of the restaurant that serves horse sandwiches, we opted for the horse butcher. We got a neat little pack of ground meat and, on our way back, spotted some irresistible strawberries. Vicky has now gotten to experience some of the several examples of what to Americans seems like bizarre Italian behavior. Sometimes, you order and pay first, then get your food. Sometimes you order first, then sit and eat, and then pay. Good luck trying to figure out which one to do, when. At this little grocer’s shop, like at most others, you stand there until somebody offers to help, and they come over from the cash wrap to grab the tub of strawberries that are right next to you, and take them back to where they were so they can wrap them and charge you. The strawberries were fantastic. We arrive back home to lunch, which was pasta and a quiche-like tart and our horsemeat and more colomba. With that, it is time to go, alas. We take Vicky to the airport and say our goodbyes.

Afterward, I had a little time to catch up on my homework before heading to class. Apparently, I was more tired than I knew. We were to watch Roma Città Aperta, the quintessential Italian neorealist film, but as the lights dimmed so did my consciousness. I managed to stay awake long enough to appreciate the fact that I could now understand pretty much everything, unlike the first time I watched it several years ago, and I coincidentally found myself awake for many of the major scenes, but other than that I was out like the lights.