Arrivederci

The last exams were yesterday. Many students turned in their last paper at 5, headed home to spend a few hours packing, and headed off on the next train. In a whirlwind day I went from the high pressures and anxiety of the middle of exam week to feeling like Stanford students had abandoned the city and were gone, gone for good. It’s amazing how fast the quarter ended. I felt it coming up quickly after Thanksgiving, but yesterday I blinked at the wrong moment and it was over.

My goodbyes are a bit slower, as I have elected to stay for a week to see my friend Miki in Modena, and of course Alii in Genova. Yesterday after the last exam I had lunch with Miki, who had come to meet with a professor at the Stanford Center, his thesis advisor, and we walked slowly back to the train station together as I exulted in my sudden lack of deadlines. We stopped for gelato at Gelateria di Neri, a famous gelateria blocks away from Santa Croce which I had in some unimaginable way never eaten at until Wednesday night.

After saying goodbye to him at the train station, I wandered over to Santa Maria Novella and explored the quiet museum by myself. Small, but pretty. There is something about empty, ancient cloisters that is heavy. Like the figures on the ruined frescoed walls are watching you in their silence. Yet at the same time it is saturated with calm, and the world outside its walls disappears. Meditation is palpable in the air around you. As I left I looked up into the sky of the courtyard to see waves and waves of birds swirling, like the ocean waters in tide pools, retreating into the midst of advances and overlapping in graceful arcs, moving like they were orchestrated high above in the sky. It was mesmerizing. I watched for twenty minutes as the thousands of birds circled around, coming together and breaking apart, one group seemingly flying into the other as the waves crisscrossed. Their spontaneous geometry was graceful and I swear it was coordinated. Then they started descending, the thousands of them all trying to land on the five or six trees in the cloister and by the train station across the street. I have no idea why they went crazy, why they were all gathered there. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Eventually, I tore myself away. I went and watched the beginning of the Phantom of the Opera with Eric while he packed up. I had to stop right at the best part because he had to leave for Rome. Definitely need to get my hands on that movie soon to see how it ends. I ate dinner with my host family, my Italian sister and her friend talking with my host mother about Italian soap operas in the absence of my host father, and my host brother just rolling his eyes.

Afterwards I called Kelly, whose jetlagged mom had already gone to sleep at their hotel, and together we went over to a café my host mom had recommended – Hemmingway’s. It was quite a walk, way over on the other side of town, but oh my god. The place is famous for its hot chocolate, and I think you can order it about fifty different ways. I had no clue what to get, so I went for simple plain hot chocolate. I still had to choose between the four plain hot chocolates they offer of varying intensities of chocolate, so I safely chose one in the middle.

Best hot chocolate of my life! Incredibly rich, but not overly so. Thick, but not heavy. It wasn’t grainy and didn’t form a skin at the top. Piping hot, but never scalding. It was honestly the best I’ve ever had, by quite a bit actually. And of course, I discover it the night before I leave Florence! Too bad it couldn’t be in California. I’m going to have to live knowing that the best hot chocolate in the world is thousands and thousands of miles away. But it was worth it. Kelly and I talked for an hour or two, reliving the quarter. These last few weeks have really been great, and turned a quarter that had its ups and downs into quite a good quarter overall. We’re both ready to go home, and have Christmas with our families, but we bid a friendly arrivederci to the city and our memories here.

A relatively unknown fact about the word “arrivederci” – literally, it doesn’t mean goodbye. It translates to a (until) ri (again, like in redo) veder (see) ci (us, each other). Until we see each other again. Which is what I bid the beautiful, cold, rainy, slightly smelly, art-saturated city of Florence. I don’t know when I’ll come back, and I don’t really ever see myself living here. Too many tourists and Americans. But I will come back. I’ve promised Dad. And I would like to see Florence in spring or early summer. See the early green on the trees or the scarlet poppies blooming on the hills. Come back and visit all my favorite places again. Remember this quarter of mine, spent studying and living in the Tuscan city of Florence.

Gelaterie della Firenze

So, I meant to write about gelaterias as I discovered them. However that hasn’t ended up happening with a few exceptions, so I’ll try to do a quick summary of the best. I’ve come across a few unknown hole-in-the-wall places that I like quite a lot, and I’ve also randomly stumbled into some of the most renowned gelaterias in the city.

First, Gelateria Caffetteria Veneta in Piazza Beccaria. Conveniently located half way between my house and Kelly’s, we met there sometimes when she was especially busy. It’s not open very late or very often, but we went a few times together. The gelato was obviously homemade, and their fruit gelatos were superb. I found one of my favorite pairings with dark chocolate there: pear, the gelato full of small bits of ripe fruit.

On Halloween, after going out to dinner with Kelly, Tristan, and Alii and her friends from Genova at Il Pizzaiolo we were wandering over towards the Duomo and their hostel when we passed Gelateria dei Vivoli. Kelly asked if we wanted to stop, and when I said I’d never been there she declared that it was famous, it was supposed to be the best in the city, and we had to try it. So try it we did. I found it very good, with a slightly overwhelming number of flavors, but honestly not an extraordinary experience. Delicious all around, certainly, but not a particularly remarkable memory or a gelato that made me want to come back again and again.

During the lunch Kelly and I spent with our professor Fosca and the director Campani, we discussed gelaterias, and they strongly recommended a gelateria close to the Duomo called Grom. It’s on the same street as the English book store, and I’d almost walked in during my first week in the city. I was by the Duomo for lunch a few days after our conversation, so I stopped in. They have a few dependable flavors and a menu of seasonal flavors that change every month, and the feeling of gelato artisans with an almost scientific process. My first time there I had dark chocolate with the November flavor of caramel. A very delicious combination. Their dark chocolate gelato isn’t the darkest or most decadent of all the gelaterias I’ve tried, but it was very good and went well with the caramel which was absolutely delicious. I went back this last week as part of a sort of farewell tour to my favorite places around the city. This time dark chocolate with the December flavor of almond. Again, delicious. The almond had little slivers of nut in it and once gain went excellently with the slightly mild dark chocolate.

In mid November I went with a group of students to Spera Pizzeria, the best pizzeria in Florence, and afterwards walked a couple blocks to Gelateria Medici which they said was also famous and practically a requirement if you were studying here as we were. Again, overwhelming choices, and the unusual ability to have three separate flavors in a small size – usually you just get two. I forget all of my flavors, but I remember instead of dark chocolate I went for their spicy cinnamon chocolate. It was good, and kind of reminded me of Mexican hot chocolate, or Chuao’s spicy mayan chocolate, but honestly it wasn’t my favorite. To really rate it fairly I would need to go back and try some flavors I liked better, but it was kind of far away from my house and I never did end up going back.

I think perhaps my favorite of all of them is Gelateria di Neri, by Santa Croce. My host brother mentioned it when I asked him about the best gelaterias early in the quarter, and I suggested we go together sometime, but that somehow never ended up happening. Anyway, this Wednesday night when Kelly and I were haphazardly wandering around the city starting to say goodbye and wrapping up our memories, it was one of the few places open and as we wandered in I said I’d never been. She was stunned, and I realized that once again I’d waited until the very last moment of the quarter to find one of the best parts of Florence. It took forever to get service, as the one person working first filled a to-go container, and then made crepes for a couple who were there before us. But after I had relaxed and gotten out of my American culture of rush-rush and into the Italian culture of taking your time over food and never being in a rush I enjoyed a conversation with Kelly, and actually appreciated the care and attention with which the server was attending each customer. I ordered a dark chocolate with caramella mou – I have no idea exactly what it was, but I think some type of caramel. Very delicious. And the server was, as I said, very nice, which Kelly and I realized this last month was usually the determining factor for whether or not we liked a place – how cheap and good the food was but mostly how friendly the people were. I went back the next afternoon with Miki and tried dark chocolate with a basically strawberry cheesecake type of flavor which was a bit different from any of the combinations I’d tried before and really quite phenomenal.

Overall? My favorites were Grom for pure artistic ability, and Neri for deliciousness and overall character. And, I have to say, La Carriera 2 was consistently good all quarter. They have possibly the most decadent of all the dark chocolates I tried, and we also discovered a larger original La Carriera that is apparently pretty well known. So my advice for anyone coming to Florence and staying in the center – Grom by the Duomo and La Carriera 2 and Neri by Santa Croce. Or, if you are across the Arno and a little bit more westward, more in the vicinity of Santa Trinita, go to the original La Carriera, and do yourself a huge favor and go to Hemminway’s for the world’s best hot chocolate (they also have gelato, which I didn’t get the chance to try) And just enjoy! I have the suspicion that Florence has some of the best gelato in all of Italy, so don’t let the opportunity go to waste.

Night of the Cello: A Rough Prose Poem

Sitting down, the chatter, red velvet seats, many people talking, a relaxed social scene. Hush, slowly, silence grows, waiting. Bursts of applause, they walk on stage. The cello, the piano, sing out, beginning a night of music.

The cellist, Yo-Yo Ma, plays, plays his heart. He plays softly, he plays loud. So impassioned, he practically leaps from his chair, his fingers flying up and down, his arm back and forth, his hair like a bat beating its wings about his head. So much energy and motion he seems to be convulsing. The music tears through the air. One stroke, so intense, vicious as if a sword slices through someone’s throat. The pianist’s fingers fly, blur, sing, whir. So fast, they form their own personal tornado of a whirlwind with the force to seemingly pull her fingers away, flying swirling away. The violence that flees up the ivory piano keys.

The piano and cello play together, at moments in close movement, together, touching, and yet with a tension, not unlike that of the tango. At moments intertwined, strands of a single thread, twisting together. The cello is the sound of the wind blowing through a spider web. The piano is the rain fall, dropping on the fallen leaves. The piano is the weaving of the spider’s web, each strand strung out delicately, connected precisely to the rest of fragility. The cello breaks my heart.

The cello is a kite tail, red, amongst fluffy clouds and penetratingly blue sky, dancing weaving in and out, away. A bird soaring up up and up to simply get away, as the song says, high above the sorrows. Soaring to escape. The need to deny. Just as the New York cabbie told the airplane passenger – from up there you cannot see the misery. The cello flies up high because it can, to leave this world behind, below, for just a moment.

The cello a sigh. It is a waltz, not waltz music, but the dance itself, the man’s strong guiding hands, the woman’s flaring skirt, harmoniously twirling across the dance floor together. The piano is hands gracefully leaping, ballerinas in slow motion, hanging for impossibly ever as they elegantly fall back onto the music, intertwining, caressing, loving. The music is spun glass. The music becomes a couple dancing under the moonlight, the light playing off the waters of a lake, sparkling in points. The moon travels between the clouds, mixing shadows and even deeper shadows. A question is asked, and a pause hangs in the air between them. A low female voice answers. They keep dancing, no more words are spoken.

The cello is the play of the summer sun piercing the leaves, dappling shadows and yellow light on the ground in the warm early evening with the hum of insects. Not the day, nor the insects, but the play of light itself from sun to shade in the warm air. His hands moving are lace along the long neck of the cello.

The music is loved. The cellist and the pianist are loved. And they love what they do. Yo-Yo Ma practically skips and bounces off stage. He eagerly comes back, he plays, one, two, three, yes even four encores. He doesn’t want to leave. This is what he loves, and the world loves him for it. The short pieces contain an elegance, a poetry and the succinct, sweet beauty of a miniature, of candy in its foil wrapper. They are play for him, and he plays with spirit and delicacy, passion and incredible tenderness, and he plays at times for the sheer fun that is running through his hands. He does not need his music. Often his eyes are closed. At times he tilts his head back receiving the benediction of the stage lights. Mostly they cause dramatic shadows on his face. He occasionally glances at the pianist’s music, checking where she is. Twice, in the entire duration of the concert, he turns the page to his own music.

One of the encores, I recognize from first note wavering in the air. So much more powerful than a recording, this time it is the most beautiful piece of music I have ever heard. The note vibrates the air, so soft it is quieter than a whisper, merely a breath of wind. It is a caress, a fingertip’s touch, it delicately grazes the skin. So powerful it vibrates the core of my bones, I can’t breathe. My rib cage is paralyzed with the beauty. My hands tingle from applause. My body tingles from the music. Wow is the only verbal response and so pathetically inadequate it is not really worth saying. But something must expel the paralysis caused by the beautiful cello, the spell I was bound in by the notes that were woven through the air. Wow.

Finals and the German Christmas Market

This morning I woke up apathetic to the world. I’d worked on my final projects all day yesterday, only going out to have lunch and work some more. The plan was to work on them again all day today. And again all day tomorrow. Until Thursday, when the last of them was due. Not my idea of a fun week, especially for my last week here in Florence. But unfortunately there’s not really much to be done about it. I padded in pajamas into the kitchen for a quick breakfast – my usual, cereal with yogurt. My host family doesn’t eat yogurt but always makes sure to have some for me for my breakfast. Then, grab my computer and climb back into bed with it and get to work.

I didn’t make much progress. I really didn’t feel like working. It might help to call a friend, or my parents, or someone, and talk myself out of my funk. Thanks to the fact that my friends and family are on a different continent from me and thus were probably fast asleep, that was impossible. Instead, I squirreled under the covers, using them as a barrier between me and the outside world that I didn’t care for at the moment. Ostrich-style tactics: if you can’t see your problems, then they can’t see you. Didn’t work, but it was worth a try. I indulged my inner toddler in its temper tantrum of “I won’t I won’t I WON’T!” for a few minutes, mentally banging my head against a wall. Then I sighed, moved over to my desk, and got down to work.

After several hours of solid work, I finally finished my Italian power point presentation on the history of Italian food. To celebrate I decided that for lunch I would go to the German Christmas Market in Piazza Santa Croce. Usually, when I’m doing work at home, I just go across the street for a kabob. They serve them on panini bread which was a little weird at first, but I’ve found I like the alteration. Anyway, for lunch today I deserved a break and some fresh air. As it was probably going to be my only trip outside all day, I figured I’d better make it a good one.

I’ve already walked through the market a few times since they put it up a week ago. It’s pretty and festive and full of interesting things. I stopped there yesterday on my way back from my work-date with Kelly to buy some fingerless gloves – my host family turns the heat on in the evenings, but my hands are cold in the mornings too, and I can’t type with my regular gloves on. So, I sort of knew what was there, but I hadn’t paid too much attention to the food options before. On arriving today I was immediately confronted with a booth with a vat of some soupy, yummy, warm looking thing, and signs for bratwurst either in the form of a “German hotdog” it proclaimed in English, or on a plate with potatoes. I walked all around the square, figuring out what my options were. Pretty much more of the same. Some booths had delicious looking roast meat, pork I think. I decided I was in the mood for a simple, satisfying bratwurst. I didn’t want to be bothered with utensils. Unfortunately all the booths had annoying lines since it was lunch time, so I got in back of the nearest one.

The bratwurst was good. Sizzling hot meat is always good on a cold day. And I’d planned ahead and brought water from home, so I didn’t have to shell out an extra 2 euros for a small water. I sat on one of the benches surrounding the Piazza and watched the people go by. Always interesting. Indulged in more of my favorite game, “Italian, or American?” It’s surprisingly easy to pick out the Americans some times. I don’t know whether its style of clothes, or hair, or facial features or what, but a good number of Americans stick out easily. Not all of them, certainly – on occasion I’m startled by a nearby “Italian” breaking out into native English. It’s a fun game.

After I’d finished my bratwurst I decided to get dessert too. I deserved a little indulgence for working so hard. Plus I’ve had a huge craving for sweets all December. I don’t know what it is about Christmas time, but I keep wanting to bake Christmas cookies and eat gelato despite the cold. So I made another circuit of the piazza, this time trying to decide on a dessert. It was a hard choice. There were several strudel stands which looked delicious, and a crepe stand which sounded good but a bit strange coming from a German market in Italy. There was also a hot sweet bread booth, and a stand with chocolate covered fruit and candied apples. I eventually decided on the sweet bread. I’d seen booths for it before in previous markets, but never tried it. It’s not something I’ve ever seen in the States. It looked something like what Raf made at the campfire this summer in camp – a strip of bread wrapped around a stick and heated in a fire. This sweet bread was a little more elaborate than Raf’s campfire version – they had a machine to cook it just right, and rolled it in various toppings for you when it came out sweet and steaming hot. I had no clue which topping I wanted, and instead of choosing between nuts, coconut, vanilla, cinnamon, chocolate, and plain, I took the easy way out and asked the guy for his opinion on which one was best. He looked confused for a second, and then pointed to the nut one saying it was the original version. So, I went for that one, and waited for the next steaming cylinder of bread to be done. I also got a small cup of warm molten nutella to dip it in – I was craving chocolate.

When they handed me the piping hot bag I took my prize to go sit down on another bench. I really like those benches – I’ve spent a lot of time using them as a picnic table this quarter. Anyway, the bread was fantastic. Warm, sweet, nutty, chocolaty. I was full and happy and warm by the time I finished. Except for my butt, which was freezing from sitting so long on the cold cement bench. But it was definitely worth it.

In a much better frame of mind than I had woken up with, I walked back home, contentedly resigned to spend the afternoon and evening glued once again to my computer screen.

A Day in Morocco

I woke up to light coming in the cracks of the cloth tent ceiling above me. Cozy and warm under the three heavy wool blankets on the queen sized bed, I felt like I had just slept in a nice hotel, rather than a campsite in the middle of the sand dunes of the Sahara.

I slipped out of bed onto the carpeted floor that kept out the fine sand and quickly changed out of my pajamas, hoping to catch the sunrise. Ducking out of the tent flap, I saw we were in luck – although the sky was light the sun hadn’t yet peaked up over the large dune to our east. We climbed up out of the small valley of our campsite, and waited for the sun to rise over the quilt of sand dunes surrounding us.

The dawn was beautiful. The sky was light blue and pale yellow, lighting the rusty orange dunes that stretched out as far as we could see in all directions. The sky grew brighter and brighter and the blazing yellow glow of the rising sun slowly crested over the dunes. I went for a walk, my footprints blending with the prints of smaller animals in the soft sand. I made sure not to lose my direction in my circuit of the never-ending dunes. When we got back, the guys having taken their fill of photographs of the dunes in the morning light, we packed up and mounted our camels again, as our Berber guide Mohammed, who'd played cards with us the night before, led us back to civilization.

Showers and a hot breakfast were in order. The showers were warm and soothing, in the traditional mud and straw building of our hotel. Afterwards we piled into the car for our long car ride up to Fes, back through the Atlas Mountains. We were prepared for spending many hours in the car as we crossed the country. We were not prepared to hit a snowstorm. The mountains with their cedar forests were beautiful, but after awhile the rain turned to snow turned into a semi white out in some parts, as our view was reduced to the fifty feet around us. The views continued to be beautiful, snow falling on the cedar forests and dusting the empty fields that surrounded us. We passed the occasional shepherd, standing in the cold dressed in his traditional Moroccan djellaba with his flock of sheep and goats. Thankfully, the craziness of Moroccan driving did not extend into snowy conditions and drivers were unusually cautious through the mountain passes.

We decided to drive straight to Fes and skip the scenic stops, since the trip was taking longer than we thought it would. We arrived in Fes well after dark and found a parking place close to our hotel without getting lost too many times. And, as we stepped through the door of our hotel in a back alley of the medina (old city), we realized we had moved into a palace. An old traditional building, the hotel consisted of several large beautiful rooms surrounding two courtyards of orange trees and fountains.

After settling in for a half hour and filling out the required forms, we went looking for dinner before everything closed. We were too late to eat at the place recommended in the guide book, Clock Cafe, so we ended up eating at a place down the street. A perfectly decent traditional meal of kefta (meatballs), tagine (meat and vegetables slow cooked in an oven for a long time) and couscous, followed by the standard dessert of tangerines and mint tea. Full and exhausted, we returned to our hotel and quickly fell asleep. An amazing day in our travels in Morocco.

Becky is OBAMA!!

I am sitting in my bed here in Florence, Italy, with will.i.am’s “Yes We Can” video playing from Youtube.com behind this window I type in. It’s noon, and I spent the hours since I woke up this morning, greeted with the NYTimes.com’s headline of “OBAMA,” avidly reading the American papers online, watching Obama’s acceptance speech in three videos on Youtube, updating myself on my friends’ and fellow students’ responses on facebook to the joyful win of Obama and the disappointing win of Prop 8 in California. I watched a video posted on facebook called “The exact moment Obama became President Elect,”a video of Stanford’s Coho, packed to the walls with students standing sitting clapping cheering beaming smiling. I watched as the camera panned around the room, hundreds of voices chanting as the giant CNN screen counted down to explode with stars and the sober and mighty words BREAKING NEWS: BARACK OBAMA PRESIDENT ELECT and the explosion of cheers and amazement among my fellow students that this day has finally come.

Yes We Can.

It has been interesting watching this historical journey from across the Atlantic. My methods of procrastination have expanded to include a daily scanning of the NYTimes.com’s campaign 2008 section, reading new articles and checking how the polls have changed from the day before. I watched the second debate at an event organized by Democrats Abroad here in Florence, and I went to a presentation by my Stanford professor Shultz and another Italian professor about the American elections, explaining what would probably happen, why, and how our complicated electoral college system works to the many Italian students in the crowd.

Last night as my host mom was clearing the table I talked with my host sister about our elections, again explaining the electoral college, showing her what the odds were of Obama’s win, noting the importance of the senate race this year. She listened avidly, hopefully understanding most of what I was trying to say. The electoral college is hard enough to explain in English, nonetheless Italian, but with the help of an occasional translation from my host mom she got it. She enjoyed the will.i.am video, although she admitted afterwards that it was really hard to understand. I told her that with the overlapping speech it was hard even for me and she laughed.

I had the election result webpage open all day yesterday, although I knew the first polls didn’t even close until midnight my time. Kelly and I headed over to an election watching party hosted by Stanford and an Italian think tank here. We were amazed at how many Italians were there, interested in our election to the point of staying up into the morning hours to watch the first results come in. In fact it was so crowded with non-Stanford people that at first Kelly and I thought we went to the wrong place. The event ended at 2:00, but Kelly and I got a cab home at 1:30 so we could switch from the Italian news show they were watching which called states WAY too prematurely, to watch the CNN and NYTimes websites. I updated screens, monitoring results until 3:30 in the morning which was still before all the polls had closed. Relatively confident of an Obama victory, I went to sleep with my computer lying at the side of my bed so that the first thing I could do when I woke up this morning, before turning on the lights, would be to reach down, turn on my computer, and confirm Obama’s win.

It is an amazing day. And I have experienced it all online, virtually participating with the anxiety and celebration of the election. I sort of wish I could have been in America, at Stanford, and actually experienced all this in person. But I have my small pin for “Americans in Italy for Obama” to put in my memory box at home to record this unique experience.

Let me share with you some of the words and websites that have sketched, defined, and declared the shape of this election and experience for me.

A NYTimes article on the international view on Obama’s Election. The global aspect has been much in our awareness here in Florence.

A NYTimes article from the Day Before: last minute updates, and how this election has been modernized including the role of Youtube

Obama’s Speech on Race from Youtube

"The election wasn’t a distraction like a celebrity arrest or a royal wedding, it was something that actually mattered and wasn’t painful." The rarity in recent years of an event such as this helps explain why the optimism inspired by President Elect Obama is so intoxicating (from an article from NYTimes on watching the results come in).

My screen this morning. Note the number of tabs open, connecting me to as many articles and videos of the day as possible.


The current statuses of my friends on Facebook, the way that I am a part of my American community right now:

Becky Wright is OBAMA!!
Eric is ashamed of California, but so proud of his friends. Love to you all.
Jennifer is why, California? WHYYYYY?!
Julia is hoping that Prop 8 passing will cause the issue to be raised on the federal level.
Kim is happy.proud.shocked.amazed.andexcitedforchange. OBAMA08!
Ryann is proud of her fellow Americans and proud of her president. We are living history. :).
Kate is still ridiculously euphoric about Obama, but going to bed with fingers crossed for CA. Prop 8 is too scary for me to watch anymore.
Daniel : HELL YES! The world just got a bit more hopeful. On the other hand, what the hell California?
Andrew is ready for a new era...for so many things.
Katie is he is an amazing man. ♥ .
Othman is ecstatic.
Kevin: likes his old home state of Pennsylvania a bit more than his new home state of California right now. COMMENTED ON BY Mathew: "CA has spoken! A chicken's right to stretch its legs is more important than marriage rights and equality."
Sam is Barack Obama is President Elect but dammit Prop 8 passed.
Ian is proud of Ohio for stepping up.
Ana Maria didn't sleep last night to see OBAMA WIN!!!!! So worth it!!! :D.

The Thames and Breakfast

My trip this weekend to London was wonderful, and relaxing. As Mom described it when I was telling her about it, kind of a vacation from this quarter abroad. I spent most of the weekend simply hanging out and visiting, remembering stories, swapping photos, chatting for hours. It was a lovely counterbalance to the things that are slightly difficult for me here in Florence – I stayed in the easy, comfortable company of good friends and I spoke in English.

I hadn’t really realized that a small amount of stress comes from the difficulty of having to concentrate every time I want to say anything, or anyone says something to me. It’s become a part of the day for me here, but to be able to drop it, to understand the conversation overheard in a crowd, or what the radio was saying in the background, to be talking and totally relaxed – it was nice.

And of course it was absolutely lovely to see Harriet and Tonya (counselors with me this summer in LPC) again. I’ve never really had the chance to go over camp months after it was over, since no other LPCers live near me, and it was interesting to both think about my views on it now that I have some distance from it, and also hear what the others think now that it’s over. And to get to relive it with people who were there with me.

To be honest, I didn’t really see that much of London. We drove into the touristy area, through Notting Hill, past Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey and Big Ben. We parked by the Thames, and spent several hours walking along it. The street performers were out in droves, entertaining passers-by on the cold, windy day. Many people in some sort of costume, pretending to be statues or odd personages like a dinosaur on a bike or Mickey Mouse. If you gave them money they would do something fun, and Micky and Fran (Tonya’s daughters) had fun giving out coins and being part of the performance of these various curiosities. We thought about going on the London Eye, but it was a long wait, an expensive ticket, and being overcast, a bad day to go up. So instead we looked at the Houses of Parliament across the Thames and got a Jedi Knight to take a photo of us in exchange for listening to his spiel about some event he was supposed to be selling tickets for. Then back up the Thames, past the Tate Modern and the Millennium Bridge to a café just past the Old Globe Theater which Tonya said was a very good place to get tea and scones. However the café had turned into a bar/restaurant since she had been there last and they didn’t have scones, so we got a pastry and some hot chocolate instead and enjoyed the view of the Thames. The theater was unfortunately closed, but I walked past the outside, which is cool enough for the moment. I definitely hope to come back to England in the future – I must admit I barely saw anything. Hardly a surprise, since I was there for less than 48 hours and didn’t want to rush around.

I did, however, have a blast. Tonya, Harriet and I got to spend some time on our own – we went out to an Indian restaurant close to Tonya’s house, and then out to a pub afterwards. The pub was pretty nice, “posh” if you want to be British. And, as Tonya described it that night “full of blokes!” I hadn’t realized how many words and phrases are different between American English and British. Some of the street signs caught my eye – “Dual Carriageway” apparently means a road with a hard divide between the different directions, and instead of speed bumps they have signs that say “Humps for the next 600 meters.” And little things, like a car park instead of a parking lot, or car hire instead of car rental. So many more than I had ever known!

Above all, I enjoyed how relaxing the weekend was. Dinner with Harriet and her dad in their kitchen, breakfast of toast with delicious multi-grain bread which seems to simply not exist here in Italy. Lunch all together in the candlelit warm living room of Tonya’s house, or lounging on their couches looking at photos. Harriet and I stayed in the attic room of their house, which seemed appropriate and familiar after the attic room the girl counselors shared this summer in camp. And Micky, bless her heart, came up with the idea to bring Harriet and me fruit and tea in bed to wake us up, telling us when we were up there would be pancakes and bacon downstairs. Lying there in the quilts with Harriet, waking up slowly and sipping tea, enjoying the extra hour of daylight savings so that we didn’t have to rush to get to the airport. Downstairs we sang some of the camp songs, sat down to a cozy breakfast, and wrote an email to the rest of the staff. Simple, homey, friendly things. It seemed so luxurious to be so comfortable and taken care of and at ease with Harriet and Tonya and her family. A real vacation, and a wonderful weekend.

Voting

I officially mailed in my Absentee Ballot today, after waiting impatiently for several weeks for it to show up here in my mailbox. However, one of the best parts of voting is getting the "I Voted" sticker (I'm not sure I want to think about what that says of my maturity level), and I obviously didn't get one here in Italy, so I thought I would give one to myself. Here it is, the prized sticker:


The election has been front and center in people's thoughts here. Our teachers are using it at every excuse to share American view points with Italians, and for Italians to share their opinions of America with us. Lots of cultural sharing happening. We're also organizing an election watching party, one of many here in the American-saturated city of Florence. And, many thanks to the time difference, we will be up till at least 2:30 in the morning (5:30 pm pacific time) to watch elections, maybe later. Anyway, fingers crossed for November 4th!

I Left My Heart in Assisi

Everybody knows the beauty of Tuscany. The rolling hills sprinkled with villas, vineyards, ruins, art. It is famous. In fact, I just finished reading “Under the Tuscan Sun,” which I picked up from an English bookstore here in Florence, since I felt that it was culturally important to be familiar with such a well known story. Although I did not realize that the book and the movie are so different. Anyway, my point is, Tuscany is famous.

Umbria is not. And why, I have no clue. As far as I’m concerned, it is the unknown gem of Italy. Granted, I haven’t exactly seen all of Italy. But I was completely unprepared for the beauty I found there. Umbria is a region in central Italy, just south of Tuscany. We made our way there to its capital Perugia last weekend for the European Chocolate Festival, which the city was hosting. Delicious. Overwhelming and crowded. Fun. But I was struck by how beautiful the city itself was. We had a beautiful panoramic view of the city: small, spread out, and sprinkled with fields and trees and greenery throughout the valley. Gorgeous old buildings, enough so that it felt like a large town, but that it still felt like it was half in the countryside.

We hadn’t been able to find a hostel in Perugia for the first night of this chocolate festival, so we ended up staying at Hostel Sul Lago, on Lago Trasimeno, about a fifteen minute train ride out of the city. We got there late, and had to leave early the next day, so we didn’t see much of the area, but we did manage to fit in a bike ride before we left Sunday morning (they had free bikes!). We woke up at 7:30, and hurriedly got dressed. Since the lake was surrounded by hills, it was light out but the sun wasn’t quite over the crest of the hills yet, so we biked in the pale, rosy light of dawn around the edges of this lake, surrounded by fields and meadows and beautiful trees. The trees were just shading themselves with golden yellow of autumn, and a fisherman was pulling up with his catch, a crowd of birds following him. Across the lake I could see a small town of old buildings, built who knows how many centuries ago. The hills were patched with the lines of vineyards and olive groves and houses scattered around. It was beautiful to be out in the countryside.

We cut our bike outing short in order to catch the train to Assisi, which my host mom recommended we do. We boarded an incredibly crowded train, which emptied itself of Chocolate Festival goers after we passed Perugia, and we arrived about half an hour later at Assisi. The city itself is up on a hill, and is the prettiest town I have seen yet, here in Italy, which is saying something. As Kelly said, every time I see something I think it has to be the prettiest thing I’ve seen, and then I see the next thing. But I think Assisi will be able to contend for prettiest for quite awhile. We walked very quickly across the historical center, hoping to make it to the church at the other end while it was still open (our guidebook said something about it closing at 12:00). We passed beautiful squares, a roman ruin which we hardly glanced at they’ve become almost commonplace, and passed the occasional panorama of the valley below and sucked in our breath at how pretty it was, but kept walking. When we rounded the corner on the steep winding road to the Cathedral, I was struck with how simply beautiful it was.

The church wasn’t ornate or overwhelming in its intricacies or beautiful arches, mosaics, carvings, colored marbles. It was simple, with a few delicate details, and much more graceful than many of the Italian churches I have seen with their heavy presences. And it sits on the edge of the hill, with a grassy area in front of it, so the eye sees a field lead down to this beautiful, simple cathedral, and the panoramic valley set out beyond it. It seems to almost float there, a companion to the birds soaring and swooping around it. The perfect place to dedicate to a saint who loved nature as much as Saint Francis did. With a town like that, living with a view like that, it would be hard not to love nature. And, to complete the impact, as we walked into the cathedral the choir for mass was starting, and the voices echoed through the frescoed walls. Churches have the most wonderful acoustics, and hymns are some of the most beautiful songs in the world. It was probably one of the most spiritual places I have ever been to. And of all the saints I know of, Saint Francis is the one who I agree with the most, so it seemed more powerful to me than a place dedicated to beliefs or ideologies that I don’t relate to at all.

The lower cathedral, built literally under the larger one, was much more intimate, but generally very similar to the other. Beneath its floors lies the body of Saint Francis, and a steady stream of people were quietly filing down one set of stairs and up another. Down the stairs the crowd slowly and reverently walked up to the body, around the pillar it stood in, and back out. Some people had stopped on benches on the side to pray, and a monk sat keeping an eye on the crowd. The only sound came from the shuffling of feet, quiet whispers, and the noises of children. Infants carried in the arms of their fathers and young children just learning about the world. One small child pointed and told his father, both showing off and double checking, “tomba.” “Si,” the father encouraged the use of the new word, “tomba.” And a few older children whose mothers, trying to instill some piety, irritably told them to be quiet and stop complaining about it being boring.

After the beautiful churches, our stomachs returning us to the world of practicality and the need for lunch, we went to a restaurant called “Locanda del Podestá” in some ancient building – who knows how old the wall that I leaned my purse against was. But the food was some of the best I’ve had in Italy – ravioli dei tartufi (truffles) e noci (walnuts, which are in season at the moment) with a side of asparagi (asparagus). Absolutely, completely, satisfyingly delicious.

On our walk back to the bus stop we wandered through the town, looking at some of the things for sale and enjoying the poetry of the buildings. I swear I have never seen a town as universally beautiful as Assisi. Even the trees that lined the road seemed more beautiful, more graceful as they dropped their leaves, spinning down to the sidewalks like dancers, than normal trees. It must be something in the air of Assisi. Maybe St. Francis really did bring a blessing to the place.

In any case, Assisi currently has my vote for most beautiful town in all of Italy. If you ever get the chance, go!

Gelateria La Carraia 2

I’ve walked past this Gelateria almost every day since I arrived in Florence, because conveniently enough it is located on my walk to and from school. A small hole in the wall place, I didn’t originally have much faith in it. Judging a gelateria on appearances is a fine art, as there must be thousands of gelaterias in Florence. According to my host brother, gelato was invented here in Florence and, he added, the inventor of the ice cream cone was an Italian, in America, who got tired of his glass ice cream dishes breaking so invented cones to replace them. Don’t random facts like that make life more interesting?

Anyway, I didn’t go inside Gelateria La Carraia 2 because I couldn’t tell if it offered gelato of the mass-produced, poor quality type or not. Eventually, though, convenience overcame my skepticism and Kelly and I stopped in one day. We’ve stopped several times since then – I think of it as sort of the “house wine” of gelaterias. Not jaw dropping, celebrate a special occasion kind of gelato, but rather a pretty good every day gelato.

It has several things going for it. First, as I mentioned, its always easy to stop by. There are several good lunch places nearby too, so its easy to just make it our next stop. Second, Kelly’s favorite flavor which she never fails to order is yogurt, and Gelateria La Carraia 2 offers not only yogurt gelato but also yogurt and nutella gelato – how can you beat that? And third, it offers gelato in a 1.30 euro price. Most places the smallest you can get is 2, or 1.50, so this generous small is nice – just the right amount, never so much that you feel uncomfortably full even if you do come straight from lunch, and not so much as it makes you reluctant to pull out your wallet (gelatos seem to add up very quickly here!).

I've enjoyed trying several flavours: cioccolato fondente (dark chocolate), cioccolato (chocolate), nocciola (hazelnut), and biscotti (cookies). Very good. Its hard to find a flavor to stand up to the decadent but not super sweet cioccolato fondente, but I love it, so I’ll keep experimenting with new combinations.

"Home"

Slightly brain-numb from the exhaustion of traveling and overwhelmed by the Archeological Museum of Naples, Tristan, Kelly and I let our eyes drift over the knickknacks, books and posters in the bookshop. Some of the images seem pretty and I wish we had been able to see the originals, the vast majority of which are currently not on display. I think I might be interested in a poster if I can figure out what each rolled up and saran-wrapped image is, and while we’re looking at them Tristan mentions that he wouldn’t be able to get it home. Glancing up at Kelly, I realize we’re both uncertain and I turn to ask Tristan “Home, as in Florence, or home as in school?” He responds with a laugh “Oh, I just meant the hostel. I don’t want to carry that around all day.”

It brings up an interesting point, at least for me at this point in my life. What is my home? Is it the place where I lay my head? That’s what Tristan meant. And for the moment, that’s where I belong you might say, with reservations and plans with the others to spend the night there.

Or does it need more? A space that will be yours even while you’re not there? A community you belong in. A place to come home to. Does the house of my host-family in Florence count? I notice that I can’t seem to call it my house. But arriving at the train station in Florence I don’t need to pull out a street map and check my progress at every corner – I can walk strait home and pass the familiar shops and restaurants. Dinner is waiting for me when I get there, and there are people to greet me as I finally walk in the door, to ask how my travels went and welcome me back. There are places to put away all my things, and unfinished tasks waiting for me as I sit back down at my desk. Today, on my walk to and from school, I waved a quick greeting to the cobbler and the wine store owner – both of whom I have made eye contact with enough times on my daily commute to recognize. Knowing a place and the people in it, and having them know you, does that make a home? There are people here who care about my well being, provide for me, and help me out. There is a room that is mine, where people ask my permission to enter. Is this my home?

And of course, the debate about Stanford campus and Encinitas. I call them both home. When people ask where I am from, I’m not always sure which answer they want. I spend the majority of my time at Stanford now, so if they want to visit me the best odds are to go to Stanford. I have a family of friends there, who I can look to when my world falls apart, or simply get a second opinion on a new dress. We have our regular routines and I have a room all my own, with my things and a key to lock it shut from anyone else. I know the local restaurants well, and I know how the public transportation works. There is a community on campus of common interest and shared experience. It is definitely a home of mine.

But Encinitas, despite only living there for two months out of the twelve this year, will always be home for me. My family, and my old friends, and my old self all live there. The people there know me at a deep level, better sometimes than I know myself. I can walk into Pannikin and have the waiters say “Wow you’ve grown up! I remember you when you were five!” The community of home is stronger there than any other home I have, and at this point the physical place of that home is so ingrained in me that it has strength too. Even if everyone moved out and strangers bought the house, there would still be a connection to this place. So even though I can go home and be surprised by the changes made in my months of absence, I can slide easily back into a place worn comfortable for me over the years of living. Unlike any of the other homes mentioned, 1402 Eolus Ave will keep the title of “Home” forever.

It seems, though, that it will have to learn to share.

Cultural Quirks

Life runs by quickly here. There are many things I’ve experienced here that I have thought “Wow, I can’t wait to write about this!” And then for various reasons, often because I’m busy doing more things which I also want to write about, I never end up having time to write about them. So I’ll see what I can do. Some of the entries may come up late, or out of order. In the meantime, I’d like to share a few of the Italian quirks which I have stumbled over during my time here.

A very important one to keep in mind while traveling in Italy is that strangely enough the Italians have two different numbering systems for street addresses, and they use them simultaneously. These numbers tend to be either written on ceramic tiles, or more commonly engraved on a stone in the wall. Residences are numbered in black, but businesses are numbered in red. And the two have nothing to do with each other. A street can easily go 32 (black), 34 (black), 82 (red), 36 (black). This causes a few difficulties, even when you know it exists. One, it makes everything harder to find. Like looking for a red Easter egg amongst all the black numbers, you run along the street hoping that the next one will be the elusive restaurant that you are looking for. Two, because they can travel at different paces, opposite sides of the street are completely skewed numerically. Just because you are standing at number 27, doesn’t necessarily mean that 28 is across the street. It can be blocks away from you. And, finally, keep in mind that mapping programs such as Yahoo have not yet become sophisticated enough to deal with this totally illogical system, so if you do as we did, and enter the address of a recommended pizzeria, don’t panic when it isn’t where the map says it is and you are seeming lost in a slightly sketchy neighborhood. The map found black 67. Feel free to wander for blocks in either direction looking for red 67. You’ll probably find it eventually. And asking around is definitely not cheating when dealing with a system like this. A hint for finding your way – if you see "27 (r)" as an address that means you are looking for a red number, so don’t get fooled by the apartment house number 27. Keep looking!

Also, don’t be fooled by small store fronts. The doors of buildings and the little storefronts can be crammed close together, but they are more than they seem. I walked into what looked like a tiny little market with only bread and crackers, and as I walked back, and back, and back I realized that the market carried pretty much all the food I could want in its labyrinth. Living in buildings built for a different era, many stores have adapted by carving themselves into the bowels of the building, using whatever space they can find to spread out all of their wares. Restaurants that look like they are to-go only often have hugs seating areas up a level, down a level, or both.

I’m not sure Italians have to-go only. Kelly and I have noticed a complete lack of to-go places amongst the Italian restaurant scene. When my host mom doesn’t have time to cook dinner, she makes homemade pizza with a pre-made but still raw pizza dough that then goes in the oven with sauce and mozzarella. Not entirely sure how that logic works, but it’s her version of American take-out.

Italians drink their milk warm. They leave it out, or zap it in the microwave for a bit to get it to room temperature. Its part of their cultural war against cold. For Italians, cold = sick. This also translates into a serious lack of ice in your drinks. The only time I have seen ice here in Italy was at a social event thrown by Americans for Americans, and even then it was offered as a possibility to put in your drink, not a default. Of course, this doesn’t mean that Italians detest all things cold, as proven by their love of gelato. It just means that some things are warmer than back home. Feel free to get used to it, or get used to ordering things specially adjusted to American tastes.

In the course of my studies here I have walked into several school supply or art supply stores. Unlike the giant help-yourself warehouses found in the States for these things, all the stores I have come across here are much more old-fashioned. A store owner behind the counter, with a warren of cubbies at his back, asks what you want, and then goes to the exact cubby where they are stored, sometimes with the aid of a step stool, and places one on the counter for you to decide if you would like to buy it or not. Absolutely charming, it reminds me of Ollivander’s Wand Shop from Harry Potter.

Once Upon A Street in Napoli

Tired out from travelling and in what I like to call the “museum zombie” mindset, Tristan, Kelly and I wander down from the Archeological Museum of Napoli to our next stop, Napoli Sotterranea. We have over an hour until the next tour starts, so once we find the entrance and figure out how much a ticket costs we wearily look around for a place to buy a drink and sit down. I indulge in a soda, and though I am craving an Orangina they no longer seem to exist in Europe, so I settle for an orange Fanta (everytime I say that word the stupid jingle “wanta Fanta!” pops into my head. Yes, I want a Fanta, so please shut up!) The bubbly processed sweetness tastes good and the three of us settle down on a bench next to the old San Paolo Maggiore church and watch the life of Napoli walk by as we recharge.

Napoli seems so much more Italian than Florence or Rome. Perhaps it is the lack of tourists. In our hour of sitting on the main street of the historical center we only see one tour group pass us by. Everyone else crowding the busy street are Napolitani, creating their community together outside on this lovely Saturday afternoon.

Children have finished their Saturday half-day of school, and are out on the street in force. Unlike other Italian cities, the vast majority of Napolitani children seem to be overweight. Too much pizza, but it’s hard to blame them when the pizza is that good. Walking, running, strolling, zooming by on Vespas, the schoolchildren swarm the streets of Napoli. The three of us are amazed to watch a gang of what must be eight-year-old girls walk by. Seemingly without an adult to accompany them, these little girls walk down the street well dressed, each swinging their own little purse and talking loudly and animatedly to each other. They’re busy entertaining themselves, impetuously going down the street then coming right back up five minutes later, turning when one decides they have thought of something to do, such as run up the stairs to the church and get a better look around. We saw that group of girls several hours later at the famous pizza place, di Matteo, located on that same street. While we were eating our pizza they came up the stairs and walked right through the crowded restaurant as if they owned the place. They spent ten minutes back-and-forthing, and talking with all the waiters who were rather exasperated by these little girls. The old woman sitting next to us yelled at them to keep it down, as they shouted up the stairs to the waiter. It amazes me to think that we were slightly worried for our safety in this city, with the numerous warnings we were given to watch our belongings, not wear watches or jewelry, and keep an alert eye out, and here this gang of eight-year-olds is, out on the streets for hours, and not a concerned parent in sight.

As I finish my Fanta in the tiny little piazza, a Vespa comes and parks near us, driven by a young man in his late twenties, dark haired like all Italians seem to be, normal looking with decent clothes and only a tinge overweight. In his lap is a big bouquet of yellow lilies, and seated behind him is an old man holding his cane and crutch. The young man helps the old man swing his leg around, and slowly the two of them walk over the cobblestones and into the church. Ten minutes later they re-emerge, bright lilies gone, and return from whence they came. Whether he is being a good nephew, grandson, or neighbor, I am impressed.

Mostly revived, the three of us are looking around, really enjoying people watching, observing the different life styles and clothes styles here. The group of smartly dressed women at the café across the street. The cars that try and fail to roar down this street clogged with people, Vespas, parked cars, children, and café tables. The dry yellow grasses on the church steeple across the street.

As we watch, we spot a woman all in white, holding her train and a bouquet of little calla lilies, and walking down the street with a purpose. The wedding party comes into view, the bride in front and the guests and photographer trailing. She walks up the steps of the church next to us, and her new husband bounds up the stairs after her, two at a time. The photographer comes with them, and a few moments later we see him standing on the railing and telling them to shift a little to their left. The rest of the party waits at the bottom of the steps, and the children everywhere cry “Auguri! Auguri!” to the couple, Italian for good wishes. After a few minutes of pictures the bride, groom, photographer and his assistant come back down, pausing for a photograph while descending the steps, and go to take photos at the next church, which is just across the street and over one building. And, afterwards, I amusedly watch as the whole party congregates and seems to take a picture in front of a gelataria on the corner! Amazing. Maybe one of them owns it. Maybe the couple met there. Maybe they could get the perfect angle of the church in the back ground. Who knows. The party continues down the street, chatting, talking, photographing, and enjoying their wedding day.

More than any single place in Napoli that we saw, the people of the city were the best part of the trip.

Forster's Fiesole

I took a class, freshman year, called something like “Italy in the Anglo-Saxon Imagination” about English and American books that had been set in Italy. We read many books and poems of varying appeal about this country, including E. M. Forster’s “A Room with a View.” When I was packing in September, and trying to pick the few books I would take with me as my teddy bear of sorts, I grabbed it. I had enjoyed the story and it was one of the few books that actually took place in Florence, which I figured would make it more fun, as I could experience and explore Florence just as the characters, British tourists, had. One of the scenes takes place on an outing to the hill of Fiesole, just outside the city, and has stuck in my imagination the past couple years because it is my favorite scene in the book. So when I was making plans with Kelly and Tristan this morning about where to meet to catch the bus to Fiesole, I was remembering this description, written exactly 100 years ago:

“A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. … Standing there, he had seen that view of the Val d’Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his work. … ... ... Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets from end to end. This terrace was the well head, the primal source whence beauty gushed out to water the earth.”

Idealized and romanticized? Absolutely. But as it turns out, not too far from the truth. As all Florentines can and will tell you, Fiesole is beautiful.

Unfortunately, somehow what always stands out strongest to me are those things that break up the harmony. For example the cute flea market that sold absolute trash to all the tourists. Or, in the Roman amphitheater dating back to at least the first century, the modern art sculptures of gigantic hearts (anatomical, not valentine). Amongst the olive groves and the ruins’ gray stones covered in lichen, curling ferns and grasses with a backdrop of Tuscan hills, a neon yellow man-sized heart, complete with bright crash-dummy symbols, jarringly disrupts the scene.

Who knows what the caretakers were thinking. I certainly have no clue. The giant iron heart, seemingly buried in the center of the amphitheater, reminded me of “It” from Madeleine L’Engle’s “A Wrinkle In Time” and from the moment that thought occurred to me it was imbued with the huge evil from that story.

However, other than those real oddities, Fiesole was charming. The ruins on this crisp, sunny fall day were totally spellbinding in the lack of attention paid to them. Yes, they were fenced in and preserved, but nature had been allowed to crawl all over them, and we climbed over and around all of the wall fragments, enjoying the miniature scenes tucked into every corner. The birds chirped, the air smelled like mint, and yellow leaves were just starting to scatter the ground.

We followed the walking tour recommended by the guidebook Stanford gave us and continued on to scale the heights of the hill for the panoramic view of Fiesole and Florence and the Franciscan monastery, still in use, crowning the top.

The light in the late afternoon was golden and delicious. We tramped down the road for awhile, half afraid we would be killed by the cars speeding by us on that windy road with a serious lack of sidewalks. Despite our fear for our lives, the views from that road were wonderful. The light honestly looked like it was honey lying across the city below us, and we passed villa after gorgeous villa, trying to choose which one to buy when we become billionaires.

We stopped our walk a bit early, because we were getting tired and a bit chilly. We sat, waiting for the bus, with the most beautiful view I have ever had from a bus stop. All in all, giant yellow hearts aside, Fiesole for me has lived up to Forster’s description.

The Priest, My Professor

During our orientation he was described by the director as an excellent teacher, and a character. The director was right. Professor Verdon teaches “Women in Florentine Art,” an art history class focusing on the different roles which women have taken in the paintings and statues of Florence.

The first day he walked in with a kind, elderly face that has held up pretty well to age. He has a classic old man’s head – bald with white hair in a thick rim around the sides and wispy on top, and large round glasses perched in front of alert eyes. And he has added an additional, unusual detail to this image of your stereotypical old man – a white band tucked into his collar that marks him to the world as a man of God.

His voice is loud, carrying his inflective and expressive tones easily throughout the classroom to the thirty students seated, watching his slides flick by on the board. This impressive projective ability is essential, as half our classes take place outside of the Stanford Center and in front of the original pieces of artwork here in Florence. As a class we have gone through the Loggia del Bigalo, il Museo dell’Opera del Duomo, and the Uffizi, listening to him as he tells the historical importance and the intriguing characteristics about the fresco or the statue in front of us which defines an important aspect of the feminine as it was seen here in Florence.

It is quite an experience. In public places we always gather a scattering of intrigued listeners who subtly tag along in the back of the students, and as we walk through the museum our group slowly snowballs, picking up those around us. My favorite moment so far was in the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo, which houses the artwork of the Duomo which has been removed to that location for its preservation. We stood as a class, arrayed against the back wall, as Professor Verdon lectured about the statue of the enthroned Mary and baby Jesus before us. The statue was meant to be in the tympanum above the main door to the Duomo, according to the original façade design, which covered the front of the Duomo with statues. Verdon says this was to emphasize the physical body of Christ and therefore his humanity, which was popular in the religious beliefs of the day. The interesting aspect of this statue, as was immediately obvious, was that Mary’s eyes had been covered with glass which reflected the light and immediately drew our attention to them. The effect as we looked at it was literally a glassy-eyed and rather stupid looking Mary.

Verdon noted this unfortunate effect but then went on to explain that this statue was designed not to be seen at eye level in the bright lighting of a museum, rather as seated high above street level in the ever changing light of the sun. So, in order to replicate this original perspective as faithfully as possible, he said we should all lie down on the floor of the museum and look at Mary that way. After a second of glancing around to see if we were really going to do this the thirty of us, laughing, put down our bags and our notebooks and lay down on the floor of the museum. Verdon was definitely right. As he continued easily lecturing from his new position, his back on the hard floor, he explained how from this perspective Mary appeared to be looking off into the distance. Instead of seeming stupid and empty-headed, she now seemed visionary and intelligent. This unusual depiction of the intelligence of Mary and of women in general was common here in Florence in part due to the influence that this very statue had on artists of the city for more than a hundred years. Trying to take notes from my horizontal position on that cold floor, I was impressed by how striking this different effect was and how much it changed my perception of the statue.

I was also amused to watch the reactions of the other visitors to the museum. Some, who had been surreptitiously listening, looked around at all of us and then joined us on the floor to note the effect themselves. Others walked into the room to be surprised with some thirty five people lying on the floor of the museum and gave us, justifiably, very weird looks. I wonder what they think of us Americans now.

It was a great lesson. And so far, they have all been that good. I am loving the class.

Welcome to My Home

La Mia Stanza: the desk, closet, and window

La Mia Stanza: the daybed (its pretty comfortable)

La Cucina

Le case tuscane sono bellisime
(Tuscan houses are incredibly beautiful)

Il Salotto

Gelato Survey: First Entry

I think I've found my first good gelateria. Kelly and I were wandering the streets on the southern side of the Arno yesterday, using our lunch our to explore a new street and get a feel for the whole lunch scenario outside of the touristy parts of town. Successful in our lunch pursuit, we found a decent pannino for only 2.50 euro, which is almost half what places in the touristy part of town sell it for. Anyway, continuing our wandering, were crossing the Ponte Santa Trinita, the bridge just one to the west of Ponte Vechio, when we spotted this Gelateria on the corner, aptly named "Gelateria Santa Trinita."

Unlike the cafes with a tiny comercial gelato freezer that holds the standard six flavours, this gelateria had a room devoted to gelato, with the gelato freezer stretching the entire length and holding in it's deliciously frozen depths a couple dozen flavours. It was quite difficult to decide which kind to get. I know the translations for most of the flavours (gelato flavours are definitely high up on the list of important Italian words to know) but there were easily five or six flavours that I had no clue about. After agonzing moments of decision while we waited for our turn to order, Kelly and I finally selected one flavour each to try - Kelly tried the yogurt flavour, to see if it really was the same as her american favorite, and I tried "Santa Trinita." A swirl of colors from cream to brown looked very promising, and the name told me that it was the house specialty, but other than that I have no idea what it was that I ate. Very good though. I think somewhere in the concoction was some sort of nut flavour.

In summation, Kelly came away with a double scoop of Yogurt in a cone, a dependable reproduction of the flavour some know here in America. I ordered one scoop Santa Trinita and one Chocolate in a cup. The chocolate wasn't overly sweet, but it went very well with the other flavour, and I thoroughly enjoyed my choice. We both ordered the 2 euro size and agreed that they gave generous portions - in the future we might get the 1.50 euro size which is the smallest possible.

Results: Gelateria Santa Trinita was excellent. Definitely going to go back for more of those flavours.

Settling In: An Art Show

On Monday my host mom asked me if I would be interested in going with them to an art show of their daughter’s. “Si, si, certo!” I grabbed my favorite winter coat, which happens to go nicely with the new scarf that I love, and headed for the door. Of course, by winter coat, I mean San Diego winter, which means that the cream-colored knit sweater is perfect for a fall evening in Tuscany. We left just after five, leaving ourselves enough time to pick up my host mom’s elderly mother and drive out into the hills around Florence to the Medici’s Villa where the art show starts at six. My host mom eagerly points out all sorts of landmarks during our drive – a museum, the building where she works, and as we drive further through the suburbs, the various villas where other colleges have programs. She explains that her friend works at one of them, and I only sort of understand her Italian explanation of what exactly it is that her friend does for the college.

It is interesting to see more of the city. My host family lives very close to the center, and I’ve walked through the narrow cobblestone streets around the city center enough times to be confident that I can always find my way around well enough to get back to my house or the Stanford Center (granted, I still keep a map in my purse whenever I go out). However past that simple walking distance, which currently has a radius of a few miles, I haven’t seen anything of the city. So I keep my eyes on the buildings and, as we get farther outside the city, the beautiful green hills and villas that are rapidly passing by my window. Angelica (my host mom) points out the famous beauty of Fiesole, a hill outside the city dotted with picturesque villas and capped with some sort of religious building, I think she said a Franciscan monastery, which I will definitely visit one of these days. And the seemingly never-ending property of a gigantic villa with a foreign sounding name, which my host grandmother (I suppose that’s what I would call her) tells both Angelica and me is Russian. Angelica mentions that in the extensive grounds of this villa there is a famous statue which I can’t remember the name of, but she says something about it being the biggest statue in all of Tuscany, and I promise her I’ll go see it one of these days and walk around, since she assures me it is beautiful and a great place for a picnic.

We arrive at the Medici Villa just before six, and park on the grass under a pine tree. Hurriedly I pull the coat out of my large purse, as it is much colder up here in the hills than it was in the city. Bundled up, we make our way towards the villa, very slowly so that the tiny and delicate Italian grandmother can keep up with us across the uneven cobblestones. We mingle with the others in the courtyard for a moment before Angelica curiously pokes her nose through a door, looking for her daughter. She finds her, but is quickly shooed away since the show isn’t to be seen yet. As we walk towards the main entrance of the Villa, I learn that where we were, and where the paintings are all hanging, is actually just the old stables of the villa. The main building seems formidable, going up, straight up, before me for several stories. It’s immense, with the proud and almost haughty reserve of a building that has been important in the past. Although no longer endowed with the same importance in the daily activity that has long ceased to bustle around its grounds, it rests on the laurels of its history, and still manages to hold its own.

There is not actually much of the villa to see, as the grounds past the front yard (if I can use such an ordinary phrase for it) are fenced off, and the rooms past the front entrance are currently closed off to the crowds milling in that gigantic stone hall. There are a few pieces of modern art hung on the walls, which might seem like an anachronism there, but somehow their dark gray forms with interesting but somewhat stark lines do not clash with the mood of the building. The show is running late, and there is not that much to do besides try to fit in and socialize with this Italian family that I am part of. When they let us into the rooms of the villa set up for the reception, I look around at the painted ceilings depicting famous peoples and the coat of arms for all the towns in Tuscany. Being in a villa like this is interesting, but it’s not actually set up to be a historical landmark, and besides the ceilings there is not much to see.

We wait an hour through the long and late speeches of introduction and thanks to the benefactors of the show. I meet the 25 year old artist whose room I am now living in, very beautiful in a gauzy lavender dress. Also Angelica’s ex-husband, who I know right off since he looks so much like the 17 year old son who I’ve eaten several dinners with. The family is still very much a unit, although ex-husband and wife don’t say very much to each other, and the wife’s boyfriend is incredibly quiet. But Angelica still asks where her ex-mother-in-law is and chats with her, and smiles to see her son and daughter talking with their father. It’s interesting to see how the relatively new phenomenon of divorce here in Italy is encountering the long tradition of the importance of the family.

When the talking is done they finally serve the champagne and appetizers that I’ve been eyeing – I ate lunch a long time ago and I’m starving. However, not only do I manage to make my way through the thick crowds to grab a drink and small crostini and sit down right next to another table loaded with slices of cheese and Italian sausage, but Angelica and her friends all make it their mission to go and get samples of all the food for everyone else, which they all of course refuse from each other, leaving me and the 17-year-old, Cico they call him (short for Francisco I think), to share the bounty from all these kind women.

My stomach no longer rumbling at me, we make our way back over to the stables for the show. The daughter is working the reception desk as we come in, and although I don’t actually hear it, I can tell Angelica asked her daughter where her paintings were so she could go straight to them and admire them, and the daughter retorted that she should go look through the art and find them. Her bit of impatience is understandable, since Angelica has come in support of the show several times already and knows exactly what they look like. I enjoy myself looking around at all the modern art. Many of Tuscan landscapes hang on the walls, covering a range from realistic to very abstract. The rest of the art covers all sorts of subjects, and a few catch my eye. A couple of very large canvases, dark and dim, with large feminine faces almost covered over and obscured. They remind me of frescoes painted long ago and covered with the grime of the ages. The expressions demand my empathy, and seem so forlorn at being stuck there, immobile on those canvases forever. I also like a series of smaller paintings, all with gray backgrounds and warm brown hens painted with differing degrees of abstraction. I finish looking through the show I go back to ask Angelica, chatting with her ex-husband, which are her daughter’s work. They are two large works which caught my eye as I went around – images of Tuscan homes, but not idealized. They pictures back yards with cheap plastic chairs, snake-like emerald hoses, and old tables covered under an overhang outside. It is easy to tell what they depict, but the lines are abstract and stray from the laws of perspective. They are interesting. Apparently the daughter has been told that her work is the most “American” of all the paintings there. I have no clue what that means.

We don’t stay too long. As we walk back to the car, I am remembering how much I really do like art. Maybe I will sign up for that modern art in Tuscany class. I haven’t drawn or painted in many years, and I’m kind of intimidated by the class, but I know that it is full of first-time artists. And when else will I ever study painting like this, in the heart of the Renaissance and the opportunity to start from the beginning, with no expectations as to my skill level? I like creativity. I should take the class. I’ll sign up tomorrow.

First Day In Photos

It was drizzling my first morning waking up in Firenze. On my way to school, I walked to past Santa Croce and stopped to admire it for a few minutes (I was jet lagged, so I had woken up early and had some minutes to spare.)

Santa Croce

I crossed the Arno and walked along it, to the the building where the Stanford Center is. It is just about directly across the Arno from the Uffizi.

Uffizi

For lunch, some other students and I bought a panino (proscuitto and mozarella, my favorite) and walked across the Ponte Vechio to eat it in the Piazza della Signoria. We watched the tourists from under the shelter of our umbrellas, admired Michelangelo's David and the other statues in the square, and walked around (and of course, we bought a gelato during our walk).

Il Palazzo in the Piazza della Signoria (David at the bottom)

After an hour and half, we returned for the second part of our orientation for the Stanford Program in Florence and heard about all the possible classes. At the end of the day the sun finally came out, and as I walked home, I looked down the Arno at the Ponte Vechio in the evening light.

Ponte Vechio

After a lovely walk, I returned to my room and opened the window to the last of the day's sunshine.

The View from My Room

As you might be able to understand, I'm still adjusting the idea that this city is my home for three months, and that my feet will walk on these coblestone streets everyday on my way to and from school.

Pretty neat.

Almost There!

Once again, writing in transit. I am sitting staring at the valleys that go by me as I wind my way from the Ligurian coast inland, my destination Pisa. I’ve spent a beautiful, short, two days in Genoa with Alii and her family and friends. Wonderful Italian family dinners, with crazy conversation flying by too fast for me to understand half the words, but with enough animation for me to understand and laugh at the jokes with everyone else. And of course, delicious food. Finally real prosciutto again! It’s something I’ve missed all year long between my visits to Italy – prosciutto in America just isn’t the same, and it’s impossible to get the “prosciutto crudo” (uncooked) that I like so much.

I arrived at the airport safe and sound, on time, with all my luggage there and intact – a minor miracle if you know the stories of my past travels. Alii’s mom picked me up from the airport and I had a delicious lunch with her and Alii since everyone else was at work or school. In the afternoon, while Alii studied, I got to sleep finally since I hadn’t slept since waking up the day before at 5:00 am in San Diego. I meant to only sleep for an hour, but Alii took pity on me and woke me up an hour later than I requested, so I got 2 hours of sleep. And, well, I suppose you should call it more like 3 because it took me a full hour and a half to make my body sit up and leave that comfortable bed.

That evening, while Alii studied more for her big exam, Chiara came by to see me, and took me on a Vespa ride to a little café for the best granita in the city, an icy slushy drink. Like her, I ordered the berry granita with whipped cream on top, and I can personally confirm that it was quite delicious. I have to admit, I was a little nervous about the Vespa at first. I’ve never ridden on a motorcycle or Vespa before, but Chiara is a great driver, and it was so much fun! Speeding around the maze of narrow streets with the wind in my hair, and the Italian buildings surrounding us with painted stucco and stone walls. Layer after layer, they rose around us out of the moonlit night, going from modern to centuries old in the blink of an eye. After the granita and some conversation about life, the universe, and everything, Chiara took me on a complete vespa tour of the city by night, seeing the university where she went with Alii, the old churches, the port, and the piazza where young people hang out at night. A great time.

Wednesday I managed to sleep the whole morning, and wish Alii luck as she went to take her exam at eleven. I met her for lunch afterwards and we walked around the city a bit, sightseeing and talking. After a relaxing, easy-going afternoon we had another delicious dinner and then went out to meet her friends for a drink. I had met them last year when I came to visit, and it was fun to get to see them all again. We went to a bar by one of the old churches, which had some clear plastic panels interspersed amidst the stones in the floor so you could see the water flowing in the cistern several stories below. We went down a flight of stairs into a tiny little room, the center of which was all plastic, revealing the water underneath, and the sides lined with cushions to sit on. Very cool. Who knows how old it was. Anyway, we went back upstairs and ordered drinks, and sat and talked until 12:30, at which point we walked down to the harbor to take some goofy photos and mess around – Alii wanted some fun photos to make a gift for the birthday of one of her friends, so she used me as an excuse to take a bunch. We enjoyed ourselves, were generally ridiculous, and adopted all sorts of poses in our crazy wigs, hats and fake ears.

And then this morning I got up, packed, missed my train by about five minutes, and got on the next one that will eventually get me to Florence, only a little bit later than originally intended. A very exciting evening ahead of me!