The gang reunited in the rain!
I
guess I lied when I said London was my last trip of the semester. It was originally supposed to be my last trip,
but I ended up taking just a few more days outside of Bologna during my last
week…but this time not nearly as far away—two hours on a train, and I was
already in Milano.
With
my exams finished, I had one weekend and about a week left in Bologna. I had
originally intended to spend every last waking moment in Bologna before I had
to say goodbye, but I realized that on this last weekend before I left, a good
majority of my roommates and friends would be gone. Marta was going home for a
few days; Viola was studying like a madwoman; quite a few people in our program
were leaving early to return in time for things like graduation, family trips,
etc.; and Lily—who I have talked about so much only because she has been such
an amazing friend these past five months—was off to Brussels with a friend from
school for a few days. I’m sure I could have found ways to amuse myself in
Bologna, but the lovely Valeria Mazzucco invited me to come stay with her in
Milano for the weekend so that we could finally be reunited and I impulsively
jumped at the chance.
I
have talked about Valeria a few times in my blogs, if only because she had such
a profound effect on me last semester back at UMW. Although I had had some
Italian interaction with my professors and the occasional passerby that I would
accost on the street upon hearing them speak Italian in America, my contact
with Italians my own age had been slim to none until this past year. Valeria,
Francesca and Gianluca changed that when they came to Mary Washington and I
became particularly close with Valeria, that sweet, introspective, motherly
girl who would get frustrated when I used too many English idiomatic expressions
when she cooked many Italian dinners for me. By spending so much time together
at college (and then later inviting her to my house for Thanksgiving), I was
able to give Valeria a small piece of the America that I knew, which I think was incredibly important. In a liberal arts
college, it is easy to slip into cynical critiques of society; and rightly
so—the world isn’t perfect and it needs improvement. College has been
instrumental in teaching me this. But there are amazing things to life (and
life in America) as well—things that get overlooked or forgotten as we argue
endlessly on gender equality or increases in tuition costs. And so I made it my
goal to show Valeria the pieces of America that I found to be special and
important, which ended up being instrumental to the both of us.
Visiting
Valeria at her home was a great experience because I really got to feel like a
part of an Italian community. It can be difficult to integrate oneself into the
Italian university system—it is not built like American colleges, in which the
feel of community and school spirit is everywhere. In Italian universities, you
are very much on your own and it is not always easy to make friends. So to be a
part of an Italian community for a weekend—one with families and children and
the elderly—was truly amazing.
I
took an early train and made it to Milano where Valeria and a great deal of
rain were waiting for me. It was so strange seeing her in Italy! I had her
permanently fixed in my mind as an entity that would only exist in
Fredericksburg, as strange as that sounds. I hadn’t been that excited to see
someone in a very long time and what was even more strange was that I wasn’t
really sure what language to speak. Back at Mary Washington, we probably would
have spoken English for the most part, with just a few paragraphs of Italian
here or there. Valeria, after all, had come to America not only to work, but
also to learn English. However, after having spent five months in Italy, my
immediate reaction was to speak to her in Italian, which I think we both found
a little weird. Valeria also complained good-naturedly, saying that she missed
English and wanted to speak it with me, but I insisted. I only had about a week
left in Italy and I planned on speaking as much Italian as was possible
Valeria
took me to the Universita’ Cattolica—the
Catholic university of Milan, which is where Mary Washington’s Italy partner
program is located. It was kind of strange to walk onto their campus
(surprisingly, this university actually had a physical, cohesive campus),
knowing that this was where I could have potentially studied for the semester. UMW’s
Italian department certainly tried its hardest in convincing me go there but I
was insistent on going somewhere different and, to be perfectly honest, I’m
really glad I did.
The
University was really beautiful though, even in the rain. It had a lot of
history to it and Valeria, being the bookworm that she is, managed to charm her
way with the librarians into a locked room filled with books that dated back to
the 14th and 15th centuries. I was
freaking out. Old books are kind of passion of mine and these were ancient.
It’s so funny how Italians treat history—somewhat haphazardly, as if it were
just another newspaper thrown on your front porch. Both Valeria and the
librarian encouraged me to take down any and all ancient texts that I wanted,
with free rein to flip through their molding, crumbling pages with my oiled
fingers which could do who knows how much damage to a medieval text. At first I
was so nervous that I kept my hands clasped behind my back, simply staring up
at all of the bookshelves filled with leather-bound spines in a child-like
amazement. That is, until Valeria made fun of me. And so I pulled down a few of
the volumes and was careful not to rip any pages or breath too heavily, for
fear of damaging an irreplaceable edition of the Decameron.
Inner courtyards of the university
Afterwards,
Valeria took me on the metro to the outskirts of Milano, where her family
lives. I was welcomed there like long-lost family and it was wonderful. Valeria’s fiancé, Filippo,
was also there and it was nice to see another friendly face. I had met Filippo
when he had come to visit Valeria at UMW in the fall and the two of them
together are quite possibly the most adorable couple I have ever had the
pleasure of creeping on. We all ate lunch together and I had a great time;
Valeria’s family was so eager to try to speak English with me that, much to
their daughter’s chagrin, they kept throwing out random English words or
turning to Valeria and saying, “Explain this to Danielle…” apparently
forgetting that I spoke Italian. I found this hilarious, though. Over these
past few months I have found myself, admittedly, quite frustrated with Italians
who attempt to speak English with me on the street, if only because I know that
my level of Italian surpasses their ability to communicate in English. However,
being around Valeria’s family and their uncontrollable excitement made me
realize that a lot of Italians insist on trying to speak English with you
mainly because they’re trying to be polite and reach out to you in your madrelingua—mother-tongue.
After
spending a few hours with Valeria’s wonderful family, we bundled up and went to
Bergamo, a little town just outside of Milano. This was ironic, seeing as Lily,
Sami, Krystal and I had all gotten stuck in Bergamo that fateful night of our
return from Greece, only to be saved by Paola. And who did we meet in Bergamo
that afternoon after lunch? Paola! I
love this girl and I am so incredibly excited for her to be at Mary Washington
next year as the Italian language coordinator (she’ll be taking over Valeria’s
job). Paola is one of the sweetest human beings I’ve ever met. It was a lot of
fun, taking the funivia up the
mountain to the medieval portion of Bergamo, which looked like a small Tuscan
village (even in the rain), and seeing a much more charming version of the city
than I had originally pictured, after having spent hours on delayed flights
from Greece with obnoxious, drunk Italians on our plane.
Going up the mountain!
Valeria, me and Paola :)
Such a beautiful view
Valeria and Filippo...essentially, the cutest couple ever and my substitute parents
After
our exploration of Bergamo, I was chauffeured over to a community dinner up in
the mountains, outside of the actual city of Bergamo. There was a sort of
fundraiser event in which different organizations in this countryside community
each had a booth and they made food for people in the surrounding area to come
and buy. All the money went towards their volunteer organization. Valeria,
Paola and Filippo are all a part of a church-based organization that goes to
Belarus to work with children in orphanages, so their group young Italian
do-gooders were whipping up pizza’s in a wood-fire oven. It was surprisingly freezing up there in the mountains, which
was quite a shock when compared to the sunny weather that I had left in
Bologna. But it was really neat, being surrounded by such kind, curious people.
Valeria had in fact only just returned from the States a few weeks before, so a
lot of her friends still hadn’t seen her. To them, she was very much the
returning hero, back from her grand adventure. Teenagers and young adults alike
gathered around her with wide-eyes as she described her American university
experience and it took a lot of self-control not to giggle as Valeria explained
various differences between the two cultures, if only because I was usually the one giving out such
explanations to my friends. It was so
interesting (and somewhat strange) to hear Valeria describe a world that I was
so familiar with to people who had no comprehension of it whatsoever.
Valeria’s
friends were all very welcoming and were often intrigued by me—Valeria’s little
pet American that she had brought back like a souvenir or proof of her
adventures. I spent the night surrounded by the people from those surrounding
mountains as they ate traditional pasta and too much pizza. Little children
giggled and screeched as they played soccer in the empty tennis courts. Large,
white tents filled the spaces around these games, lined inside with long picnic
tables at which old men leaned forward, earnestly gossiping and swapping
stories as their wives fussed over their plates. In the corner was a man
calling out numbers…some sort of strange bingo or raffle, I think. And Valeria,
Filippo, and Paola’s group of friends made beautiful balloon animals to give
out to children as they all danced to Russian club music that I had never heard
of before. By the end of the night, my fingers were numb and even my wool scarf
couldn’t keep me warm, but the mountains and the lack of city glare meant that
I could see all of the stars above me and my breath puffing out in the night
air as Filippo and Valeria led the way back to the car.
The
next morning, Filippo took us to his village’s church, which was small and filled
to the brim with elderly people and sunshine pouring in from the windows. I
felt extremely Italian then; and more specifically, I really felt that Milanese Catholicism. Milano and the
area around it is notoriously Catholic and conservative, which I definitely got
from the fact that I had so far been to two church-related events and that
there were multiple chapels in Bergamo’s airport. After church, I was taken to
the florist shop owned by Filippo’s parents, who were some of the kindest
people I had ever met, after Valeria’s family. They gave me this magical rose,
which I am calling magical because it reminds me a little bit of Beauty and the
Beast. Because it’s been treated chemically, as long as I don’t water it, the
flower should remain the same (appearing to be in full bloom) for FIVE YEARS.
Flower, magic, my friends. In case this small fact doesn’t convince you, let me
assure you that Italian florists are artists.
The way they put together the simplest of bouquets is done with such flourish
that it makes your little pot of daisies from Wal-Mart look like…well, a pot of
daisies from Wal-Mart.
We
said goodbye to Filippo, who had to stay home to work on his thesis, and
Valeria and I took the train into Milano, talking about her future and jobs and
other scary, grown-up things. Once we got into the city, we met Francesca, the
other Italian girl who had been at Mary Washington, and we saw a historical
castle and some beautiful gardens. We later ate out under another tent; this time the event was run by the Associazione Nazionale Alpini—a
group of elderly men who used to fight in the troops of the Alpini, an “elite mountain warfare
military corps of the Italian Army” (thanks Wikipedia). Still fiercely proud of
their service, these old men tend to organize reunions throughout Northern
Italy in the spring to celebrate, raise money, and sing old war songs. It’s not
every day that you get to eat traditional northern Italian food on a
side-street of Milano as men who probably fought in World War II bang their
fists against wooden tables, starting up chants and winking flirtatiously at you
as they clear off your plates. This was where we met Alessandra, who had
stepped in as Italian language instructor and Italian professor my sophomore
year at UMW, when the head of the department was on sabbatical. Alessandra was
a wonderful professor and I had promised her that if I studied abroad in Italy,
I would be sure to visit her in Milan. It seems crazy now, that it actually
worked out! Now finally reunited with my three Italians, we walked around
Milano in the sunshine, getting some delicious gelato and climbing to the top
of the Duomo, which was spectacular.
Me, Valeria and Francesca!
Me and Alessandra, reunited
After
about an hour at the top of the Duomo, looking out over Milano and the
surrounding mountains, Valeria took me back to the train station and saw me off
to Bologna. It was really odd, saying goodbye. When I had said goodbye to
Valeria at the end of the fall semester at UMW, I had sobbed, completely
convinced that I would never see her again even though I knew there would be
every chance that we would both be in Italy at the same time in just a few
short months. But as the train pulled away from the station and I watched
Valeria walk back down the platform, I was strangely okay with saying goodbye.
It was as if I knew somehow that I would see her again, regardless of the immeasurable
distance between Italy and America. The world seems so much smaller, now. Living
abroad used to seem like such a far-off dream but now it seems more and more
attainable…so much so that these partings at train stations have become less of
addio’s (“farewells”) and more of ci vediamo’s (“see you laters”).
Inside the Duomo
Whatta view!
Life talks up at the top of the Duomo
Fancy Milano
Love this girl
enjoy your life .....
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