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.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
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/
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…
Monday, September 21, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
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!
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
"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!
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!
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!
Thursday, September 3, 2009
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?!
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?!
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
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.
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!
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
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
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