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.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
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, b
ut 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.
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, b
ut 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.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
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.
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.
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