Italia vs. Italy

In La Bella Figura, Bebbe Severgnini wittily describes the Italian culture and disposition. He strives to chisel away at that the American fantasy of ‘Italy’, with its olive trees, wine vineyards, luscious food and speedy romances. Severgnini says, “Let’s get one thing straight. Your and Italy and our Italia are not the same thing.” He makes it clear that ‘Italia’ is difficult to understand and is thus a good place for poets to speculate over its realities.
In response to Severgnini, let me get one thing straight. Although, I am a straniera, I am not a tourist. After a year, I feel that ‘Italia’ is my second home. While I may have arrived with some preconceived notions, I certainly did not expect to experience the Italy Francis Mayes creates in Under the Tuscan Sun.
As a straniera, I must agree with Severgnini. The way I perceive ‘Italy’ is not the way my Italian friends perceive their country. While ‘Italy’ is my jungle gym, ‘Italia’ it is their office. I am told constantly told that I do not understand ‘Italia’. To an extent, this holds some truth. I do not understand what it’s like to have an entertainer for a president, or why one accelerates at a pedestrian crosswalk. I do not understand why I cannot lick my espresso spoon and why a couple living together for seven years do not just get married. I do understand why the Italian men take longer to get ready than I do, or why I have to wait until after 8pm to eat dinner.
Sometimes I am still perplexed about Italian culture. After almost a year in Italy, one would think things would start to click. However, I still find myself getting frustrated at things that I should just accept as ‘Italian’. I should know that a stop sign in Italy is just a suggestion, not a requirement. That way, when the for the fifteenth time a car rolls through the stop sign, barely missing me as a moving target, I can just exhale instead of yelling furiously at the driver who looks as innocent as an angel. This is his road and I am simply a straniera jogger in the midst of his daily routine.
Nevertheless, I do understand a few things for which Severgnini does not give his audience credit. I understand I cannot change the things I do not appreciate about another culture. Instead, I must change my perception in an attempt to adapt. Also, understanding the culture does not make me any more Italian than not understanding the culture. I will always be an outsider and observer in this curious “maze”. I must be conscious of my identity as a straniera and I embrace it.
There are things I love about the true ‘Italia’ and I have come to really appreciate at face value. Therefore in some ways I have merged my ‘Italy’ and Severgnini’s ‘Italia’. I understand the value of the slow food movement. I am fond of how families stay together for a lifetime and how children are not expected to move out of the house at age eighteen. I understand the tradition of grandparents being the daytime caregivers. I now even enjoy the journey of getting somewhere and not just the destination. Since I am not a tourist, they have become part of my daily life. When I return to the United States, these are the true things I will cherish about Italy. Besides, when an American driver stops to let me cross, I may actually be disappointed that I do not have to dodge a near death experience.

A weekend in “Il Mezzogiorno”

On Thursday all the residence of Palazzo Alberti, minus Jenna, squished in a mini bus to head for an adventure in La Foce and Matera. La Foce is a plantation in Val d’Orcia (in southern Tuscany). For our literature class we read a war diary written by the owner of this plantation, Iris Origo. During WWII Origo and her husband helped the partisans and allied troops who roamed through their 7000 acres of land. We had the chance to visit the villa and gardens of their plantation. This land was beyond picturesque. The landscape was intriguing and watching it roll out before me was as if the book was came to life. The land has not changed much since Origo described it 70 years ago. Origo’s description of the farm both prepared me for what I would see and also helped me to reason what I was seeing once we arrived.

“We live on a large farm in southern Tuscany –twelve miles from the station and five from the nearest village. The country is wild and lonely: the climate harsh. Our house stands on a hillside, looking down over a wide and beautiful valley, beyond which rises Monte Amiata, wooded with chestnuts and beeches. Nearer by, on this side of the valley, lie slopes of cultivated land: wheat, olives and vines, but among them still stand some ridges of dust-coloured clay hillocks, the crete sense- as bare and colourless as elephants’ backs , as mountains of the moon.” – Iris Origo, War in Val d’Orcia

I often wondered what she meant by these “colourless elephants’ backs”. However when we arrived in La Foce, it was not hard to clarify. There are large patterns of erosion that zigzag down the valley in russet bare slopes. These slopes penetrate the landscape and attract the curious eye. The whole scene is more like a painting than reality. La Foce host many celebrities, designers, and politicians on luxurious vacations. Benedetta, our tour guide and the event planner for the plantation, told me that it cost 7000 Euro to have a wedding in the garden. If you decided that you want to rent the villa and the garden, it would cost 22,000 Euros. My mom always said that she wanted me to have a “destination wedding”. I have decided this will be the perfect place one day. And relatively speaking, it would cost less than one year’s worth of tuition at Meredith. It is all relative, right Mom?

We spent Thursday night in a small village close to La Foce, Montisi. The hotel was an old house renovated from- I don’t know…like really old! Hannah, Sam, Vi and I stayed in room number 7, or the attic to be more precise. The stair case winded around and ended at our room with a one platform step. It was like something out of a Steve King novel. I was afraid to open the door because the darkness heighted my sense of imagination. What is going to pop out at me on the other side of this door? I felt like I need to be carrying a candle with me.
Much to my dismay or maybe appreciation, nothing but a queen bed and cot was on the other side of the door. However, our bathroom was complete with a creepy crawl space and sky light. Did I mention it was soon to be Friday the 13th?

On Friday, we woke up early to begin the six hour drive to Matera. I had the opportunity to sit in the front seat and practice my Italian with our handsome driver, Marco. He has become somewhat of our regular chauffer around Italia and also my language partner. Marco is especially qualified for the job because, unlike my other Italian friends, he speaks little English. For this reason, we have established Italian as our communicative language. This validates my hypothesis that once you establish a language with someone it is hard to change. But, it is always difficult in a second language. At dinner on Saturday night I acted as a translator for Marco. Dr. Webb and I had been talking about how in Morocco typically a dentist performs circumcision. From there we talked about castrating bulls. Now that I look back on it, this was not actually appropriate dinner conversation. My grandfather would allocate it as equal to discussing diapers or bras at the dinner table. Anyhow, I think we were relating it to the subject of pain and diversion from pain. We joked that in Morocco, you can have a two for one. The whole table burst out in laughter and Marco looked at me inquisitively. I then mistakenly explained to Marco, in Italian, that in Morocco the dentist also performs “castrazione” (castration). Marco’s eyes got big as our dinner plates and my face turned beet red. I did not realize what I had just said. Between choking on bread and laughing, Chelsea pointed out that I really meant “circumcision”. I did not know the word for this in Italian therefore trying to explain circumcision was more awkward and embarrassing then my mistake. “Bambino” “Nascire” “un intervento”.

Matera is where Passion of the Christ was filmed. It is appropriate because the city looks like it is in Israel, not Italy. The sassi, literally meaning ‘stone’, forms a cave like feeling to the city. As we walked around, or slipped around on the glassy slick cobble stone, I was set back in time. The lighting and fog at night added to the mood. Most of the buildings are formed from caves in the rock.

On Saturday we visited Aliano, were Carlo Levi, author of Christ Stopped at Eboli, was exiled during WWII. Along the way, we stopped to buy clementines. The breakfast at the hostel was complete with bread and more bread. We were happy to consume some fruit for the sake of resisting scurvy. However, I did more than resist scurvy. Last night I went to shower and thought I had a case of bed bugs by the looks of my thighs. I ran down stairs to announce my diagnosis to the professors. If it was bed bugs, surely the whole palazzo would need to be exterminated with Clorox. My assumption was shot down and my disease clarified as overindulgence in clementines. Dr Webb likes to call anything of this nature the “epozootacus”. This could mean a rash or the runs. In my case, it materialized as “acid rash”. I think I’ll be watching my citrus intake for the week.

Sunday we made the long 9 hour drive back to Sansepolcro. Being away from Sansepolcoro really gave the word “home” a whole new meaning. Home is a state of mind, not a physical place on the map. A weekend in the Mezzogiorno, the south of Italy, allowed me to see that Tuscany and more specifically Sansepolcro has become my home this fall. Giacomo called last night and I answered the phone with a joyful, “I’m home”! I am already in denial that in three weeks time, I will be leaving this home for my other home.

Morocco

I temporary fell off the blog radar. I got lost somewhere between Bergamo, Italia and Fes, Morocco. I hear that the Bermuda triangle is always moving, so maybe that was the force that pulled me away from writing. However, I am more positive that it is the things I saw that metaphysically kept me from recounting my experience. I vacationed in a parallel universe to my usual one. Being in Morocco was as if I walked back in time and then took a step sideways [as Dr. Webb put it]. Nothing about my experience was normal, or “giusto” as the Italians would say. It was compelling, yet had an adverse effect of homesickness. Being in Morocco revealed dark parts of my heart and showed me that my experience is not the only truth of this world. I found myself questioning ideas which I have been reared to believe as concrete. Even now, 6 days later, I find myself trying to process it all. I have avoided Microsoft Word like an ex-boyfriend. I know that as I begin to recount these events I will have to deal with it somewhere within myself. For this reason I think it is best to share some journal entries I wrote while in Morocco. I will not alter anything, except for a few grammatical errors, in these accounts. This is Nicole uncut, from Morocco!
28-10-09
It is as if I have stepped into era, another dimension. Everything is different. The weather, the fashion, the flora (yes, Dr. Swab would be proud), the traffic pattern, and especially the language are foreign to me. I am no longer in Europe. Indeed, I am in Africa! I arrived at the Fes airport forty minutes ago and I am now sweltering in 90 degree weather at the “gare” (train station in French) as I wait for Ethan. However, I am not complaining because I am in great need of a little vitamin d. I was beginning to look a little too Northern European, on account of my exuberantly white skin. This, along with my clothing, gives away my identity as a foreigner. I am neither dressed correctly nor speak the right language. I would not make a good spy here in Fes. It is also humbling and frustrating that I have worked for one year to understand another culture and language, only now to arrive in yet a completely different culture. I can speak English and Italian. Some days I think I speak better Italian, especially when I examine my English grammar. Anyway, I digress. Knowledge of English and Italian does not benefit me here in Morocco. I have already realized that nothing in my education will serve me here. I am going to have to be imaginative. Morocco has two official languages (as well as a multitude of Berber languages): French and Arabic. I am officially adding learning French to my academic to-do list, because Arabic already seems impossible. However, I have just learned that because I speak a second language, I can pretend to be who I want. It is a naughty game, and a confusing one at that. With one slip of a word, the truth will be revealed! In forty minutes time I have already tested this game. At the airport, I spoke to a woman in Italian and she responded in French. So I had to resort to pen and paper in which I wrote “16” and drew a picture of a bus. Elementary methods will have to do. This gesture found me the bus where I paid for my ticket speaking Italian. When I did not know where my stop was, I asked for “il stazione”. Almost everyone got off the bus at the Medina and I was the only woman left on the bus. For a moment, I was nervous. Then the bus driver spoke to me. “Do you speak English?” “Yes. And Italian”, I proudly proclaim. “At the station it is finished.” “Grazie”, I replied! This was a conglomerate of languages. I knew I had confused the driver when he then asked “Italiana”? No, I responded, “Americana”. The bus stopped and I jumped off. “Grazie!” Thus I chose my identity: an American woman who speaks Italian in a French and Arabic speaking country. Boy, this is going to be fun!
After hopping off the bus I realized I must cross a very busy street with an unknown number of intersecting roads. There appeared to be no set traffic pattern or pedestrian-driver relationship. I figure my best bet was to cross with a man who looked as if he knew what he was doing. My man was tall, appearing to be around 65, wearing a traditional Arabic jellaba, and sporting a long white beard. He was the sort of fellow that John Rose would call a “good looking” one. His looked clean, which probably does not reflect the amount of times he bathed this week. I only had about a minute with this man but I am so thankful for his presence because otherwise I might have been a pancake in the Fes intersection. It is interesting the encounters one has with foreigners. You may at any moment count on someone you previously disregarded because of difference or prejudice.
29-10-2009
Morning -
I am living in a daze. Time and people move around me but I am caught in my own thoughts. This is not the western world, but I am not completely removed from its influences. I am discovering slowly another definition of modesty. I feel naked in 90 degree weather with only my wrist showing. And heaven forbid my sweater not cover my whole bottom. However, I believe there is something to be said about adhering to another culture’s standard of modesty. I remember reading an article about Muslim women who cover their hair and thinking how awfully persecuted they must feel. Now that I have witnessed it first hand, I have decided that this is not the case. Covering the head in the Arabic world is more about being modest than traditional. Ethan has an American friend in Fes who covers her hair for this reason. Although she is not Muslim, she covers her hair as a symbol of respect and awareness of sensuality. She conforms because as a modest Christian woman, she purses modesty in her own culture and thus must do the same in Morocco. I am not sure if I agree with this.
Evening-
I cannot seem to find another word besides “interesting” to describe all the new things I am seeing. Every time Ethan informs me about a new piece of Moroccan culture, all I can seem to respond with is, “interesting”. I am completely muted due to pure culture shock.
Last night we walked through the Medina (the older part of Fes). Ethan tromped through the winding city as if he was guided by an internal GPS system. Without him I would have surely been lost in the maze, as was its original intent. Similar to Venice, except without water, the Medina makes you feel like you could get lost and never be found. The roads darken to winding staircases and then round out to roads that seem to climb uphill forever. According to Ethan the Medina has two major parallel roads. For obvious reasons they are nicknamed “the big climb” and “the little climb” (translated from Arabic).
The smells are intense in the Medina. In fact, everything in Morocco has a smell. Some smells are more pungent than others. I decided the combination comes together to smell something like cilantro, mint soap, and burnt rubber.
The sounds are equally as intriguing. As we were walking through the Medina we heard drums and the roar of a crowd coming from a dark alleyway. Our curiosity caused a two hour detour from the plan. Before I knew it, I was being pulled onto the dance floor in a pre-wedding celebration. Next, I was being served mint tea containing a half cup of sugar while I talked to the bride-to-be. Apparently a wedding in Morocco starts on Thursday and does not end until Saturday. Thursday is a henna party for the women, Friday a formal dinner, and finally the wedding is on Saturday. Traditionally, the marriages are arranged. However, this couple met on the internet. I told you I wasn’t completely removed from western culture.
30-10-2009
I have just learned what “couch-surfing” is. Allow me to inform you. It is a formal online group of very serious travelers who network around the world for a place to stay and a cultural experience. Now let me inform you what it is not. According to my very serious couch surfing friends, it is not a free place to spend the night. You are expected to interact with the community, attend meetings in your area, and host people who have hosted you. It sounds more like a cult to me. But, I am withholding my opinion for this experience.
According to Ethan we will be “couch-surfing” this weekend with a Berber family in a village in the Middle Atlas. He has stayed multiple times with this family and made friends with the son, Rashid. We will be catching a ride with two other “couch-surfers” who are renting a car in Fes. Other than that he did not say much. I am too dazed to ask about details.
And now, I find myself in the most unlikely of situations. I am sitting in the back seat of a car, riding through the Moroccan mountains with an Italian, a Spaniard, and another American. Between the four of us we speak English, French, Spanish, Italian, and Arabic. Besides that, three of us are not living in our country of origin. This is the kind of thing I will brag about to my kids one day. I will use only the vaguest of descriptions in order to intrigue them about the world.

Birthday Girl

Hannah's birthday was yesturday. We held the best birthday lunch, adorned with adorable birthday hats and noise makers (that didn't make any noise, ironically). We ate lasanga, by special request, and Sam and Vi made a delicious chesse cake. Hannah is the best birthday "zilla"! In fact, I must go because her birthday continues on with a "to do list" of 19 things for her 19th birthday. TaTa. Love, Nic

Pumpkin Time!

Even if the weather decided to skip over Fall, other signs of Fall still remain. Today I passed the pumpkin patch on my way home from the farm. While most women want to receieve flowers as a gift , I'd rather recieve a pumpkin. I absolutely love pumpkins! Their beautiful orange color is better than any red rose I have ever seen. Therefore, I bought my pumpkin today. I am the proud owner of Palazzo Alberti's very first pumpkin!

On the Farm

I wanted to hide in my bed this morning. I was hoping that I may get lost somewhere between my velvety Brookstone Nap blanket and the unforgiving IKEA sheets. When the alarm clock squawked I gave it a forward push that sent it flying across the tile floor. This turned out to be more inconvenient ten minutes later when it relentlessly made a second attempt to set me into motion. I was told that this dance could be heard from outside my room. Thirty minutes later, I finally succumbed to the noise command and in a tizzy threw the covers halfway between the floor and the headboard where they still remain.
As a morning person, I am not normally as shrewd about waking up. However this week the season in Italy has blithely jumped from summer to winter, skipping directly over fall. This has abruptly caused the tile floor to be an inhospitable place for feet at 8am. John Rose is concerned about fresh air and I am concerned about warm air. Can I please have a portable heater for my room?
Unfortunately, I did not get to stay in bed all day. Francesca arrives promptly at 9am for Italian class and if you are not in the class room by 9:10, someone is coming to look for you. This is not a conventional private university or even similar to being at Meredith where your presence will not be missed amongst 40 students. This is a family at a dinner table and if you are not at your place when dinner is served a search party is dispersed. You cannot skip class in the Palazzo Alberti by sleeping because a siren of voices louder than the irritating alarm clock will implode your slumber.
While skipping class is not an option, skipping lunch is out of the question. If Margarita is cooking, I will be at the table regardless of how sick, tired, or broken I might be. This is normally the most enjoyable part of any day and as John Rose say, we host the best restaurant in Sansepolcro. Today our 20 position table was full of guests. The day could not get any better than this!
Or could it?
This afternoon my science class was scheduled to attend a wine pressing. While I realize how fortunate I am to be in Italy, I did not apprehend how opportune it is to see such event. Following a brigade of intrigued Americans, we rode our bikes about 4km alongside the sensual panoramic of the Tuscan hills and arrived on a private farm. In true Italian fashion we were warmly greeted and welcomed as old friends. The large farm house had been built in 1619 and consisted of multiple cellars a few stories deep. Besides the fact that I have never seen a house this old in the United States, I was captivated by the story this house would tell if it could speak. I thought about World War II and my resent studies on the havak caused by the Nazis on private properties in Italy. Who had lived here? What is their story? The current residents are a family of eight. Besides a vineyard, they have a classic farm complete with chickens, roosters, pigeons, doves, a garden, pigs, cows, hay, honey bees, and all that is generated hanging to cure or canned on a shelf in the barn. I am positive there is even a writing spider in the entryway. Furthermore, I was reminded that I was still in Italy on account of the clothes line strung between the barn and the house. I felt at home in this place, which is strange since I have not lived a day in my life in this manner. I can say that I grew up on a farm because I did in a sense. Merry Bee Farm will always be my home and haven. Nevertheless I did not grow up having to chase the rooster back into the pen or harvest to crop when the date demanded. These things I missed and I am afraid that my generation is detached from this lifestyle. I want my future children (fingers crossed) to experience this one day. I hope the subsequent generation will value the simplicity of canning summer tomatoes for sauce and picking eggs out the coop for breakfast. In any case, this is where it all begins.
After enjoying fresh cheese from the cow’s milk, eating ham cured cut down from the barn ceiling, and drinking Vinsanto, offered only to the most special of guest, I finally realized I had chosen the right faculty! I informed Dr. Swabb that she had a great deal of work to do to top this field trip!

Opps!

I received a gracious email from Maureen Banker today explaining more about the sketching we recieved yesturday. I was ignorant to how they are actually done and the significance of the numbers 5/99, which is not the date, as I previously thought. Because her information is interesting and helpful I wanted to post it here. I hope it clears up any confusion, especially for those, like me, who know little about art. -Nic

"The etching I gave to all of you Immortal Nine is done first as a drawing on a metal plate. (in reverse!!!) Then the plate is inked with special ink/paint. The ink is forced into the lines of the drawing that are reinforced with an acid bath that literaly bites the drawn lines deeper. The ink left on the top levels of the plate is wiped away. Then the plate is printed on handmade paper with a special etching press that forces the ink in the lines of the plate to be transferred to the special paper. Each original print is produced in this manner. As the prints are completed, they are numbered. On the left side of the bottom is a pair of numbers. Yours has 5/99. This means that of the potential etchings in the edition( edition means ultimate number of prints decided by the artist that will be made) is 99. I picked the number 99 before I even knew that there would be an immortal 9 students!! And your 5/99 means that yours was the fifth etching printed from the master plate of metal! I did the drawing for the plate, and the prints, all in late 2008 and early 2009."- Maureen

Mail!

Lick-or-Treat! Happy Halloween! Love, Ranger, Callie, & Clark (Especially me!) "We miss you!"

My dogs sent me a Happy Halloween card today. They are so clever! I had no idea that those three could write a letter, lick a stamp, and address an envelope. I may have to reconsider Clark's training school. Thanks Pups!

Good thing Mom has my address...

To Nicole, one of the Immortal Nine: We missed your optimism and obvious love and understanding of the Italian culture in our class. We hope you return. Continue to run!

This was a sketch of Palazzo Alberti (my home!!) from Via XX Settembre by Marueen Banker. She gave all 9 girls original sketches of the building. The one given to me was done in May, 1999. I am honored to be apart of a program with so much history. I became teary eyed today as I read the guest book. Thanks Marueen and Jim Banker for finding Sansepolcro and making it our home in Italy!

rainy day inspiration

I have decided that a few pictures might jazz up this blog. Sometimes photographs tell stories that even the best writers cannot do justice. Therefore, I think I will start adding pictures.

Love yall' Nic

Flexibility and Reflection

Our motto at the palazzo has come to be something along the lines of “make plan, attempt plan, and abandon plan!” This seems a pretty accurate mantra for my weekend. After a certain series of unfortunate events, my weekend in Ferrara did not turn out the way I planned. Christina was supposed to come to Italy, I was supposed to have lunch with a friend, and I was to travel to Verona on Saturday. But after Christina’s abrupt illness and a death of a family member of the friend, I resorted to abandoning the plan. This is when it would be useful to have a plan B. However, I was unprepared without a plan B. Because of this, I did a lot of sitting around staring at the wall. This was totally absurd, completely out of my character. I found myself alone, a state of being very eccentric for someone who lives with twelve women. I was provided with plenty of time to reflect on the four months I spent in Ferrara last fall. My weekend seemed so lonely, devoid of the Americans whom I spent most of my time with in Ferrara. It is easy to fall in love with a city alongside people who share the same gratification in its attraction. However to return without these people is a whole different narrative. Alternatively I am not one to live in the past. I have great memories but am also constantly creating new ones. I have discovered that it is never the physical location that makes a moment special, but rather the people whom with you share the moment. I think I described it best in my journal from last fall. Here is an excerpt from when I was preparing to leave Ferrara to spend Christmas in Germany. For the sake of veracity, I have not changed anything about what I wrote last December. In this moment I must have been feeling so many emotions. What astonishes me is that even almost a year later, I still feel the same way.

December 19, 2008
Flexibility: This is what I have learned from living in a foreign country. When the train starts to take off and you’re not on it, you have to be willing to wait an hour for the next one. When the bus drops you off on the sidewalk and drives away with the man carrying your Christmas tree, you just have to laugh. And even when you’re new culture conforms to your biggest pet peeve, you must be flexible as rubber band ball.
It feel like I woke up today in a paradox universe. I’m confronted with so many questions and so much anxiety about leaving my new home. But where actually is home? Maybe Ferrara is just home because of the people here that I have come to love so dearly. As they leave one by one to return to the United States, I realize that my turn is soon to come. Winnie the Pooh told Piglet something that I find myself thinking of in times as these. He said, “If you live to be a hundred, I hope that I live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live a day without you.” As glad as I am to be in Italy for a few short weeks longer, I am distressed that my American friends will not be here with me. As I bike around Ferrara, I know some of the most precious things in Italy I have taken for granted. My friends and I often have reality check moments. When you are sitting on the steps of the cathedral having a drink and talking with friends, it is almost necessary to take a moment and look around. I think to myself, I’m in sitting in front of a fourteenth century building as if it is normal to be surrounded by such wonders. I have become accustom to cobblestone paved streets and bikes creating Monday morning traffic jams on my way to school. Soon I am in for a major culture shock.
As the train pulls out of the station, I wave goodbye to my home of four months. I leave so much behind, including some old clothes and raggedy exercise gear. However, I know that I have left something more special. A piece of me will always remain in Ferrara. It is in this place I have made friendships that will last a lifetime and memories that are stamped on the pages of heart. In two weeks time, I will return to collect my luggage and catch a flight back to the United States. I’m afraid that even after two weeks it will not be the same in Ferrara. I will not walk into my apartment and pick up the phone to call a friend. Christina will not be there to have afternoon coffee and make whipped cream cookie towers with me. Mike will not be around to pacify my culinary cravings with his Ragu. Ellie and Kate will not be drinking frizzantino from Interspar or heaven forbid boxed wine. And as I welcome the hospitality of my dear friends Sonia and Federico, I know Loba Loca will not be the same without my crazy American friends.

Nicole

A few thoughts

I believe that sometimes it’s the intricate and obscure we comprehend, but the complete obvious that eludes us.
“Do not hurry to speak or be in a hurry as you think what to tell God. For God is in heaven and you are on the earth. So let your words be few.” – Ecclesiastes 5:2
I know for certain that God does answer prayers. In fact, when you pray for his desires and not your own, these prayers may come quicker than anticipated. God’s time is not our time. We may want him to wait till were ready, or prepared for the change. But the father of the universe always knows the perfect time to provide. The good news is he doesn’t give without resource. He always supplies us with the tools in which to take the next step- to climb that mountain which seems to be growing bigger before our eyes. I once heard it said that “God gives us enough to take the next step, but not the next three”. I cannot see past this moment; I can only be certain of the present. God sees forever and he has my wellbeing in mine. Today, my happiness comes from continually wanting his desires for my life. And because of this, I am happy today- Content with this moment in life.

The Week of First

This week has certainly been a week of “first” experiences. Furthermore it has been a humorous, physically grueling, sensory overwhelming, and ultimately rewarding week. On Saturday, we welcomed twenty-three Meredith College faculty, trustees and alumnae to Sansepolcro for the Open House of Meredith College in Italy. As they arrived our job, as the immortal nine, was to slough their luggage to their corresponding hotels. Thus I must begin recounting the “firsts” of the week. As the first group of students to Study Abroad through Meredith College in Italy, we have been titled the “Immortal Nine”. This has historical reference to the first 10 graduates of Meredith College in 1902, termed “Immortal Ten”. Reminiscent of these 10 women, we are making history for Meredith in Italy. This history in progress is what brought all of these Meredith personnel, who are as diverse as their ages, to Sansepolcro. The group encompasses Meredith’s President and Vice President, professors, spouses of Meredith faculty, alumnae, friends of alumnae, and my favorite, two women affectionately known as “double trouble”. These two women are in their 80s and Meredith College graduates of 1946. While in college they were roommates and every since have remained good friends. Interestingly enough these two women participated in the first Cornhuskin’ held at Meredith. Both women have found favor with all nine students. We have come to adore them and claim each as adopted grandmothers. This is the reason we refrained from questioning why their luggage appeared as if they were immigrating to Italy instead of visiting for the week.
They’re other equally as lovely people in attendance this week. A good friend of my grandmothers, Lou Tibbet, is visiting as a Meredith Alumna. Mrs. Tibbet was the reason my mom acquired her first high school job at Hudson Belk in Fayetteville. She reminds me of what my grandmother, Mildred, would personify if she were still alive. Mrs. Tibet is vivacious and youthful. I have truly enjoyed becoming acquainted with these women.
On Sunday before the open house festivities began, Hannah and I woke up early to run our first race. I must mention that this was a “non competiva” (non competitive) so called 5k “fun run”. Nevertheless we were enthusiastic about our first event. Additionally, to wrap up from a previous blog, a girl’s dreams can come true! There was not a lack of cute Italian men in spandex. And to make matters even more appealing, because these men in spandex were competitive, they were in front of me. I was reminded of the notorious Raleigh “skirt chaser” in which women sporting petite running skirts take off two minutes before the men. In this case, five-hundred very attracted men took off two minutes ahead of me. If nothing else I was visually encouraged to keep running due to the scenery. Dr. Swab and her husband spontaneously decided the night before to run in this event, which Hannah and I had strategically planned on running in for a few weeks. I am both embarrassed and flattered to say that I was out run by my professor who is more or less 40 years my senior. In my defense she has been running since before I was born and I have only been a weekly runner since June. Anyhow, the excitement of the race outweighed the outcome. I finished in around 33 minutes in close proximity of a very handsome man in spandex. I dashed (wishful thinking) past him at roughly kilometer 3, but he did not surrender to my challenge. Characterizing true male egotism he assumed leap frog with me until the finish line, where I must say we finished simultaneously. He should have saved his energy. The Jane Austin in me was not going to let him defy my pride!
At the finish line, I won my first prize for a race. There could be no better place to run in an event than in Italy. Plus I doubt there is anywhere else in the world that would present a pound of cheese as a reward for participating. I thought I might have muddled translation when a fellow runner told me in Italian that I was going to get a huge block of cheese at the end. This was almost too good to be true. There were also apples and bread smothered in Nutella. I was the happiest runner alive! Next month, I will be running in a 10km with the Swabs and Hannah. This will be yet another first: the first time I have run over 6 miles continuously.
With all these people buzzing around the palazzo, I have become accustom to our private space being common stomping ground. With the open house yesterday, I think that everyone who does not reside in Palazzo Alberti still considers themselves at home inside our home. This is not a problem, yet a result of good hostessing. However there is no privacy, nowhere to hide. Lauren and Samantha locked themselves in the bathroom yesterday. I believe about 400 hundred people were in the palazzo, which would validate the bathroom as a first-class sanctuary. It was a grand event and all of Sansepolcro was curious to see the results of all the labor completed here. There has also been lots of publication about our “American University” in Italy. On Saturday morning we were pleasantly surprised to find an article about the college headlining the newspaper. Then today Chelsea and I were interviewed by a journalist for an article about the students. It was not only my first interview, but my first interview in Italian. With this bustle I have had many opportunities for language integration. And because Giacomo has not been around, I have actually been speaking Italian. Go figure. When my Italian friend is not here, I speak Italian.

Running Updates!!!

Today has been pretty awesome and has set the stage for the rest of the week. This morning, Hannah and I went for a long run. We were slow to start, but I convinced her to run 40mintues straight (I think tomorrow I'll trick her into 45 mintues..shh..don't tell her)!!! We are running in my first official race on Sunday. San Gustino-Lama, a suburb of Sansepolcro, is hosting a "Lamarina" 14km run. I would love to tell you all we are entering this challege, but in reality Hannah and I will be running in the 5km "non competitivi". I'm picturing "cappacinos" and "biscoti" at the finish line. And lets not forget the men in spandex running past me at lightening speed. A girl can dream...
Tonight we went to a exercise dance class at Tedemis, the dance studio in Sansepolcro. I am in love with movement and dance, again! I think I'll test my gracefullness on Lady GaGa and Black Eyed Peas. Maybe I'll have better luck.

The Thrills of Florence

Although the weekend seems so distant ago, I think it is important to comment on the last weekend Mom was in Italy. This is the weekend we all went to Florence. Last year, I was lucky enough to spend a significant amount of time in Florence. Mike and Lourdes rented a palazzo apartment on the Arno River and I visited them two or three times during their stay. Their apartment always provided for a home base for me in Florence. For this reason, I came to adore the city in spite of its artistic thrills. I saw a different side of Florence than the typical American study abroad student may experience. Mike had become good friends with a designer in Florence, Fillippo. It was nonetheless interesting to watch a virile American man and an effeminate Italian man become friends. Fillippo influenced Mike in such a way that Mike became enthralled with the sophisticated style that commonly characterizes this ancient Italian city. I’ll never forget the day he dressed me in clothes which were marked with an unforgiving price tag and handed me a Roberto Cavalli bag. Mike telephoned my mom and told her that I was on the shopping spree of a life time and to wire over the money. She could not be convinced that I need such luxurious items. Without a doubt she is right, but it would have been pleasant to walk around Florence with my Roberto Cavalli purse this year!
However, Florence was much different for me this year. I was just the average American tourist (which there is not a lack of in this city). While speaking with an Italian man in the market, who was impressed that I could actually manage a sentence in Italian, I asked him if the American students in Florence spoke Italian. He said that they do not even try and are usually given the reputation of heavy drinkers. I apologized for this impression and informed him that this was not always the case. I am proud to be and have been a part of a study abroad program that holds higher academic values. Naturally, I was still saddened by the representation Americans students, in general, have established in Italy. This is the first time in my life I would rather be called a “book worm” than a “night owl”. I found myself hoping that my Italian friends do not have a negative impression of me. This is something to be explored at a later date.
Since there is more art in Florence than owned by the United States, I was presented the challenge of giving Mom a 48 hour tumultuous tour of some of the world’s greatest treasures. I have come to understand that under these circumstances, one has to make a choice. You may not get to see everything, but you have to decide what is most important. In this case I decided to be a little selfish. I left Italy last year without seeing Michelangelo’s” David” and I did not want to do that again this year. So Saturday, we went to the Academia to pay tribute to David. I think that most people hold the same preconceived notions of “The David” as I do- Michelangelo’s David is small, strapping, and fervent. Let me just take a moment to shatter all of your fixed ideas. In reality, David is huge, disproportional, and still fervent. I was amazed at the size of his hands, which are as large as his thighs. Michelangelo must have been more concerned with capturing the anatomical facet rather than proportional representation. While we were standing around this statue, it occurred to Mom and Mary-Susan that they did not know the significance of “The David”. It was amusing when they realized that they knew him from the very popular Bible story, David and Goliath. But I was surprised to find out that even my fellow students were unaware. I thought that everyone knew the significance of “The David”! Do not be the next person to come to come to Italy ignorant of David’s true identity. You have now been informed.
Shamefully more fascinating to me than “The David” in the Academia was Robert Mapplethorpe’s exhibition. I was intrigued by this graphic and contemporary art. Mapplethorpe, similar to Michelangelo, was absorbed in depicting the human body. He photographed Lisa Lyon, the first female body builder, in many nude and sometimes appalling photos. Mary Susan was a horrified that Mapplethorpe’s work would be placed next to Michelangelo’s. But because it is controversial, I am engrossed. Placing the new with the old always creates a contentious flare. I can think of many contemporaries that would object Mapplethorpe’s work, but still recognize it as mesmerizing. The work is bursting with action, yet it is so motionless. It speaks to the essence of implicit human nature. You have to see this work for yourself; it is worth investigating the feelings that Mapplethorpe’s provokes. Here is the website: http://www.mapplethorpe.org/

Apology for my week sabatical...

I first must apologize for not writing last week. There is something to be said about this. Except, I realize that some weeks are just less poetic than others. This is not to say that I did not have anything to write about. I find most every experience in life worth analyzing although it is often difficult to present a written reflection. Frankly, occasionally I do not feel worthy enough to do the moment justice. So in this instance I am metaphorically the person that instead of tackling the pile of dirty dishes, backs away from them and allows the clutter to accumulate. But, there comes a moment for me where writing has to be completed. Whether it be out of obligation to a deadline or for some else’s enjoyment, the moment must be recorded. This is my reason for sitting down to write today. Although my first task is to provide John Rose with something amusing to grade, I hope you all will read the subsequent entries with awareness that these things have weighed heavily on my heart. I have procrastinated to the ultimate. But here it goes…

Mom comes to Italy!

Last Saturday, Giacomo (bless him) taxied me to the airport to retrieve Mom. I knew she would be tired, but I could hardly wait to share my piece of Italia with her. In any case, it took me a year to get her across the ocean! But when I picked mom up from the airport, I thought I was going to have to take her to the hospital, instead of the geloteria. Her legs were swollen up like a hoppy toad and she appeared as if she needed to sleep for a week. Ultimately concerned, I took her to the hotel so she could rest. I was not sure if it would be better for her to walk or sit, but anything other than sleep was out of the question. She was a little disoriented as we hauled our luggage to the hotel. But, I think she was instantly amazed at my ability to speak Italian and proceed normally in another culture. Mom knew I loved Italy, but I doubt she understood the reasons why. She has generously and blindly given lots of money so that I may learn a different language and culture. I was absolutely content to have Mom visit; this was an opportunity for her to witness the fruit of her generosity.
My mom is a very intelligent woman with many dynamic attributes but, I would not call her an international traveler. She is a true southern woman who is dedicated to family and small town life. While there is no question that I am her child, there were some definite role reversals this week. By observing her, I realized how comfortable I am in this country. Mom was afraid that she was going to lose me. But as the week went on, I realized that I would not be the one lost! As we proceeded thorough the streets of Italy, we held hands along the way. I have not been able to hold my mom’s hand for years and this is something I will cherish for the rest of my life. When we were walking around the Academia in Florence, I had a funny memory of when my grandparents lost my brother at the zoo. My grandmother had let go of Joey’s hand for just a second, and he wondered off. The amount of people observing Michelangelo’s “David” is comparable to that of a hectic zoo. Mom was distraught that I would walk away from her in the Academia. She was even upset when I left for the bathroom. At twenty-one years old, I am certain I can go to the bathroom by myself. But Mom was afraid I was going to lose her in an Italian museum!
Besides being able to guide her around, I was able to impart some cultural knowledge. With Mom here, I realized there was so much I knew that I would not have known if I had not traveled overseas. After she took a nap on Saturday, we I went for a walk around Ferrara. Originally I thought that the country would speak for itself. I assumed Mom would understand that every Italian town had a “duomo” (large church) in the center, and there was a “bar” (coffee shop) on every corner. But then I realized these were things I learned after being here for several months. I was quickly transformed into a tour guide. I desired for Mom get the most out of her week in Italy and I was surprised by my knowledge. I explained to her about the street names and why every city has a “Via Garibaldi” or “Via Cavour”. This subsequently meant explaining a little bit of Italian history (at this time I was silently thanking Davide Lombardo for his history lessons). If one does not have a context for such things, it seems a bit strange. I then told her about the Italian city squares, or “piazza”. Every Italian city has several “piazzas’” that serve different purposes. There are cultural, religious, and theatrical “piazzas’”. They are places of work and play. For mom, the best use of a “piazza” was if she were to get lost. All roads eventually lead to the center “piazza”. This might be the most important thing I taught her all week!
I was happy Mom saw Ferrara as her first city in Italy. Her first weekend was full of memories for me. We stayed at the same hotel I stayed at my first night in Italy. I discovered that the owner of the hotel, Cenzia, is the former host mom of a Meredith Alumna who studied abroad in Ferrara. I knew Cenzia because she was my friend Ariel’s host mom last semester. For dinner on Saturday night we ate at “Osteria Balle’Busta”, where I took cooking lessons last year. Tita, the owner of the restaurant, still recognized me after eight months. I was pleased and felt at home in my old city. Meanwhile, my mom was attempting to use the safe in our room and wore her money belt. I have defiantly transformed from a tourist to a traveler; I am no longer a stranger, but still a foreigner in this country.
If anything I can say with confidence that Mom had an adventurous week in Italy. She experienced some of the worst public transportation Italy has to offer, including a train with no empty seats and the worst, a train derailment (you will have to ask her about this)! In Rome, Mom proclaimed that the fountain outside her hotel was a site where Angels and Demons was filmed. I realized afterwards that the scene was filmed in the grand Piazza Navonna, not the Hotel Navonna. I must now apologize to my mother for ridiculing her innocent mistake, but this was the funniest thing I heard all week. She also encountered some Italian men. In Anghiari, the wine shop man told her he was available, right after he told her about his wife and child. Like I said, Italy speaks for itself.

Bella Ferrara

Last night I had a little vino before I sat down to write about my weekend in Ferrara. I found it difficult to think about what I wanted to say. So, I have now decided that coffee is the drink for writers. As I was sipping my cappuccino today I was imagining all the great writers of the past drinking coffee while they dreamed up their works. I wonder if Edgar Allan Poe or Mark Twain sipped espresso? All the same, I can now script my weekend in Ferrara with my café in hand.
On Thursday, Giacomo (Vischi, better known as “Giacomo uno”, because there are two) picked me up from the Palazzo after my last class. My stomach was full of butterflies; I was eager to visit my old stomping ground. For me Ferrara feels akin to home in Italy. When I left Ferrara in December, I did not think I would return, especially this soon. Federico and Sonia dropped me off at the airport on a foggy morning in late December. I remember feeling the same about leaving Ferrara as I did about returning there this weekend. I had the same butterflies, which told me I was glad to return to the United States but anxious about the arrival. As Giacomo and I pulled into Ferrara my head immediately flooded with memories. “We used to have mimosas at that bar on Sundays”, “I used to ride sidesaddle on Mike’s bike”, “This is where I fell off my bike and the police tried to charge me money”. I laughed both in remorse and happiness at my former home. I feel as I have returned a different person. I went to Ferrara this weekend, with a new spirit and a whole new agenda. My life has changed so much since December. But, this is a beautiful thing. I gained friends whom I would not have had if I stayed in Ferrara for a year and for this I am truly thankful. And with a little less modesty, I know Taylor Pickard is also thankful!
After dinner, I went to visit my favorite pub in Ferrara, Loba Loca. This is the place of multiple beginnings and also conclusions to my time in Italy. Of a lesser reminiscence, this is where I become acquainted with the notorious American guy, whose name shall not be mentioned and who also led me to value against dating in Italy this year (thank you). But it is also where I bonded with my very best relations in Italy. The owners of Loba Loca are Federico and Sonia, whom I affectionately call “my Italian parents”. I stayed with Federico’s parents a few days after Christmas, prior to returning to the States. I could not speak enough Italian to communicate anything besides my basic needs. “Dove’ il bango?” “Sono fame!” Federico told me this year, that even though his mom does not speak English, she somehow understood me. Before studying abroad, I may have doubted the ability to cross linguistic bounds. But, I know understand that communication exceeds verbal means. There is sometimes a moment when two people encounter one another and have the ability to communicate nonverbally. I do not know how, but it penetrates much deeper than the physical or verbal communication. I have friends whom I have spoken less than two hundred words too, but they are no less of a friend. I have learned to communicate with my hands and my heart. This is the true Italian way.

Italy's Reality

As I anticipated Moms arrival last week, I was consumed with reading Italy Sorrow, a five hundred page novel on World War II from Italy’s front. I never thought I would read anything outside my history textbook on World War II, let alone a multi-part narrative. But as I am plunging through this I am proud to say I can tell you some details about the war in Italy. I know some names of commanders and their individual stories. I am even discovering some places in Italy, such as Monte Cassino, that I would like to visit but would have never even known about before. I also find myself questioning warfare. From the United States, it always seems so distant, so far back in history or in geography. But because everything in Europe is so ancient, it is possible to comprehend a different setting for the place where you may be standing. For example, in the center of the piazza in Sansepolcro there is a yellow square. This square is the remains of a tower that was bombed in WWII. This is a monument to the past, conveyance to a different time. Even so, I have come to the conclusion that I do not understand war in the past or present. I do not understand how humans could murder each other for a collective concept. Is claiming land really worth killing? Is it necessary to kill for unification? At Monte Cassino, there are 20,000 graves of men from over 34 nations. This is the reality of war.
But the reality of Italy has changed since the War. If you are a tourist it is simply “La Bella Italia”. I want to discover a day or week in Italy that is not a world wind experience. Every moment has been full of emotion. More truthfully, it is just like the cliché Italy created in books such as Frances Mayes, “Under the Tuscan Sun”. Sometimes it is almost too perfect, as if an artist were painting the moment. Last weekend, we went to Anghiari, a town about 10 minutes from Sansepolcro. I took a picture of a cat sitting on a stoop surrounded by flowers. The cat sat in perfect poise and I could have sworn that he even flashed me a pirate smile. I would like to call this “typical”, but yet nothing about the perfection seems typical. It is solely different and thus magical.

Men in Tights

There is no better way to end a weekend than watch two hundred men walk around in multi-colored tights. Mom and I returned to Sansepolcro today for “Le Feste del Palio della Balestra”. This is an annual crossbow challenge where Sansepolcro challenges another city, Gubbio. Last weekend was the first crossbow round in which Porta Romana and Porta Florientina, the two sides of the town, competed to see who would participate this weekend. I am happy to announce that the Palazzo Alberti side of Sansepolcro, Porta Florientina, was representing tonight against Gubbio! The “piaze” (central square) was an array of colors as the Italian men paraded around in brightly tinted tights. Last weekend, Giacomo described me as being “fashionated” by this ancient tradition. I had to tell him that I was fascinated, not “fashionaed”. But despite the English tongue twister, I think he invented a good word to describe how I feel about Italian men in tights. Tonight I was “fashionated” as the color guard preformed and the crossbow men astonished the crowd with their accuracy on the target. The piaze was like nothing I had ever seen in the United States. There is a certain behavior and dress that must be conformed too. Everyone involved was meticulously dressed in medieval costumes; the crowd was passionate about the event. When I asked my friends from Sansepolcro if they were attending the Palio della Balestra, the answer was always “No”. At first, I did not understand why anyone would want to miss so much excitement. But, then I imagine to them it is like Thanksgiving and the Macy’s Christmas Day parade. Once you have seen the same thing for 20 years, the men in tights are not so exciting anymore!

"It is well with my soul"

I have been pretty busy with school work. It is hard enough to adjust after summer to having to study again, but being in a different country makes it all the more challenging. There is so much else I would rather do here than reading Italain Fasicm. But, I am learning discipline and time managment! I think mom would be proud, in my senior year of college, im finally getting it! This means most mornings I wake up around 7:00am so that I can go for a run before class. Hannah has decided that she will run with me, and I am impressed by her efforts! For just starting back at running, she is doing good keeping up. I love this time of my the day. I really do enjoy running. This is a statment I never thought I would make, but for once it is true! It is flat in 3 directions around Sansepolcro. Hannah and I normally take one of these routes and then turn back to face the mountians has we return to the town. It never seizes to surprise me when I turn around to face those Tuscan mountians. Everymorning as we begin the journey home, I raise my hands in worship of creater for his creation. I laugh and breath the morning air. The mountains reveal their glory as the sun peaks above them. This is the most beautiful part of my day and my heart is filled with joy and inspiration. I know in this moment without a doubt that my God loves me and is well pleased with his creation. If he created something so vast, just how much bigger is he than it?
As Hannah and I am return to the town, we are greeted by well dressed Italians in the morning bustle. Of this I am sure- I know the Italians must think I am crazy in my running gear. If it is not because of my purple stretchy pants or my morning hairdue, but because moving faster that walking speed is abnormal! I have been adviced thats swimming is good for "burning calories". I wonder what Taylor and Christina would think about me exchanging running for swimming. I wish I could swim a marathon!

Cultural Observations or "Where are we going!?

I have enjoyed meeting locals in Sanespolcro in the past two weeks. Last semester, I lived in Ferrara for four months and only met a handful of people. But, because Sansepolcro is such a small town it is easy to be known and seen by others. All I have to do is get up and walk out my front door. Although as of late, we have been instructed that is essential to use the back door. I presume that we draw to much attention from the “raggazi” at the pizzeria downstairs. It is almost impossible to camouflage Hannah in a mass of Italians with her long blonde hair. Sometimes I think if I could just shrink a few inches, be a little tanner, and keep my mouth closed, I may blend in better.
In order to make friends in Sansepolcro, I have made an effort to frequent the same gelateria, have coffee at the same bars, and say “Ciao” to recent acquaintances. I am sure I am easily identified as one of those “American Girls”, but having this routine creates a unique opportunity for me to make friends, as well as observe people in their natural environments. (This is when realize I should have studied Anthropology). Although I have come to understand that we are a novelty of sorts in Sansepolcro, I am still fascinated by how we must appear to the locals. I feel that a study abroad experience should be about how you perceive your culture as compared to the foreign culture, but also the other way around. It should be an opportunity to walk a mile in a different culture’s “shoes”. Let’s say, I am an Italian woman living in Sansepolcro. I have lived here my whole life and suddenly nine new American women come to town for four months. They dress differently, they walk differently, and they just do things differently. “Are they going to flirt with “il mio raggazo”?” There is so much uncertainty about the differences between our cultures.
I have come to understand that these culture differences are not identifiable solely by our looks, or the fact that we don’t speak Italian. What makes us different from the locals penetrates much deeper than surface level. We have different values, ideas, and mannerisms. Even our non-verbal language is different.
Many of my Italian friends have never been to the United States. They are as unfamiliar with my culture and core values, than I am about theirs. It is easy to stereotype someone by their heritage. I hope that this semester we can emphasis the good stereotypical ideas about Americans and redefine the bad ones. As for the notorious M.B.A. students that are here from Seattle, there is no hope. They are tromping on our territory, invading our turf! Anyway, I digress.
I have already found myself getting frustrated with the Italian concept of time. Through observing the slow pace life here, I have learned just how much we value time structure in the United States. For the Italians, the transit is just as important as the destination. The “negozio” may open back up after siesta at 4pm, or not, depending on the owners discretion. And after work, they saunter down the street as if they have nowhere to go. It is a mystery to me how an empty “strada” at 4pm transforms into a crowd of meandering Italians by 5pm. And where are they all going? “Scusi” “Promesso”. “I WANT TO GE T THROUGH RIGHT NOW!” The other girls like to laugh at me as I squeeze through one bunch and jog in the free space until I reach the next turtle-paced crowd three feet ahead. One night this weekend I was in a hurry to get down Via XX Settembre. I was extremely hungry- and not just in a conventional way. Giacomo and I ran 7km that day and I had not eaten for a few hours; by this point I was ready to eat my left foot! Sansepolcro was hosting a festival comparable to the super bowl, which meant there were about 500 people more than usual. With this said, you can imagine my frustration when I took almost 15 minutes to walk four blocks. Later that night we ran into some of our Italian friends and joined them for the nightly festivities. It was funny to watch my American friends squirm as we would walk ten feet, stop ,chat, and then proceed for another ten feet. Samantha looked at me and said, “Aren’t their seats at the bar!?” This is simply a value difference. We rely on the clock and an agenda, but the Italians rely on the…well I have not figured this out yet. Whatever it is, I like it! As long as I can get where I’m going, I’m happy to adapt. I’m sure in December, my family and friends will be making fun of how slow I walk!

Come si dice "Excited"?

My favorite story to tell about my best friend, Allison, is about her “first word” when she was learning how to talk. It is quite possibly the funniest “first word” I have ever heard. Instead of “momma” or “dada”, Allison pointed at a photograph of a kitty-cat and joyful proclaimed, “Titty”. The obvious connotation of this word makes it remarkable that it would come out of a 1 year-olds mouth!
I find it quite similar to learning a second language. If you must crawl before you can walk, I am defiantly attempting to walk! Now that I have begun to connect the dots in Italian, I enjoy looking up new verbs. I then write them down in my notepad (which I consistently carry) and find opportune times to try them out. If you don’t have “verbi”, it is hard to have an interesting conversation in any language.
Tonight, I went to visit my friends, Sara and Miro, who work at the Goblin Gelateria. I love talking with them because my Italian is better than their English. I have discovered that this is the key to learning Italian. I am forced try and speak, even if I fall flat on my face- as was the case tonight. I exhausted all my urban Italian vocabulary in about ten minutes worth of conversation, but was not afraid to make a few linguistic errors. In Italian, I told Sara that my American friends and I were looking to meet more Italian friends in Sansepolcro. She explained to me that the gelateria closes in October. Then, Miro and she would not have to work and will be able to spend time with us. I wanted to express just how excited I was about this possibility. Fortunately, I had just looked up the word for “excite” in my dictionary yesterday and had written it down in on my notepad. “Sono Eccitare,” I exclaim! The shire shock on Miro’s face told me immediately that I said the wrong thing. And by the laughter in the gelateria, I inferred quickly what this really meant. IN order to make sure I understood, Sara says, “Bello Ragazzo”, “troppo vino”, “Eccitare”! I was quickly rebuked back to crawling in Italian! If you still do not understand what this means and are curious, please ask me. Because of my wide audience range, I will save the slang for the curious select. In any case, although it is defiantly is not what I meant, I realize now that I love making mistakes. You can learn some pretty funny things about cultural and linguistic relations. There are words in English that also have double meanings. “Obviously”, this just gives me more reason to laugh at my Italian friends when they make errors in English. Isn’t that right, Hercules?!

Buon Annversario!

Today, September 2, 2009 marks my year anniversary in Italy. Last year about now I was on a plane realizing that I didn’t know anybody where I was going or anything about what I was going to do when I got there. It was the “panic moment”, when one doubts everything about one’s current reality. “What the heck have I have gotten myself into?” Little did I know I was about to embark on an amazing year, which would open so many opportunities for my life. This year has been only been the beginning of a lifetime of travel. But ultimately, I have been changed by my time abroad. The Lord has blessed me immensely! I will never be same because the people I have met and the experiences I have had. In honor of today here are some things I have learned in the past year. Enjoy!
12 things I have learned about Italy and myself this year:
1. You must bag, weigh, and tag your banana (i.e. any produce) before you buy it.
2. Dinner at 8pm does not mean you will eat at 8pm. Snack before you go, eat at 10:30pm. I love Italian food service.
3. One can only appreciate so many churches. Choose your favorite and just appreciate that the others are still standing.
4. Italian men are attractive, sexy, and witty- but they are still men.
5. I love public transportation. And self transportation. Give up the car, take the bike.
6. Learning a second language is hard. But worth it. I can now say, “I have a second language”. How cool! ?
7. Friends don’t always mean people that live in the same place as you. I have friends all over the world. They live in my heart.
8. I should have gotten a Bachelor of Science in Study Abroad
9. High emotions do not equal good decisions. Things are new and different, but that doesn’t make the consequences of a spontaneous bad decision any less easy to face.
10. The suitcase life is for me!
11. A little “vino” or sangria never hurt anybody.
12. It’s always good to go home. There is no place like it.

Hercules obviously had an aweful engine.

First I feel I need to correct my last blog. According to John Rose, I do not “lay” in my bed, I “lie” in my bed. I am sorry if this may have confused some of you. I will work on the way in which I position myself, and then making sure I correctly describe the method in which I did so. During the time I’m not studying grammar in my second language (Italian), I will be learning grammar in my first language (English) from John Rose. It is peculiar to be graduating from college and just now be learning the proper way to speak and write.
This weekend has been filled with amazing opportunities in Italy. When you travel somewhere and met people, you find that then quickly become good friends, even if you only know their first name; “acquaintances” progress faster to “friends” because they are almost indispensable to having a valuable cultural experience. I have only spoke with Lucy, Alberti the bike man’s wife, a few times, but she has now become my friend! Coincidentally, her brother runs the discoteca . Because I bought a bike from her husband, I was able barter for a discount at the discoteca!
This is the joy of living in a small town in Italy. But, it also has its disadvantages. I am hoping soon that the 10 American girls living in Palazzo Alberti will become old gossip in Sansepolcro. As of now, we are getting way to much attention. But, this is not attention in a good way. We get many looks, as if we are aliens. Giacomo, my friend from Sansepolcro, whom I met in Ferrara, explained this phenomenon. He said that it is neither the way we dress, nor the color our hair or eyes, but our mannerisms. I guess some things are so deeply rooted in culture that even a pair Italian boots or sunglasses cannot redefine a person.
On Saturday night we went to a pizzeria outside the city walls. The girls and I were accompanied by Giacomo uno and due, our new found partners in crime! When I asked if we good order water, Giacomo uno responded, “Si, Si per lavare le mani!” (Yes, Yes, for washing your hands!) Apparently, it is strange to order water in Italy. Red wine is the more appropriate companion with pizza. I must say, I agree! After dinner, we went to the discoteca and I was happy that I had a little more to drink than water. I’ll leave the rest of this night’s details up to your own imagination…
Sunday, we visited Monterchi and Caprese Michelangelo, the place of Michelangelo’s birth and baptism. While I thought the later would be of more interest, found the legend of Monterchi more fascinating. Apparently, it is said that the town, which is situated on a mountain peak, was at one time surrounded by water. In the water there was a big monster. Because everyone was terrified by the monster, they never left the town. But Hercules came and saved the town by killing the monster that tormented it. Today, Monterchi is one of the most beautiful places I have visited in Italy. And I didn’t see any monster, so Hercules must have been successful!

"Ho un Picculo Disastro!"

My mother has always warned me of the dangers of using finger nail polish in the vicinity of anything of value. I grew up hearing, “You better do that outside!” “Do you have a paper towel?” “You better not open that around your grandfather!” I should have heeded her first warning this weekend at the Palazzo, even if it meant painting my nails on Via XX Settembre during “passagiata”. Maybe then I could have avoided my “un piccolo disastro”.
Let me take a moment to comment on my first, and hopefully last, disaster of the semester. After I finished painting my nails, I went to place the Ziploc bag back on the top shelf of my closet. I carefully made sure the bag was closed, because the polish had somehow exploded transatlantic. Heaven forbid a finger nail polish explosion happen in this newly renovated Palazzo! It would cause such a mess with the handmade furniture and the granite floors. Anyway, I digress from the moment. As I am putting the bag back on the top shelve of the closet, I apparently missed the obvious hole in the bag. BAM! A few ‘chioce’ words fly, before I even realize what has happened. My black nail polish, moms “favorite” color, has just vandalized everything beautiful about my new bedroom. There is a puddle of black on the floor and splattered on the wardrobe. I’m not sure whether to cry or scream. Hannah hears me from the living room and comes running. RuuuuuuuuuUN! Paper towel, Finger nail polish remover, MOP, bucket! How will I ever explain this to Dr. Webb and John Rose- and the furniture man who will cry when he sees black on his handmade masterpiece? After scrubbing harder than Cinderella, I ran down stairs to announce my accident. John was entertaining Marghirita’s husband. When I appear in the stairwell, he joyfully announces that I speak Italian “molto buono”. At this remark, one always feels obligated to respond with appropriate etiquette, in Italian. “Piecere!” “Si, Studio a Ferrara l’anno scorso”. But, almost in tears, the only thing that seems to come to mind is “Ho un piccolo disastro!” At this word, Betty Webb appears from her apartment like a rooster at sunrise. “Disaster” can be understood in any language! Luckily, and with grace, I was told that while this was a disaster, it was not a catastrophe. There are no bones protruding, YET. But this may change because the furniture man has yet to see what I have done. It may then turn into a catastrophe and a possible trip to the hospital. John announced that if this is the worst thing I do all semester, I am not doing too shabby! Sadly, I am reminded of my shabbiness every time I see the black spot in front of my closet.
I hope this helps all of you who may decide to study abroad in Sansepolcro to leave your nail polish at home! Italy has plenty of pretty colors of polish. J

Under the Tuscan Sun

This morning I woke up under the Tuscan sun. My alarm has just buzzed, signaling it is time for a run. But I have finally gotten my first full nights of sleep in my new bed. The European shutters are open and from my room on the second floor, I can see the clouds hanging in the sky. A breeze is pushing through the open windows. Maybe I’ll just stay in bed a while longer, run a little later today.
This is when it hits me. I really am living a dream in Italy. The fan is humming, adding to the silence of the morning and reminding me of the lack of AC in the building. The full picture comes into view. I am laying in my bed in a 13th century palazzo with my windows open, where I can see the Tuscan sky from my bed. God is good! I feel so blessed in this moment. A piece of time, a photograph, just for me! Soon noise will fill the streets below with the morning bustle and it will be time for me to get up and prepare my very first class. But for now, I think I’ll just enjoy this moment. I am in Italy!

Finding Sansepolcro. Does it really exisit?

On Monday, Amanda and I left Rome for Arezzo, where we would catch a bus to Sansepolcro. This meant carrying my luggage all over again! Amanda was in the process of making a “list of the forgotten”. I was in the process of making a list of things I should have forgotten!
The commute from Rome to Sansepolcro revealed the truth people about my language skills. They are enough to get us around, but will defiantly need some work. Although, I was surprised by a pretty large Italian vocabulary, I could not seem to match the verb with the right conjugation. Also…soon to improve! We arrived in Sansepolcro around 3:30pm on Monday. At this point, we have been traveling since 6pm on Saturday night. Feeling a woozy, I am very content with my new home. Amanda and I spent the night in the Servi, an old nunnery that has been converted into a hostel. If you are coming to Sansepolcro this is a good place to stay for a very low cost.

Now I'm Back!

It’s hard to believe, but I have made it back to Italy! It seems like yesterday since I left Ferrara. But then when I started speaking Italian this weekend, I realized I have had eight months of language plummeting! Soon to improve…
The past few days have been a balance beam between crash sleeping and hauling luggage. We finally moved in the Palazzo last night and I think I am starting to recover from the intruding jet lag. I could not believe it was possible for one to be in three countries in less than 24 hours. Needles to say, I do not recommend it! Although London was beautiful, it would be nice to see it with my eyes open. Amanda had just returned from a study abroad program in London, allocating her to be the perfect tour guide. Her sole goal was to keep me awake so that I would sleep when we made it to Rome. I literally wanted to melt into the streets on London. It would have been nice to just lie down, anywhere! During mass at Westminster Abbey I was ever so thankful when there was a call to prayer. This meant that I could close my eyes. J
Upon arriving in Rome I encountered an identify check. I was wrongly mistaken for a French woman, and then soon after asked if I was Filipino. But, I guess I had not opened my mouth yet. “CIAOOOO” Nope, I’m definitely American and Southern to be exact!
Navigating Termini, the train station in Rome, was second nature. It was very unromantic and almost redundant. I was not thrilled when I arrived in Italy, like I was the last year. Nothing was new and mysterious. I knew how to buy a ticket, how to board the train, and what to expect once I left the train station. It was just via Marsiala, the same street I left from on December 17, 2008. There were still funny men in hats trying to sale windup toys of David and overrated statues of the coliseum. This is when I started to worry. Have I made the right decision in returning to Italy? I quickly repelled this question to the back of my brain. In reality, I have 40lbs on my back and pulling another 85lb on wheels. Of course I’m insane! But, soon things will improve; it will feel like home again. The things I did not like about Italy will challenge me and the things that I loved enough to bring me back will become evident. I keep repeating this mantra in my head as we dragged along to find our hostel for the night. At this point, Amanda and I were not alone in out hostel hunt. A young Filipino boy, accompanied by his hesitant Italian friend, was ever so eager to help us find our destination. It first, I was a little cautious of his willingness to help. But, soon under the weight of my luggage I was thankful for this ambition and sure of his good intentions.

Vacuuming Clothes

I must be the luckiest girl alive. I am returning to Italy in 25 days! While I have been eager since I made the decision, the reality did not settle in until recently when I began making preparations for departure. This reality is defiantly accompanied by a medley of inner emotions.

For the past six months I have made Raleigh home again. I have grown in community with friends at Vintage 21, reunited with some old friends, and made a few new ones. I have had my heart broken, mended it into a few fragments, and ultimately seen the Lord change my heart for his glory. I have lost the gelato pounds, picked up running, and began the adventure of training for a half-marathon- yes I’m crazy. I moved more times than Matt Duncan would claim kosher and finally invested in a storage room. I have now accepted this as my lot; I will sell my living room furniture for plane tickets and store the rest in an eight by eleven box! It is all worth it, especially when one has friends like Christina. Christina surprised me on my 21st birthday in May. She flew 600 miles to spend the weekend to celebrate with me. I had not seen my dear friend since we met in Italy, but her visit caught on like a bad habit! Since May, I have driven thousands of miles to hang out with my best friend and have found so much joy sharing my Raleigh friends with her. This is how my two realities– Italy and the United States-collided.

But now, I am embarking on a new adventure in Italy with new people, a new town and quite a different program. There will be nine women, all from Meredith College, living in the Palazzo Alberti in Sansepolcro. I am trying to not hold any preconceived expectations, with the exception of greatly improving my Italian, for the semester. I know it will be different (and amazing), thus it would not be reasonable to compare. But, I have a couple important pre-departure declarations

A few hopes.. I wish to be completely immersed in culture and the Italian people. I hope to spend the weekends sharing “cena” –dinner- with Italian friends and possibly traveling to Porta di Nonna to see Elisa and meet the rest of Daniela’s Italian family. I want to visit Kate Fassee in France and reminisce on Ferrara days with vino in Hogardann glasses! I want to walk into Loba Loca on a Friday night and give my Italian parents a warm hug... to feel at home again, in my second home.

I few vows ... I vow to not kiss an American boy, let alone think about dating one. I also vow to eat gelato only ONCE a day. Lastly, I promise stay away from tourist attractions, instead embracing the simplicity and locality of the culture....In any case, I didn’t say I wouldn’t kiss an Italian boy…

With three weeks till departure, I have many arrangements and lots of packing to complete! I began this process last night by vacuuming my winter clothes. Did you know you can actually vacuum clothing? This is a new idiom of the 21st century, like “facebook a friend”. One can now vacuum their clothes! I was defiantly a skeptic that this simple bag could be magical. But, after turning 5 coats into 2 inches of plastic, I am now a believer in air-tight vacuum bags. I have discovered that these are the key to packing. But, if you’re like me and already flirt with the 50lb airline weight restriction, they can be a very dangerous tool!

Ciao …I must return to vacuuming my closet… :) Thou shall have cute clothes in Italy….