tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12188476309260839622024-03-13T04:14:16.721-07:00Postcards from Bolognaan american girl's exploration of the city of la dotta, la grassa, e la rossaAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-12623476179985466302013-07-03T23:32:00.000-07:002013-07-04T09:35:56.382-07:00La Strada<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
a strange feeling, leaving a place behind. First, you have to pick and choose:
what stays and what goes. Fitting most of my belongings into my two suitcases
and one backpack was less of a challenge of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">space</i>
and more of a challenge of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">priorities</i>.
The brilliant orange and cerulean blue ceramics from Sicily? In the suitcase. My
cozy, floral duvet, the white lights strung alongside my bed, and a half bottle
of olive oil? Left to my roommates. Marta and Viola, in fact, were pretty lucky
in regards to my departure; they lost a roommate and a friend, but each got an
entire set of sheets, blankets and pillows. Lucky ducks. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
other odd thing about leaving a place: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">saying
goodbye</i>. This, at least, is something I’m familiar with. It’s like it’s
been programmed into my DNA—every three years, I get that itchy feeling, ready
for the next move, the next school, the next home. However, if there’s one
thing I’ve learned, it’s this: the goodbye is important. Your first memories of
a place will fade with time and they’ll become so unfamiliar that they won’t
even feel like your memories after a while, but you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will</i> remember the goodbye, because that is the end. The closure. The
metaphorical turning of your back on one part of your life and moving towards
another. How do you end something the right way? You have to do it justice. You
have to make sure that these past five months, spent with beautiful people in
far-off places, get a proper send-off. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Which
is why, I suppose, it was so hard to write this final blog post. I have officially
been home for over a month and in the time that I have been here, in between
wisdom teeth surgeries, working, visiting family and catching up with old
friends, I have had the time to catch up on a few of these blog posts. I’ve
written about London and about Milan, but those were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">easy</i>. As long as I didn’t write about my final week, the illusion
remained as if I had never left. I could still cling to the fact that there was
still <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one</i> more blog post to write.
One more story to tell. But the universe has a way of kicking you sometimes; so
when my official transcript came in with all of my final grades, I knew it was
time. I have always written too much and this time is no different, if only
because I too want to have some record of what I did during my last days. So
here it is, folks: one more story about Bologna and all of the adventures I had
while I was there. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
last week in Bologna was beautiful. There is no other word to describe it. Those
last few days were filled, miraculously, with sunshine. It was as if Bologna
was apologizing for the months and months of fog, rain, snow, and grey skies
with this small peace offering. At the beginning of the week, Lily and I had
sat down while watching one of our shamefully beloved episodes of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Merlin</i> and we made our “Bologna Bucket
List”: a two-sided sheet of notebook paper outlined with all of the things that
we wanted to do before the end of the week and before we left Bologna. It was
not surprising to either of us when most of this list ended up being composed
mainly of restaurants and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">osteria</i>’s
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gelateria</i>’s, but there were a
good number of activities on there as well. There was suddenly so much that I
needed to do, with only just about six days to do them; never before was I so
acutely aware of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">time</i>. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Early
on Tuesday morning, Lily and I laced up our sneakers and made a nearly two-hour
hike up to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Santuario della Madonna di San
Luca</i>, a church on a hill that looks down on the plain that Bologna stretches
out on. The “hike” up there is really just one, long continuous <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">portico</i> built by the Catholic Church during
the Renaissance to serve as a sort of pilgrimage outside of the city (thank
you, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Storia Urbana</i>). In May, there is
a grand procession that leads the way up to the top, adorned statues of Mary
and chanting rosaries and singing included. In fact, as we hiked, we saw a few
elderly ladies shuffling up the thousands upon thousands of stairs, clutching
wooden rosaries and muttering <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Our Father</i>’s
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hail Mary</i>’s under strained
breathing. Lily and I, heathens that we are, passed these women with our bare
shoulders and leggings, appreciating the climb more for the workout and the
view than the religious experience. </div>
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The Climb (Miley Cyrus, eat your heart out)</div>
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Bologna from above</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
it was a religious experience, of sorts. San Luca is supposedly where UNIBO
students go before an exam to pray for good grades; I guess maybe I should have
done this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">before</i> my exams, but it was
fun regardless, knowing that many other students had walked these same steps,
begging for the chance to pass their classes. The view of the plain from the
top of San Luca was spectacular and the weather could not have been any more
perfect. After taking a quick peak inside the sanctuary (white marble with a
lot of gold—quietly peaceful, but with a very strict and imposing-looking
priest), we laid out on some benches, enjoying the sunshine, while talking
about the trips we had taken throughout the semester. I remember saying that
Poland seemed so long ago and we both agreed that booking that flight to
Krakow, random as it may have seemed, was one of the best decisions of the
semester. We laughed about Greece and lamented the lack of good <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gyro</i>’s back at home. It was just so
devastatingly bittersweet, seeing the last week unfold ahead of us, knowing
that things would never be the same after Friday.</div>
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Finally at San Luca!</div>
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So green :)</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
climbed back down to our city and ate for the last time at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pasta Fresca</i>—a place where four old women stand behind the counter
of a standing-room-only shop, bustling around as they make fresh pasta to be
eaten right away from little boxes. In the winter, we had sat on the curb
outside the shop, numb fingers clumsily clutching our plastic forks as we
greedily inhaled overflowing helpings of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tortellini
al ragu’</i>. Now that spring had arrived, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pasta
Fresca</i> had set out multiple picnic tables on the street where we sat family-style
with some Italian guys who gawked at us as we spoke English, but I enjoyed it.
Pretty soon, we realized, it was going to be weird for us too, hearing English
everywhere.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
filled the rest of our week with a lot of last meals at various places. We had
breakfast at Max’s café religiously every morning and got our usual orders
(mine is a cappuccino with a pastry called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">treccina
alla mela</i>—literally, “apple braid”) with a side of snarky from Max, as his
two sons would look on and roll their eyes. We went to BomboCrep multiple times
(usually after 2 a.m., with club music pounding from their speakers and the
street filled with students) and had our traditional <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">crepe con nutella e fragole</i> (crepe with nutella and strawberries). We
walked through the market alleys down by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Via
delle Vecchie Pescherie</i>, where vendors yelled out, advertising fresh fish
and tomatoes being brought in daily from Sicily. I tried to avoid exploring <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">too</i> much—I was afraid that I would
wander down some undiscovered street to find something miraculous (the best
gelato in the world, a cute old man giving out flowers to young girls, an
underground jazz club) that I would regret not having found earlier. Instead I
stuck to familiar streets, continuously thinking, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this is the last time I’ll see that newsstand. This is the last time
I’ll walk by that florist shop and that homeless man who always smiles at me</i>.
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Casual protest on Labor Day</div>
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Last Tamburini dinner! Food pictures obviously need to be included in the last post</div>
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Late-night crepes</div>
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Late-night crepes</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
undiscovered treasure that I do not regret going to: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Osteria del Sole</i>. I was, admittedly, pretty annoyed at myself for
not having found it earlier, but it was still really neat. On Skyla’s last
night with us (she was leaving early to go to Amsterdam), we all went down this
dark, dingy alleyway in the center of town, grocery bags in tow. This <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">osteria</i> was unique in that it still
operated as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">osteria</i>’s operated in the
medieval ages: they provided the wine and the tables, but you brought your own
food. Our table was a smorgasbord of prosciutto, salami, mozzarella, bread, and
egg rolls (we had stopped by the Chinese restaurant just in case, afraid that
there wouldn’t be enough food). The whole place was packed, filling it with
extra body heat and loud, chaotic voices. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">loved</i>
it. </div>
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Lily and Skyla</div>
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Krystal and I</div>
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Osteria del Sole! Busy</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Afterwards,
we hopped around Bologna’s nightlife scene for a little bit, which was also
bittersweet. I will miss Italy’s open-container law, if only because it allows
every street corner to spontaneously turn into a party, a reunion with friends.
We laughed and yelled loudly on the streets, no different from anyone around
us, and a few of the girls began chanting that all-too-familiar line of, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">andiamo a ballare in Puglia, Puglia, Puglia</i>,
which <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i> earn us a few good stares. The
sad moments came hand-in-hand with these beautiful ones, if only because I knew
then that I would truly miss living in a city where every weekend night the
streets came alive with all the youth of the city who go out and celebrate
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The gang!</div>
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Viola and Sami shenanigans</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometime
on Wednesday I went into Zamboni elementary school to be with my third-grade
class one last time. The moment I walked in the door, they all looked up from
their work with huge smiles and, as per usual, yelled: “Daniela!” Jacopo was
standing by me when I entered and he beamed at me so brightly that I,
completely wrecked from the emotional rollercoaster I had been on the entire
week, threw my arms open and hugged him. Suddenly, I had thirteen little
Italians around me in one, giant group hug and it was all I could do to stop
myself from crying. I had really fallen for those little munchkins, despite the
fact that I had been placed with the “trouble” class. I gave them Dr. Seuss
books, which they had never seen before, and seashells for Maestra Giovanna. We
spent the class reading out loud and learning the song “What a Wonderful
World.” It was so devastating when Samuel asked me if I would be there next
week and I had to tell them that on Friday I would be leaving for
America—forever. Their faces all just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fell</i>
and even Maestra Giovanna’s tough exterior melted for a moment, because she
quickly assured the children that I would try to visit in the next two years
that they were here at this elementary school, so maybe they would see me again
soon. I quickly promised that I would try my hardest, and there was a unanimous
sigh of relief. As we lined up for the end of the day for the last time, little
Amanda came up and took my left hand, while Greta and Francesca fought for my
right. Amanda assured me that if I were to come to visit, I could certainly
stay at her house, because they had a couch that would probably fit me, even
though I was tall. Although, she looked thoughtful, she could probably convince
her sister to stay at a friend’s house and then I could sleep in her sister’s
bed. Her parents really wouldn’t mind. I watched as they all ran out the door
to their parents, but before Greta could leave, I knelt down and took her hand.
She was the quietest of them all—the responsible one, the smart one, the one
that finished all her work early and read books in her spare time. I looked her
in the eyes and told her, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Greta, you are
very good at English and I want you to keep practicing it, okay? Because I
think you could be very, very good at it someday.</i> And I think I might have
changed my opinions on teaching in that moment—that moment when Greta’s entire
face lit up and she nodded so enthusiastically that I wanted to hug her again,
before her mother came to take her hand and lead her away. Maestra Giovanna
took me out for gelato at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gelatauro</i>
afterwards, which seemed to be an appropriate, full-circle way to end my
teaching job there; I had, after all, come to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gelatauro</i> at the end of my first day, only to be bought a gelato by
Amanda’s mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
spent a few afternoons by myself, just walking. I miss that the most when stuck
in traffic on my way to the beach here in Virginia. I miss just being able to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">walk</i> to places. The weather continued to
be beautiful that week and I breezed down back alleyways and through <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">portici</i> in the sunshine, not ashamed of
being a tourist as I snapped pictures with my big camera. One of my favorite
memories of my last week was a quiet, few hours I spent in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza Santo Stefano</i>, where the first Christian church of Bologna
still stands. It was the first church I ever walked into upon arriving in
Bologna and it was also the last. I love that church and the peaceful piazza
that surrounds it, livened only by a few café’s and the occasional groups of
students who sit out on the pavement, drawing or talking in quieter voices than
the ones found in rowdy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza Verdi</i>.
I like the simple churches the best, if only because they seem to encourage
more private reflection than the grand ones. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
week, in the late afternoons, the mornings, and late at night, I would come home
to talk to Marta and Viola…and even Letizia, if she was there. These
conversations were the most precious to me, out of all the conversations that I
had that week. It’s odd how you are expected to thrive in a situation, while
always aware that you will have to leave it. You bond with these people—you
give them parts of your life, parts of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i>.
You live with them for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">five. months</i>. Five
months of your life are spent every day with Marta, the somewhat cynical yet so
idealistically passionate Italian from Torino, whose family in Puglia makes the
best olive oil I’ve ever tasted—poured from cleaned-out 2-litre Coke bottles.
Marta, who wore silly dresses with cartoons on them instead of “adult clothes,”
making us paper hats and cakes while yelling at us for not eating healthily.
The girl who came to me after having known me for only two weeks, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bawling</i>, because that day she had finished
her internship with the mentally disabled who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">needed</i> her. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do you
understand? </i>She asked me between sobs. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do
you know how much it hurts to leave people, even when you know that you have
to?</i> My Italian then had been too shaky to give her the words of comfort I
could have offered, so I just hugged her because that, at least, is something
universal and apparently affected her so much that this, she told me later, was
the moment she knew I would be different than the other Americans who came to
live in that apartment. I wouldn’t just be a roommate—I would be a friend. How
ironic that her words now are so much more than just a bonding experience with
my new Italian roommate.</div>
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Marta and I in January, on her birthday</div>
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Last night together</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Five
months of your life spent<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>living with
Viola, from a town in the center of Albania. That beautiful and sometimes
insecure girl who would laugh so loudly and suddenly that it was like an
explosion, tantamount to a flock of birds bursting from the trees with a suddenness
that makes you jump. I loved her for her enthusiasm for American sitcoms, Macklemore’s
“Thrift Shop,” and the fact that she could eat a dinner of pasta, bread,
cheese, and French fries every night and not gain <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i> weight. It’s strange being back in my room at home now—it’s so
empty. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like that after any of my other college
roommates. I can no longer call to her from across the room, continuing those
late-night conversations that would sometimes stretch until four in the morning
where I would say, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Okay, Viola, it’s
late. We </i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">have</b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> to go to sleep now</i>. Viola would pause
before answering: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes, yes, sleep. But </i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">really</b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, Daniela, what do you think about this…”</i> The way she talked about
her home and her family still amazes me; I will admit that when I first found
out that I didn’t have an Italian roommate, I was disappointed. How was I
supposed to get the Italian cultural experience if I was living with someone
who was also a stranger to Italy? But I can never repay Viola for what she gave
me. She made me appreciate everything I have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so much</i>, while simultaneously amazing me with her courage and the fierce
love she has for her friends. Just by telling me about her family and her life
at home, she gave me an experience that I could never have had with an Italian
roommate. I spent so many evenings cooking with her, watching tv with her,
being scared out of my mind by her when she followed me down to the laundry
room (THE MORGUE) and pretended to be a ghost, making me drop all of my clean
laundry on the ground as I screamed bloody murder. </div>
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Viola and I in January at Marta's birthday party</div>
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Dinner dates get weird</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
scares me to think that these people—so important to you, so quickly—might
never be in my life again. This fear made those goodbye’s the hardest. Of
course I would see my American friends again; after all, we are almost all
currently on the same continent. But in August, Viola will be going back to
Albania until school starts in Bologna again. Marta will be graduating in the
fall. My little home in Forni, Apartment 17, will slowly but surely move apart
and the idea that everything is changing is possibly the most devastating of
them all. I was incredibly lucky with my housing arrangement. This semester
with Marta and Viola (and Letizia, if she wasn’t busy singing loudly in French
in the bathroom) was an incredible blessing—and I don’t use that word too
often. </div>
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Marta's birthday party in January</div>
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Introducing the roommates to PhotoBooth</div>
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Last night together</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
with all these jumbled-up emotions, you can imagine that on my last day in
Bologna, I was an absolute mess. I woke up that morning for my last breakfast
with Max, during which Lily and I managed to get a picture with him <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">behind the bar</i>, which is quite an
accomplishment. Apparently so moved by our impending goodbyes, Max offered us
sparkling wine on the house. I’m not sure if it was judgment I saw in Rebecca’s
eyes as she walked by on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Via San Vitale</i>,
seeing us drinking wine at 10:30 in the morning, but I wasn’t too concerned. Max
was toasting to me to anyone who would listen—inside his café or out—and he was
the same as he ever was, making inappropriate jokes right until the very end. </div>
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Last cappuccino at Max's</div>
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A photo to go down in history</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lily
and I visited ECCO’s office one last time, saying goodbye to Ivan. I insisted
on giving him a hug and, after informing him that he was one of the best
professors I had had throughout not only this semester, but also my entire
college experience, we both ended the goodbye with watery eyes and a whispered
admission from Ivan, telling me that this year has been his favorite as of yet.
Lily and I followed this with lunch at a bakery called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Il Fornaio</i>, which was an inconspicuous little place that we had
found the first week. Afterwards, we climbed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Torre Asinelli</i>, the taller of the two towers, to the very top. The
views of our city (and I can call it that now, right?) were beautiful. </div>
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Lily's unsure about the climb</div>
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Beautiful Bologna!</div>
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Long way down</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lily
and I split up in the late afternoon, during which I found a little nook to sit
on in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza Maggiore</i>, the center of
everything, and just people-watch. I don’t know how long I sat there, exactly,
but it involved a few pictures, the occasional fighting back of tears, and a
lot of soaking in the sun. Bologna really is a city to be enjoyed in the
sunlight, with all of the rich hues of color in its walls. I liked having these
moments to myself, to say goodbye to the city where most of its life
thrived—from the covered façade of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">San
Petronio</i> to the crowded fountain of Neptune, where recent graduates
drunkenly teetered on the edge before tumbling back into its waters. </div>
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Flirty street musicians blowing kisses</div>
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Piazza Maggiore</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
night we all went out one last time to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Osteria
dell’Orsa</i> and got “Regno delle due Sicilie” at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gelatauro</i> afterwards (saying goodbye to gelato was so incredibly
difficult). We even stopped by Café Max one last time, where Krystal also got
to get that infamous picture behind the bar. Afterwards, I went back to my
apartment where Marta, Viola and Letizia surprised me with gifts and I gave
them gifts of my own—the most authentically American thing I could think of. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next morning, Marta and Viola woke up and walked me down to the front of Forni,
where our bus was waiting for us. It was 6 a.m. and my eyes were burning, since
Viola and I had stayed up till about 3 or 4 a.m. the night before, watching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Merlin</i> and talking while we still could.
It all seemed so surreal that when it finally came time to say goodbye, I
wasn’t even really sure that it was happening until I automatically just
started crying. Not wanting to be a blubbering mess on the bus, I managed to
hold it together, but it was still devastating as the bus pulled away and I
could just make out Marta and Viola—still in their pajamas—walking back into
Forni before we turned a corner and they were gone. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
had a short flight from Bologna to Frankfurt. While waiting in Bologna, Lily
and I made the very smart decision of pooling our money and splitting a wedge
of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">parmiggiano</i>, which I slipped into
my backpack along with a roll of salami (ILLEGAL SUBSTANCES, but not really). I
wasn’t emotional until I was about to get on my plane from Frankfurt to Dulles;
I was the only one of our group on this flight, seeing as everyone else was
flying to Newark. Lily walked me to my gate and in case you haven’t noticed in
these blog posts, she has been a constant presence in pretty much all of my
adventures. Although I loved all of the people on our program, I had a lot of
fun with Lily and I do not think (as mushy as this sounds) that this semester
would have been the same without her. We were still hugging as I handed in my
boarding pass and it was here, when I was finally separated from everyone else,
that it hit me that I was leaving. I’m sure everyone around me on the plane was
pretty concerned as I sobbed my way through the take-off. There was a lot of
crying in this last week, it seems. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
finally arriving on American soil, I was in a weird sort of daze. It was
incredibly humid and so <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">weird</i>,
hearing all the English around me. Everyone was on their Smartphone’s. No one
was rudely staring at me. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I blended in</i>.
And to be honest, I didn’t really like it. I didn’t have time to focus on my
first symptoms of reverse culture shock, however, because I had to concentrate on
getting through customs with my salami and cheese. Luckily those massive German
Shepherds are looking for more dangerous things than a desperate American
girl’s need for authentic Italian food, so good news everyone! I am an
international smuggler of Italian delicacies. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
was greeted at the airport by an embarrassing Dad, who jumped up and down with
his neon yellow “Welcome Home” sign while simultaneously trying to take a
picture with his iPhone. Before starting the four-hour drive down to Virginia
Beach where my Mom and two dogs waited for me, we stopped for some burgers and
fries and thus began reinitiating me into American culture. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ever
since May 31, when I made my final goodbyes to Bologna, to Italy, and to every
other country I visited while abroad, I’ve been in a weird sort of limbo,
neither here nor there. I try not to talk about it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">too</i> much, because I know my friends will soon tire of me starting
sentences with, “When I was in Italy…” But it’s hard. Those five months were
truly amazing, and not necessarily in ways that I had expected them to be. Since
high school, I had dreamed of studying abroad in Italy. I knew, without a
doubt, that it was something that I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i>
to do in college and I am so glad I did. But it was much different than I had
originally thought it would be. Without meaning to sound too snobby, I have to
admit that I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> traveled a great
deal throughout Europe and Italy—a side effect of having lived there for 5
years of my life already. As such, spending five months there was not the same
kind of culture shock to me as it is often to other American students who study
abroad. Having to bag your own groceries? Yeah, I knew about that one. Trains
that are sometimes an hour late? Not shocking at all. A slightly sexist lens on
society? Unfortunate, but not surprising. Everything closed on Sunday’s?
Definitely a challenge when you have no food, but easily solved with a quick
phone call for pizza delivery from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Spacca
Napoli</i>. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
didn’t come away from this semester suddenly realizing that there was a great
big world out there—I knew that already. I came away from this semester knowing
that I needed to explore that great big world. How clichéd does that sound? But
it’s the truth. I have watched so many of my college friends talk about their
major or their work or their hobbies with a kind of fiery passion that lights
up their eyes and keeps them talking for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hours</i>.
To be honest, I have never had that. Even though I love being an English and
Italian major, neither of those courses of study fills me in the way that I
have seen other people. It always worried me because I thought that there <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">must</i> be something wrong with me; there
had to be a reason why I was mildly apathetic to everything I turned my hand
to. That is, until now. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve
realized that it’s not just one thing I love, but many. I love the
exploration—that thrill of the discovery, of finding something new and alien to
you and throwing yourself at it with every intention of understanding it as
completely as you can as an outsider. I love, love, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">love</i> to travel. It’s like an itching under my skin, this urge to
pack a suitcase and just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">go</i>. Do you
realize how much is out there? Do you realize that I was in just one small part
of the world and I barely even explored <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>?
There are entire <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">continents</i> I haven’t
been to. Cultures I have never been exposed to, languages I have never heard. I
met so many beautiful, flawed and interesting people this semester and I want
to meet <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">more</i>. Each person had such
incredibly colorful stories and each time Pappou in Rhodes leaned forward to
tell us another story from the war, or Krystal told us about her family in the
Dominican Republic, or Max gave us life advice and (most importantly) love
advice, I asked for more, more, more, like an addict begging for their next fix.
I am, after all, an English major, and those stories fascinate me sometimes
even more than the over-rated Roman monuments.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
idea of traveling to these places, meeting these people, and learning from the
experiences—good and bad—that come with them consumes me now. I think about it
day and night; I am constantly on the internet, in magazines, watching tv and
talking to people to research ways of returning and getting out of my comfort
zone once more. Further education, jobs, whatever it is—I want it. It is
ironic, I think, that I used the word “exploration” in the byline description
of this blog. It was just such a logical word to use at the time of its
creation, because isn’t that the ideal study abroad experience? Something to
send postcards home about, claiming to have “explored” this small hillside
village or that over-populated capital city in Eastern Europe? But it is this
idea of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">exploring</i> that has hooked
itself into my chest, refusing to let go, and I am so grateful. I am so
grateful and happy that I have finally found something that gives me the
confidence to walk up to strangers and strike up conversations with them in a
language that is not my own. That feeling of reaching across boundaries and
making a connection is something that I never want to lose—something that I
need more of. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Bologna
was different than I expected it to be, but it changed me and I love it for
that. In this blog, I attempted to capture just one small piece of my experience,
something that is borderline impossible. You cannot fully understand the
feeling of joy when you successfully have your first political discussion in a
foreign language with a group of Italians, Albanians and Ethiopians in your
kitchen, which is filled with the smell of cake and wine and the sound of
raised, passionate voices. I cannot explain fully how much that afternoon in
the golden alcoves of Ravenna’s church affected me, and how I cried at the
beauty of the blues and greens in the tiles above me as I looked at them from
the cold, marble floor of the basilica. I can’t give you that feeling of
freedom that I had while skipping down the streets of Barcelona or the joy in
finding kindred spirits over pints of Irish beer after one of the most
harrowing exams of my life. I can’t explain how giddy I felt when I realized
that I was no longer fazed by the constant protests (and occasional riots) that
littered Bologna’s streets. I cannot give you the cathartic experience of
Auschwitz or the joy of sitting on the walls of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ponte Vecchio</i> as the sun sets over the river and lights the entire
city of Florence in gold. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
I tried. I tried to give you what pieces that I could so as to not only share
it with friends and family and strangers alike, but also so that years from now
I’ll have something to look back on to remember those five months I spent
abroad. I will remember the five months that challenged me, that changed me,
that made me realize what I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">want</i>. And
that, I think, is something worth writing about and worth remembering, if only
to keep some of my postcards from Bologna.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Bologna, ti voglio tanto tanto bene, con tutto il mio cuore.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Ci vediamo, ragazzi!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Danielle</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'IM Fell English'; font-size: 17px; line-height: 25px;">© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-7237429597666550242013-06-17T17:17:00.001-07:002013-06-17T17:24:31.277-07:00One more Hello and One more Goodbye<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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The gang reunited in the rain!</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
guess I lied when I said London was my last trip of the semester. It was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">originally</i> 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. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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 style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</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.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Valeria
took me to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Universita’ Cattolica</i>—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. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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 style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I was
freaking out</i>. 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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Decameron</i>.</div>
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Inner courtyards of the university</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wonderful</i>. 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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">madrelingua</i>—mother-tongue. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paola!</i> 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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">funivia</i> 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. </div>
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Going up the mountain!</div>
<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tQ5tgtRTFPo/Ub-j8XsacAI/AAAAAAAAAtw/Rwr5VutBhik/s1600/IMG_9482.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tQ5tgtRTFPo/Ub-j8XsacAI/AAAAAAAAAtw/Rwr5VutBhik/s320/IMG_9482.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Valeria, me and Paola :)</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LrQ1NBtkR3k/Ub-j9CKQ1vI/AAAAAAAAAuA/w6iQR3jvZ08/s1600/IMG_9509.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LrQ1NBtkR3k/Ub-j9CKQ1vI/AAAAAAAAAuA/w6iQR3jvZ08/s320/IMG_9509.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Such a beautiful view</div>
<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yGomw8S7tLg/Ub-j6UYx_rI/AAAAAAAAAto/UlakbMbXFqQ/s1600/IMG_9483.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yGomw8S7tLg/Ub-j6UYx_rI/AAAAAAAAAto/UlakbMbXFqQ/s320/IMG_9483.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Valeria and Filippo...essentially, the cutest couple ever and my substitute parents</div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">freezing</i> 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 style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> was usually the one giving out such
explanations to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> 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. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Milanese</i> 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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">artists</i>.
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. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">another</i> tent; this time the event was run by the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Associazione Nazionale Alpini</span></i><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">—a
group of elderly men who used to fight in the troops of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alpini</i>, 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. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TozkIsiR2_Q/Ub-k5bilSWI/AAAAAAAAAuM/oTNUEclfO14/s1600/IMG_9564_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TozkIsiR2_Q/Ub-k5bilSWI/AAAAAAAAAuM/oTNUEclfO14/s320/IMG_9564_2.JPG" width="311" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Me, Valeria and Francesca!</div>
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-viKKKWccFPU/Ub-k5oAqMwI/AAAAAAAAAuQ/ewkzLa0d_KQ/s1600/IMG_9576.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-viKKKWccFPU/Ub-k5oAqMwI/AAAAAAAAAuQ/ewkzLa0d_KQ/s320/IMG_9576.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Me and Alessandra, reunited</div>
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yqhlFsECeGI/Ub-k53T-g4I/AAAAAAAAAuU/nM_nVOTZJ8g/s1600/IMG_9606.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yqhlFsECeGI/Ub-k53T-g4I/AAAAAAAAAuU/nM_nVOTZJ8g/s320/IMG_9606.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>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
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">addio</i>’s (“farewells”) and more of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ci vediamo</i>’s (“see you laters”).</span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kveSW47b_fk/Ub-lTP-199I/AAAAAAAAAus/S9AJu9u-OxQ/s1600/IMG_9628.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kveSW47b_fk/Ub-lTP-199I/AAAAAAAAAus/S9AJu9u-OxQ/s320/IMG_9628.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Inside the Duomo</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-27W67vRlXTI/Ub-lsEvziwI/AAAAAAAAAvc/-xhrOENGjKc/s1600/IMG_9596.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-27W67vRlXTI/Ub-lsEvziwI/AAAAAAAAAvc/-xhrOENGjKc/s320/IMG_9596.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Whatta view!</div>
<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YY9P3lZTjSI/Ub-lrdHHkqI/AAAAAAAAAvU/lz2jwk0LNxc/s1600/IMG_9614.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YY9P3lZTjSI/Ub-lrdHHkqI/AAAAAAAAAvU/lz2jwk0LNxc/s320/IMG_9614.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Life talks up at the top of the Duomo</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_gz1o1jfM3k/Ub-lvINkZ6I/AAAAAAAAAvk/i0UV395Zs5w/s1600/IMG_9629.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_gz1o1jfM3k/Ub-lvINkZ6I/AAAAAAAAAvk/i0UV395Zs5w/s320/IMG_9629.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Fancy Milano</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3cDkJOYWO0U/Ub-lq0P1i-I/AAAAAAAAAvM/9AiX59gRPrg/s1600/IMG_9618.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3cDkJOYWO0U/Ub-lq0P1i-I/AAAAAAAAAvM/9AiX59gRPrg/s320/IMG_9618.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Love this girl</div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-75277171350232162432013-06-12T09:18:00.000-07:002013-06-12T09:54:35.599-07:00The Beginning of the End<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Exam
week was stressful in that it was not a week. It was approximately four days:
two desperate days of studying and two days of terrifying oral exams. Italians
are not a fan of written exams, for some reason. I had to do an oral exam to
pass fifth grade in Gaeta as well, but these university exams were much worse. Essentially,
in an Italian university exam, you will sit down in front of your professor and
he will ask you three or four questions on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anything</i>
your class has covered throughout the entire semester. The information he may
test you on can be anything from your notes from the lecture, the four
textbooks you are recommended (but not required) to buy at the beginning of the
semester, or any random bit of information that may not have been taught to you
but should apparently just be an inherent part of your soul and thus easy
enough to remember. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
will then, to the best of you ability, regurgitate any and all information that
you know, trying to recall this information and express it clearly in a
foreign language. Oh, also, this is your only grade for the entire class.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
And I had two days to study.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Granted,
my study schedule is not something I can complain about, since I did it to
myself and I was irresponsibly gallivanting all over Europe in the days that
led up to these exams. However, it definitely put a strain on me. Lily and I
lived in ItIt again, ignoring all the revelry and happy coffee-drinkers around
us as we ploughed through Leopardi, Carducci, and Pascoli’s poems while also
trying to understand the symbolism and importance of Fellini’s Book of Dreams
and oh yeah—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">memorizing 1300 years of
Italian medieval history</i>. I had also decided it would be good to push myself
and take an extra class so as to bring more credits back to Mary Washington.
This meant that I was lucky enough to be memorizing the history of every major
building in Bologna and would hopefully be able to explain how it contributed
to the development of the city, in relation to history. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Most
Italians, however, have months to study for these exams. Typically, classes
will begin at the end of January or the beginning of February and they will end
towards the end of March or the beginning of April. They will then have until
June, July, or August to take the exam (there are multiple exam dates) so they
have more time to prepare. Most of our courses ended at the end of April or (in
the case of Medieval History) the week before the exam, so we did not have this
luxurious amount of time to study. We had those few precious days during which
I was in Sicily and London. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
entire semester, I have been learning in a different way. I’ve been learning by
experience and by self-teaching, not by mandatory readings and a crushing
workload. As such, it was quite a shock to suddenly find myself back in an
environment very similar to the hell-weeks that lead up to final exams at Mary
Washington. Stress? What was stress? And why was it suddenly back in my life?
The only stress I had been recently experiencing was trying to navigate the
Italian railway system. I did not like it. At all. I suppose the good and bad
news was that this stress only lasted for those four fateful days. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
cinema exam was successful—we talked extensively about Fellini and
symbolism in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Dolce Vita</i>, along
with just a few questions about Pasolini. The interesting thing was that when I
sat down to take my exam, it became less of an interview and more of a
conversation. My professor and I both talked through the information and it was
actually almost enjoyable, seeing as it was like a discussion and not nearly
like the Spanish Inquisition I had imagined. I was also thrilled that I managed to talk about these things entirely in Italian without committing too many grammatical heresies.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Urban
History was very similar—a conversation. I also somehow managed to play the
sympathy card by informing my professor that I had already had another exam
that day and that I had two the next day. Italians, who are used to this three
month-long process of taking exams, are scandalized whenever informed of the
American custom of squeezing all of our exams into one week. Hearing that I had
to take four exams in a concentrated, two-day period seemed to be the most
horrific bit of news my professor had been told that week, so he immediately
felt bad for me and I think he went a little easier on me than he would have.
Which is nice, because the man is a genius and kind of intimidates me (his son,
who just graduated high school, will be the ONLY Italian attending MIT in the
fall). I got very high grades in both Cinema and Urban History. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
literature exam was everything I dreaded it to be. I seem incapable of
engrossing myself in Italian literature, which I find perpetually ironic,
seeing as I am both an English and Italian major. However, I have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> liked poetry and it becomes
decidedly more difficult when the poems are in a foreign language and written
in the 1800’s. We had to memorize the titles and concepts and themes and ideas
and basically the SOULS of every poem we had covered the entire semester…which
was probably about 30 poems. I may or may not be exaggerating. It felt like 30
poems. Regardless, the point is that this was a nearly impossible task, with
all my other courses to study for and my terrible study schedule. So I walked
into this exam a little unprepared and struggled in front of our wonderful,
soft-spoken professor and I was cringing the entire time. I actually still
don’t know my grade on that exam but I’m assuming I passed and will be coming
home with the full 15 credits I had set out to get. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then…the
fateful Medieval History exam. This was terrifying. Sami, Lily and I camped out
at the “American Oyster Bar” all afternoon the day of the exam, flipping
through pages upon pages of notes and struggling to get the timeline of the
fall of the Roman Empire straight. When it came time to start walking over to
our professor’s office, we kept our notebooks and textbooks out as we walked,
avoiding being hit by traffic and desperately trying to memorize last-minute
facts. All three of us were at a disadvantage here: Sami (for whatever her
reasons) hadn’t been to class in about two months, Lily had missed nearly a
month of class because she had had visitors and then had gotten very sick, and
I had missed quite a bit of class towards the end of the semester because of
all of my travels. Thus, we weren’t sure what information we had actually
missed out on in all those afternoons we had failed to attend Merlino’s course.
</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
got to Merlino’s office (whose real name is Paolo Pirillo) and he informed us
that he needed witnesses to the exam, so we all had to stay in there. This was
quite possibly the most uncomfortable thing that Merlino could have done to us:
forcing us to all be in the same room as we listened to the others take their
exams. It was awful and yet somehow, we made it through. My exam is a blur now.
I know that he asked me about the events that led to the fall of the Roman
Empire and I gave a pretty decent answer. I was also very distracted by the taxidermy
hawk that was looking at me from the table behind Merlino, which did not help
with my frayed nerves. I know that he asked me two other questions, which I remember answering concisely and I had gotten nods of approval, which <i>thrilled</i> me. Merlino then asked me a question about the culture of
the merchant class during the medieval ages and I gave him a thoroughly exhaustive
list of everything the merchants got up to in those days—from family culture to
their wealth and power in the cities. He still didn’t appear satisfied.
Scrunching up his face, he shook his head and kept repeating, “No, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the culture</i>. The culture.”</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
fumbled for a few moments, trying to think back on what small piece of culture
I could have possibly missed in the ten-minute monologue that I had already
delivered on medieval merchant culture. I took a wild guess and said, “Well,
they could read—”; hoping that by telling my professor that merchants were
literate would be a good enough answer. Merlino’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Yes! What?
What did they read?” Thank you, Professor Schneider of Mary Washington, for
forcing me to study Erotic Literature in Italian culture, because you saved me.
I threw out two names haphazardly (which, if you know anything about Italian
culture, you know that they are actually not haphazard names at all and are
actual the basis for everything): “Dante and Petrarca?” Merlin clapped his
hands together, nodded, and said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">si</i>
very enthusiastically. And thus concluded my medieval history exam. All the man
wanted to know was what books the merchants had on their nightstands for
bedtime reading....in addition to the role of communes in the history of Italy and how the role of the lord developed with the sudden growth of castles through the Holy Roman Empire </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
that heinous experience, Sami and Lily and I went directly to the Irish Pub
(ironically, one of the more popular bars in the city) and were there until it
was time for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">apperitivi</i> with the rest
of our program and our professors. Our entire semester had led up to these
exams and they were finally, miraculously, over. I was a little sad, though.
Not about the end of the exams, but certainly the end of the classes. I had
really enjoyed the cultural experience of Medieval History and everything I had
learned from Urban History. Literature had been…well, a challenge, but Cinema I
had always enjoyed—for both the course content, and also the Facebook
conversations that would be going on behind our computer screens as we “took
notes” on the fifth documentary we had watched on Pasolini’s death. It was
strange to think that I would never see these professors again in my lifetime
and would never be in a classroom again, surrounded only by Italians. And despite my nervousness for the exams, I am actually really proud of myself for having not only gotten through them, but for having gotten good grades in them as well. It's not easy taking all courses in Italian...and these exams were like the final test to see if we had truly learned not only the coursework, but also the language. I feel more accomplished for being able to explain the fall of the Roman Empire in Italian than I do for taking a written exam back home. I think that is one of the things that I will miss the most when being away from Italy: that feeling of accomplishment after having succeeded in doing something simple, but which is actually quite impressive, having completed it in a foreign language. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> Also, t</span>he
night ended on a high note. I succeeded in getting a picture
with the wonderful Professor Ivan, so all is right in the world. </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'IM Fell English'; font-size: 17px; line-height: 25px;">© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-86505977668381931292013-06-09T13:36:00.000-07:002013-06-09T14:07:15.216-07:00London Calling<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Regardless
of my long and arduous journey with the Curriculum Committee that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">finally</i> resulted in my Italian Studies
special major getting approved, I am first and foremost an English major. And
English majors, in case you didn’t know, begin their studies at a young age. By
this I mean that at the age of six, I was constantly trying to discover
different nooks around the house in which I could read my books in secret
instead of doing all the chores that I had been assigned. It means that for
Christmas, the things at the top of my list for Santa and family have always
been books, followed by things that normal children ask for, like toys or music
or movies. It means that now, at the age of 21, I will happily gush about a
Shakespeare play and will describe themes, character development, and
historical comparisons for as long as you’ll allow me. Which is why if you’re
not a particular fan of British history or Shakespeare in general, you might
not understand how incredibly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">amazing</i>
my impromptu trip to London was, ending just two days before my exams. Brace
yourselves, my friends: this is a long one. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
had been trying to get to the U.K. this entire semester. I had really wanted to
go back to Ireland, but as luck would have it, a lot of people in the program
either had no intention of traveling to the U.K., had already planned on going
with friends from school who were studying abroad in different countries, or
had already planned out all of their trips and were completely broke for the
rest of the semester—aside from the occasional gelato purchase. As a result, I
had pretty much given up on the idea of going, which I had justified by
reminding myself that I had spent five weeks in Bath, England last summer and I
didn’t really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need</i> to go back to the
U.K. However, anyone who has been around me for the past five months knows that
I recently discovered BBC’s show <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Merlin</i>,
which is about as nerdy as it sounds but is also spectacular. Again, I am an
English major. Things like the Arthurian legend are the equivalent of an
unlimited bucket of candy to a child on Halloween. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
one day in April, as I was perusing articles online, I came across one that
announced that Colin Morgan, the actor that plays the title character of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Merlin</i>, would be performing in a
production of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Tempest</i> at
Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre in London, starting in April. Without any real
serious intention of considering this, I went on the Globe’s website to see how
outrageous the ticket prices were and discovered that the Yard tickets (where
you stand right in front of the stage, where the peasants would have stood in
the time of Shakespeare) were only <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">five
pounds</i>. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ecstatic</i>. I immediately began
researching flights on RyanAir for the remaining weekends or days I had free. I
realized that I had about five days between my trip to Sicily and my exams…so
why not take three of those days and dedicate them to a trip to London? I would
come to regret this "logical" thinking not because the trip wasn’t amazing, but
because the time I had to study for my exams ended up being limited to a few
nights in our hostel and one Sunday after I got back. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
asked around ECCO’s office, desperate for anyone to be my London-buddy. I was
even considering going alone, I wanted to go so badly, but Michelle—who I had
traveled with before to Venice and Florence—happily agreed to come with me. I
was SO EXCITED. Not only did I have a traveling buddy, but I was also really happy to travel with someone new. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
got back from Sicily and had one day to go to my appointment with Ivan, in
which he made me feel thoroughly panicked about my prospects for my exams, and
study as much as I could. The next day, Michelle and I were on a plane and
waiting in the hour-long line at the airport because—surprise, surprise—British
airport customs is actually legitimate, as opposed to Bologna’s. Going from
sunny Sicily to cold and rainy London was quite a shock and I realized as soon
as I stepped out of the airport’s doors that the clothes I had brought with me
weren’t going to keep me warm for long. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Michelle
and I had flown into Stanstead Airport, which is about an hour and a half
outside of London, so we had to take a bus into the city. Once there, we
decided to try to walk to our hostel, as GoogleMaps had promised us it would
only be about fifteen minutes. So approximately two hours later, we finally
found our hostel—freezing and backs aching from carrying our backpacks all over
the city. We had been walking through East End (Jack the Ripper’s old stomping
grounds) and thus a not very touristy area of London. As such, there were a lot
fewer helpful signs pointing us in the direction of our destination. However,
we got there eventually, which is all that matters. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
hostel was YHA London St. Paul’s, which was, obviously, right next to St.
Paul’s Cathedral. Up until this point, I had been spoiled in my study abroad
experience, staying in hotels or apartments rented from AirBnB. This mainly was
a result of really good exchange rates (Poland, I miss you!) or the fact that
our group was just so large in number that split between ten of us, one nice
apartment in the center of Venice was actually cheaper than staying in an old
hostel. However this is not the case in London and besides, what kind of study
abroad experience would it be if I hadn’t stayed in a hostel my entire time in Europe? Michelle was a
pro—she found this hostel for us, which was right in the heart of London’s
business district. This meant that not only were we in a very safe
neighborhood, we also left the hostel each morning to be surrounded by very attractive
British men with accents in sharp suits, off on their way to work to be
successful. There is no better way to start your day. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>YHA
is a great association, because they have certain cleanliness and safety
requirements that they must reach in all of their hostels. St. Paul’s actually
used to be a Choir Boy’s School, so our rooms used to be used by the young boys
who stayed there and would then cross the street to sing in the Cathedral. We
got some lovely bunk beds…although Michelle’s was a bit of a challenge to climb
into. Our roommates were friendly but not overly-chatty. My only complaint? The
girl in the bed below me snored all night. Good thing I brought my ipod. </div>
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St. Paul's Cathedral, right by our hostel</div>
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St. Paul's YHA Hostel</div>
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Michelle's weird top bunk</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Since
we had arrived late in the afternoon of our first day and we were both pretty tired,
Michelle and I agreed that the best course of action would be to walk around
our area and then maybe head over to Oxford Street to see some of the shopping.
Oh, British clothes…going into Primark and TopShop has to be one of the most
dangerous things in the world, but it was certainly an afternoon well-spent. In the
evening, we went to Nando’s, which was something I had discovered in Bath. It
is essentially the Portuguese equivalent of Chipotle in England and it is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">delicious</i>. We went back to the hostel after
our walk back and hung out there until turning in for an early night, prepared
for a full day of touring the next day. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
woke up in the morning to get a head start. I’ve been to London
before—once with my mom, when I was nine, and once last summer, when I studied in
Bath. My memories of the city are a blur of rain and a trip to Harrod’s; this
trip, I insisted on at least one historical (also known as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">expensive</i>) tourist spot. Michelle and I started our first full day
in London at the Tower of London. I have been a history nerd since I was a kid and
British history is a personal love of mine....and the Tower is basically a Tudor
history fantasyland; as we took our guided tour from our warden (also known as
the men in the fancy uniforms, or “Beefeaters”), each mention of Anne Boleyn or
Thomas Moore made me giggle with joy. The clouds also conveniently parted so we
had a few, precious hours of sunshine. We also saw the Crown Jewels, which were ridiculously extravagant, but incredible to see. </div>
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Our Beefeater!</div>
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The bridge in the distance</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
also got to participate in a historical reenactment in which we were soldiers
and then later the jury of a trial against a man who had attempted to overthrow
the king. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">loved</i> this. I feel like
it is so easy to become bored with history when in classrooms all they do is
give you a book with facts and dates. In Europe, you walk by history on a daily
basis on your way to the grocery store. It’s just so much easier to love
history when you can see it and feel it and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">experience</i>
it. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Afterwards,
we navigated the tube (which I loved doing) and walked around Piccadilly
Circus, the Strand and Trafalgar Square. Obviously, we were walking in the
rain; England, for all of its beauties, is in a perpetual state of
April-showers. Later that night we found a neat little pub and talked over
beers, burgers, and Thai food. </div>
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Trafalgar Lions</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next morning we got up early and navigated the Underground again to get to
Buckingham Palace, where we watched the changing of the guard. I’m not sure if
this was entirely worth it, seeing as unless you’re six feet tall or you got
there early enough to be pressed right up against the gate, you can’t see much.
Luckily, I’m almost six feet, so I could see a good amount. Poor Michelle, who
is much shorter, had her view blocked for the majority of the hour and a half
that we were there. It was still very neat to see and was especially worth it
for my secret love of Prince William and Kate Middleton’s relationship, as you
can see the balcony they emerged from on their wedding day for the traditional
kiss in front of the screaming crowds. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Following
the crowds of Buckingham, we walked a bit around London Town, seeing
Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, and the House of Parliament. </div>
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Westminster Abbey</div>
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Big Ben! And House of Parliament</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later,
we made our way to the neighborhood of Notting Hill. Even if you haven’t seen
the particularly charming Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts film, this area is
definitely worth a visit. It is much quieter than the rest of London and it
feels like you’re in a completely different city. The houses are all in a row,
painted various pastel colors, and the little shops and boutiques are rivaled
in cuteness only by the charm of the Portobello Street market, that has
anything from organic papayas to hand-knitted Scottish wool. Having no layers
and knowing that I was going to be outside all night, I decided to splurge a
little and bought myself a wool sweater (which I now love with all my heart)
which ended up being a brilliant idea, since the night ended up being a
cold one. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
Notting Hill, we headed back to our hostel for a quick change of clothes which
included me putting on approximately five layers (including the wool sweater)
and a scarf. We then walked across the Millennium Bridge, which was right next
to our hostel, and arrived at the reason for this entire trip: Shakespeare’s
Globe Theatre. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
admittedly did not always like Shakespeare. I remember struggling in Mrs.
Inderlied’s freshman class in high school as we covered <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Romeo&Juliet</i>. The language was befuddling, the plotline already
known, and it didn’t make sense: why was Shakespeare any different than other
authors who could write in a much more understandable language? But American
high schools love a classic, so I was forced to learn more and more of his
plays and I would sympathize with my fellow students as they bemoaned the
injustice of having to memorize a portion of Hamlet’s famous <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">To be or not to be</i> speech…all the while,
realizing that I actually didn’t hate it as much as I claimed to. By senior
year, we were covering <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Tempest</i>
and I had a role in that very same play in Catholic High’s spring production. All of the sudden, the words took on a whole other meaning.
Studying the play and then being able to participate in its creation made <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Tempest</i> one of my favorite
Shakespeare plays, even if there are others that surpass it in characters and
plot and wit. I studied Shakespeare again in college and, again, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Tempest</i> was on our syllabus. I
watched the play in Bath in a park, in which a theater troupe used the
surrounded trees as “backstage” and we sat on our picnic blanket with Bath buns
(special Bath pastry) and Cornish pasties in the chilly, summer air. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
now I was seeing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Tempest</i> at
Shakespeare’s Globe—a recreation of the famous structure that supposedly stood
around this area years and years ago…where the original plays were first
performed. My love for Shakespeare is no longer a secret. It seems like a
stereotype, for someone who studies English, but if you study it you
understand. There’s something inherently magical in his words and the way in
which he crafts a play that I keep being drawn back in.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To
say that my excitement was reaching impossibly high levels once we had crossed
the bridge is an understatement. We bought a few sandwiches and drinks around
the corner and then sat down in line (we were seventh in line), preparing to wait for
our spot. If you bought tickets with seats, you can obviously show up right
before the play starts. However, if you want prime spots as people who have
Yard tickets (standing-room-only), it’s first-come-first-served. I was determined to be right in
front and—two hours later—that’s exactly where we were. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I was touching the stage</i>. We were almost
dead center and Michelle and I were <i>touching the stage</i>, which was just about
level with my head. We made friends with the people around us who were,
ironically, American. A few were students studying in Dublin who had come in
for the play for the same reason I had—a not-so-secret love for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Merlin</i>, Shakespeare, and actor Colin
Morgan. There was also a daughter and her mother, who was a professor from JMU, leading a program in London, and we got along great. It’s ironic that as
little kids we’re always taught not to talk to strangers…but nowadays, it’s one
of my favorite pastimes. There was a buzz in the air and I couldn’t contain the
occasional squeal of excitement as I looked around. It was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beautiful</i>.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For
those who are not familiar with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Tempest</i>, you’ll have to excuse me as I gush a little bit about this
performance. This is the Globe’s official description: </div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><i>Prospero, Duke of
Milan, usurped and exiled by his own brother, holds sway over an enchanted
island. He is comforted by his daughter Miranda and served by his spirit Ariel
and his deformed slave Caliban. When Prospero raises a storm to wreck this
perfidious brother and his confederates on the island, his long contemplated
revenge at last seems within reach. Imbued with a spirit of magic and the
supernatural, </i>The Tempest <i>is Shakespeare’s late great masterpiece of
forgiveness, generosity and enlightenment.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">For those who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> familiar with the play, then you
know that—like all of Shakespeare’s work—it is far more complicated than this
simple description. You know about the themes of colonization, of power, of
love. You know about the troublesome treatment of the character of Caliban and
of the often-disputed relationship between Prospero (played by Roger Allam) and
Ariel (played by Colin Morgan). And for those of you who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> familiar with the play or familiar with Shakespeare’s plays in
general, you will understand how incredibly life-changing it was to see an
interpretation of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Tempest</i> in which
everything you had studied and every conclusion you had drawn by yourself while
pouring over your textbook late at night was performed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">exactly how you pictured it</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
humor that these actors managed to pull from the text was incredible. I was
laughing through the entire performance and they acted in such a way that the
jokes that Shakespeare had originally intended his audience to laugh at were
easily understandable—the entire theatre (which was packed) was laughing at
everything. The actors did not remain on stage. They walked through the crowd,
they snatched beers away from people in the front row and chugged them, they
ran along the upper rows of the seats. Caliban pretended to hit me in the head
with a huge log and I unfortunately flinched, which meant that he immediately
zeroed in on me and growled all of his lines right in my face. The entire
theatre was looking at me, so I scrunched up my face and didn’t look at him
until he went away (he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> the monster
of the play, after all). Trinculo poured water all over my head and the head of
the JMU professor next to me (at the cast’s final bows, he leaned down and said
“Sorry!” to us with a wink). It was just so nice, seeing the actors enjoy what
they were doing almost as much as we were in watching them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Stefano, Caliban, and Trinculo</div>
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Miranda, Prospero, and Ferdinand</div>
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Ariel and Prospero</div>
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Ariel</div>
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The King and Lords</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kIZpw46AT8w/UbTiGoIUcWI/AAAAAAAAAsw/pUoxVqaL8kU/s1600/936851_10151665592325774_1269080806_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kIZpw46AT8w/UbTiGoIUcWI/AAAAAAAAAsw/pUoxVqaL8kU/s320/936851_10151665592325774_1269080806_n.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Ariel</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miranda
was displayed as clumsy and slightly uncultured, which was perfect. Ferdinand
was pompous, but adorable. Prospero was powerful without being too supercilious.
And Ariel…well, the character of Ariel (and the actor Colin Morgan) was the
main reason why I was there. Colin Morgan did such an amazing job with this
character that I even forgot for a moment that he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> Colin Morgan. He was ethereal and his movements so graceful
that it was easy to believe that he was a spirit, which was only enhanced by the
odd way in which he spoke, placing emphasis on the wrong words in the sentences
and making it sound very unnatural and inhuman. The relationship between
Propsero and Ariel was perfectly displayed as something akin to master-servant
and father-son: the line in which Ariel asks Prospero, “</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">Do
you love me, master, no?</span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";">”
was so devastatingly sweet and sad and desperate that the entire theatre was
silent, aside from a few sighs of sympathy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
play was simply amazing. I use that word a lot in life, and maybe it’s because
I’m easily amazed by things, but that is such an accurate description. I am so
incredibly grateful that I got to see the play but also that I came to the
stage with an understanding of its characters and plot. The experience was that
much richer because of it and I found myself mouthing some of the lines along
with the characters—some of the lines that I once said on stage myself. It
was also a lot more intimate, being that close to the actors. You weren’t
allowed to take pictures during the performance (any pictures you see here are
official photos from the Globe) and for the most part, no one in the audience snapped
any secret shots. Whereas in churches across Europe, tourists easily break this
rule for the sake of a Facebook album back home, there was something different
about the Globe. It wasn’t just something you watched—it was something you
participated in. And you wanted the actors on stage to succeed far more than
you wanted that silly picture, even if there were a few times where the King of
Naples was standing above me, looking incredibly imposing, and I knew that if I
had a camera it would have been amazing. But I liked pretending, if only for a
moment, that I was one of the peasants come to watch the show, confined to
standing in the yard as the richer classes sat above us in their wooden seats. There
was something incredibly thrilling about shivering in the biting night air, the
sky open above us and the warm glow of the lights on stage as spirits and
monsters and lords and lovers swirled about our heads, close enough to touch. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Tempest</i> is supposedly
Shakespeare’s last play, it seemed appropriate that this was how I spent my
last night not only in London, but also on my last trip of the semester. We
returned to the hostel that night gleefully clutching our programmes and
talking obsessively about how wonderful the play was and how the cast’s final
bows—which was actually the entire cast doing a coordinated dance—was far
better than anything we had ever seen. A few hours later, at 4:30 am, we were
awake again, on our way to Stanstead Airport with a bus full of bleary-eyed
tourists. But I kept my eyes open, watching London’s streets and then later the
hillsides of England roll by, wishing I could stay a bit longer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
a child, I always talked about growing up and moving to Italy. It was, in fact,
a two-part dream: I thought I would go to Oxford for my college education,
during which time I would become a famous author and then promptly become rich
enough to afford a villa in Italy, where I would live happily ever after. As my
senior year of college looms ever closer, I’ve obviously realized what a fanciful
dream that was. But my experiences in the past five months are a different sort
of dream, in which I’ve realized that although I do not have the same lofty
aspirations as my ten year-old-self, I still want to do things that don’t
follow the usual course of landing a nine-to-five job straight out of college. It
may terrify my mother to hear this, but I think moving so often with my dad
being in the Navy had an effect on me. I don’t see my future as finding a place
to settle down in—I can’t even decide on the amount of countries and cities I
want to live in. Living in Bath last summer and returning to London for just
those brief three days made me realize that although I love Italy with all of
my heart…there are other places that I also love. Other places that I want to
explore. Other places that I want to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">live</i>
in. The U.K. is definitely one of them, which is why since those fateful three
days in London and that magical night in the Globe, I’ve been researching for
hours late at night, looking for any possible way to get myself back over
there. England is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> just another
America, with funny accents and a lot of tea. There is a culture and a history
there that is so rich that I can’t stop thinking of returning. Being back in
the United States this past week has confirmed at least one thing: my semester
abroad may be over, but my time living outside the confines of my own culture
certainly is not. </span><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";"><br /></span>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'IM Fell English'; font-size: 17px; line-height: 25px;">© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.</span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-953870316959435252013-06-05T22:17:00.000-07:002013-06-09T14:06:55.093-07:00La Dolce Vita in Sicilia<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
honestly thought that with the lack of exams and trips, I’d be able to finish
all late blog posts before I left Italy. Clearly, as I am sitting at my kitchen
table in Virginia Beach, that is not the case. However, I refuse to let this
blog go unfinished. So while the title of this page says <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Postcards from Bologna</i>, you’ll just have to stretch your
imagination a bit and pretend it says <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Postcards
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">about</b> Bologna</i>, seeing as now, I
am no longer in my red and orange-hued city.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
my Italian Cinema course, we studied the directors Fellini and Pasolini and it
wouldn’t have been a true cinema course without at least two weeks spent on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Dolce Vita</i>. A lot of people hear
about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Dolce Vita</i> or see the
occasional clip from it (Silvia’s nighttime swim in the Trevi Fountain, for
example), but they’ve never actually seen the film in its entirety. I hadn’t seen
it either until this class and I really enjoyed it, but having had no
experience with Fellini in the past, I did not get what I was expecting. I
expected a flashy portrayal Italy in the 1950’s, but I was pleased to learn
about how the film was actually a critique of this shallow society and how it
was too idealistic and self-indulgent. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well,
“flashy”, and “self-indulgent” pretty much sums up my trip to Taormina, Sicily this
May. We spent four days in the coast-side village—me, Rebecca, Lydia, and Kyra.
We rented an apartment with AirBnb and for the price, it was amazingly situated
right in the center of town. The city itself is a blaze of pastel-colored
houses, whitewashed churches, and trellises of vines and purple flowers. There
is a piazza called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza IX Agosto</i>
that is out of a picture-book, with its cliff-side views, tall white church,
and violins and guitars playing stereotypical Italian music late at night. And,
inevitably, we were inclined to look around us and yell out that
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<!--StartFragment--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">cliché</span>, “This is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">la dolce vita!</i>” And it really, really
was. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aPkUKe9H6ow/UbAVsJq83gI/AAAAAAAAAmE/NzFs_a6XD8Q/s1600/IMG_8772.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aPkUKe9H6ow/UbAVsJq83gI/AAAAAAAAAmE/NzFs_a6XD8Q/s320/IMG_8772.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bg94Kg-TnBo/UbAVtNQO0EI/AAAAAAAAAmM/RTCGCBqLg-I/s1600/IMG_8901.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bg94Kg-TnBo/UbAVtNQO0EI/AAAAAAAAAmM/RTCGCBqLg-I/s320/IMG_8901.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
also explored the crumbling Greek amphitheatre—built in the 3<sup>rd</sup>
Century B.C.—that is on the hill above the city, looking out over both Taormina
and the waters below it. It is the second-largest Greek amphitheatre in Sicily
and is considered to be <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">the most
dramatically situated Greek theatre in the world. And there are no other words
to describe it other than <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stunning</i>.
We went late in the afternoon and it’s those little moments—or maybe they’re
actually the big ones—when you’re overlooking turquoise waters from the eroding
steps of an ancient Greek theatre that life becomes a little unreal. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Dolce Vita</i> indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
later managed to make it down to those turquoise waters, which was one of the
best beach days I’ve ever had. We reached the beach by taking the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">funivia</i>—a tram connected by wires that
led us down the mountain. We had a few difficulties finding the public beach,
since most Italian beaches are dominated by a thing called a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lido</i>, which is essentially a beach
cabana. Usually, local Italians will rent an umbrella and the two chairs that
go with it for an entire summer, so that they always have a place to come to.
Luckily, us peasants were allowed to rent one for just a day. I originally was
all for trying to hunt down that public beach, but Rebecca and Lydia have fair
Scottish and British skin, so they advocated splurging the 15 euro for a spot
on the lido so that they could use an umbrella. The water was so <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">clear</i>. Other than the jellyfish sting
that kept me out of the water for twenty minutes, we spent the day relaxing in
the sunshine, reading the Italian equivalent of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cosmo</i>, and slept. It was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wonderful</i>.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Obviously,
an essential component to any vacation throughout Europe: food. Luckily, I was
traveling with girls who had their priorities in order. We made sure to go to a
tiny hole-in-the-wall that made “artisan” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">arancini</i>.
The place was run by a family with three generations of women who had a
tendency to yell at the men in the kitchen while juggling three trays of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">arancini</i> and a platter of pasta. Arancini,
for those who aren’t as obsessed with Sicilian food as we are, are these fried
orange-shaped rice balls, filled with rice, cheese, and any number of different
fillings. My personal favorite was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">melanzane</i>:
mozzarella, tomatoes and eggplant; or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sugo</i>:
ragu’ sauce, mozzarella and peas; or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">spinaci</i>:
spinach, ricotta and mozzarella. Well, let’s be honest…it’s almost impossible
to pick a favorite. We ate about two a day, which is not the healthiest way to
go through life, but when you’re vacationing in Sicily, healthy is not really
an option. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
also discovered <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cannoli</i>. I’ve never
liked this particular dessert before now; while in Taormina, I ate my weight in
them. We found a bakery that used to be frequented by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bill. Clinton</i>. and it was delicious. We also found a famous <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">granita</i> place, which we frequented…quite
often. And by quite often I mean every day. One of my best decisions that trip
was getting an orange and strawberry granita to go (with fresh cream on top)
and bringing it to the gardens that overlook the cliffs of the town to read my
Medieval History textbook in preparation for my exam. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Taormina
was not, in my opinion, a complete and true representation of Sicily. The
island just off the tip of Italy’s boot is known for its rustic and sometimes
rough-around-the-edges population, but Taormina is a tourist breeding ground. Its
streets, lined with ceramics shops and little restaurants, are made for the
average, middle-aged American couple. I loved it, though. For four days, we
lived in a gilded world of extravagance and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">arancini</i>.
At night, the sounds of the restaurant below our apartment would drift up to
our windows: the clinking of silverware on plates, soft laughter, and a man’s
voice accompanied by a guitar, his singing made somewhat indistinguishable by
his thick Sicilian accent. But it sounded familiar, somehow, like a lullaby you
hadn’t heard in a while. It was all so incredibly perfect that it obviously had
to end…after four short days, we returned to Bologna with tan lines and
probably ten pounds each in ceramics. And maybe about a half a pound of
mozzarella, since Lydia and I decided it would be a good idea/not messy at all
to attempt to eat a ball of mozzarella in Catania’s airport (false: we ended up
making a huge mess and there were at least ten nicely-dressed, normal Italians
judging us as we split the mozzarella, dripping over the trash can).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once
we got back to Bologna, I had one day. One day to study for my exams before I
left the next day for London. The dreamland of Taormina came crashing down
around me as I scrambled to cram as much history and Italian literature into my
head as quickly as possible. I was kicking myself for those twenty-four hours,
wondering why I had ever thought this rigorous travel schedule was a good idea.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
regardless of my rising stress levels, the next day I was on a flight to London
and that trip cemented what I had started to realize on my first weekend out of
Italy in Paris: that this “traveling thing”, jetting off to different places
and experiencing different cultures and food and people…it wasn’t just an
entertaining way to fill a weekend. It wasn’t just a cool status to post on
Facebook. Traveling, as I realized when in London, was something that I couldn’t
just let go of. It’s something that is starting to shape what I’m
planning to do after graduation and everything that will follow after. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'IM Fell English'; font-size: 17px; line-height: 25px;">© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.</span></span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-15606178917584689932013-05-24T12:59:00.001-07:002013-05-24T13:02:56.467-07:00Bouncing around Barcelona<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before
I talk about Barcelona, about Sicily, about London, about the beautiful
sunshine in Bologna and about the fact that I have just about a week before I
leave forever, let me just say—with all the joy in the world—that I AM DONE
WITH EXAMS. When I explain how my exam week went, the usage of all-caps will be
completely understandable. Now, however, I want to take a break from thinking
about medieval history and go back to thinking about the colorful days and late
nights of Barcelona. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
there was a bit of confusion when we first got to Barcelona. We originally
thought we had rented an apartment to ourselves for twelve people (you heard me
right: TWELVE) but it turned out that the place where we stayed was a sort of
mix between a hostel and an apartment, just on the edge of the city center. This
meant that we had three rooms in this large apartment, sharing a common room
and two bathrooms with the other people in the apartment. Also, the apartment
owner thought that there were only eight of us, so we had to be a little sneaky
while he was there (not to mention doubling-up to get everyone a bed). The
reason we had so many people was because aside from the ECCO Bologna gang (Me,
Lily, Sami, Krystal, Skyla, Megan and Raquel), there were also five of Lily’s
friends who had been studying abroad in France and Spain. The most exciting
part of these new faces joining us? BOYS. How strange is it to say that? And
yet, sadly, so true. There are no guys in our program and being with American
guys for a few days reminded me of why I often have difficulty making friends
with Italian guys here, who typically are just trying to flirt with you.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
spent the three days we had in Barcelona mainly just walking around and
enjoying each other’s company. Lily’s friends were great and we had a lot of
fun with them—especially since the Spain kids helped us through any
interactions we had with native speakers. Sadly, the eight and a half years of
Spanish that I’ve taken has seemingly completely disappeared from my head,
although I’m sure when I’m not under a constant influx of Italian, I might
remember a little bit more. I also felt better about the fact that I didn’t
understand everything people were saying because Catalan is spoken extensively
through Barcelona, which is not Spanish. At all. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Barcelona
was a wonder of architecture. With <span style="color: #1a1a1a; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Antoni Gaudí having
designed and built multiple buildings throughout the city, in addition to the
famous </span><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Sagrada Família church, most of the
entertainment was simply walking down the streets. There were just so many
unique buildings! The city was much more modern and very different from
anything I’ve seen thus far—in Europe or otherwise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Eyeball building?</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;">Sagrada Família</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
spent the nights eating tapas and drinking sangria; the most popular tapas were
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">patatas bravas</i>: potatoes fried
and covered in a sauce made of olive oil, red pepper, paprika, chili, tomato
and vinegar. And even though we stayed out late, Megan, Raquel and I forced
ourselves to wake up early in the morning to explore more of the city. We went
on a tour of Barcelona’s Cathedral, which on the inside was very dark and
gothic, but had a spectacular view of the city from the roof. It also had a
beautiful courtyard that was a mix of shadows under ancient arches and sunshine
dancing on the surface of green pools, disturbed only by the paddling of geese.
It was so <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">quiet</i> in there—a nice
change from the bustling streets near <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Las
Ramblas</i>. That little courtyard became one of my favorite places I’ve ever
visited. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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The Cathedral</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V-nWXNwUtLc/UZ_CkMwrfwI/AAAAAAAAAjY/-MHIH7DBK7I/s1600/IMG_8489.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V-nWXNwUtLc/UZ_CkMwrfwI/AAAAAAAAAjY/-MHIH7DBK7I/s320/IMG_8489.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
also explored the famous food market, which was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">amazing</i>. There were o many colors and smells and smoothies and
different types of chorizo! We got paella there and it was some of the best
I’ve ever had. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Las Ramblas</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
FRUIT AND SMOOTHIES: please come to Italy</div>
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<br /></div>
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Accurate</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VHEvYHjwgrs/UZ_Dulz7t_I/AAAAAAAAAkI/TBmH4KIkBcs/s1600/IMG_8556.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VHEvYHjwgrs/UZ_Dulz7t_I/AAAAAAAAAkI/TBmH4KIkBcs/s320/IMG_8556.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
found the time to go to the Palau Musical, which was a choir house back in the
early 1900’s. It too had the unique and mesmerizing architecture that so much
of Barcelona seems to embody and its most amazing quality was definitely its
use of natural light. There was an entire ceiling piece that was made to look
like the sun, that when illuminated appeared to be a chandelier but was in fact
just allowing as much natural light into the space as possible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FhOeDLwdleI/UZ_ElU5hnYI/AAAAAAAAAkc/uQHLJdioPVU/s1600/IMG_8623.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FhOeDLwdleI/UZ_ElU5hnYI/AAAAAAAAAkc/uQHLJdioPVU/s320/IMG_8623.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
the end of the tour, our guide informed us that the hall was still used today
and that, in fact, there would be a flamenco show performed there that very
night. The other girls wanted to go along with the group’s plan for the night,
but this was my only trip in Spain, so I bought myself a ticket, got dressed up
that evening, and went to the flamenco show by myself. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Such a good decision</i>. The show was amazing and it was a lot of fun,
having to navigate taxi rides in Spanish by myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--xkEV0x4OLA/UZ_E47LBs5I/AAAAAAAAAk4/pL3xNF9wwlk/s1600/IMG_8735.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--xkEV0x4OLA/UZ_E47LBs5I/AAAAAAAAAk4/pL3xNF9wwlk/s320/IMG_8735.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
a group, we climbed up to Parc </span><span style="color: #1a1a1a; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Güell one afternoon
to have a picnic. This ended up being sort of difficult, as it was less of a
park and more of an extreme tourist attraction with very little grass to camp
out on. That’s what you get for expecting to picnic in yet another one of Gaudí’s
famous creations. Regardless, the park was amazing and definitely worth the
hike. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QsJEEVH9I6w/UZ_FMocOLnI/AAAAAAAAAlc/hwZUj49D6DM/s1600/IMG_8710.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QsJEEVH9I6w/UZ_FMocOLnI/AAAAAAAAAlc/hwZUj49D6DM/s320/IMG_8710.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
weather was perfect throughout the time there. Our last night was beautiful in
its simplicity: we searched out a tapas bar that was in a much more local area.
We knew it would be authentic food based on the stares we got when walking in
and sticking out like…well, like a crowd of ten Americans. But it was worth it.
The meal at that last tapas bar was some of the best food I’ve had in my entire
time in Europe. I loved sitting out in the warm air, laughing and joking around
with new friends and an endless supply of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">patatas
bravas</i> and chorizo and sangria, trading stories about our respective
countries and making plans to see each other when we were all back home in
America. It’s strange. At the time, making those plans to see each other seemed
so far off—as if this wonderland of travel and adventure was our current
reality, and that of home was just a dream, a distant idea that we had
forgotten. But now, with just a week left in Italy, it is Spain that seems like
the dream, as the prospect of returning to America looms ever closer. And that
makes me a little sad…if only because I really miss the chorizo. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1a1a1a;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: 'IM Fell English'; font-size: 17px; line-height: 25px;">© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.</span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-89909229593048982212013-05-08T15:56:00.003-07:002013-05-08T15:56:41.895-07:00Exam Cram
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So Lily and I have taken up a
permanent residence in a local café called ItIt. It’s a cozy little place just
down the street from ECCO’s office and the beauty of it is that it has solid,
consistent internet. Other pros include delicious blueberry muffins, huge
cushioned chairs that you can sink into, English Breakfast tea, Americana-esque
music (think Elvis, Bill Haley & His Comets, or—randomly—the occasional
indie-rock lullaby) and, most importantly, staff that does not mind that we
live in their café. I am not exaggerating. The patience of the ItIt staff is
kind of legendary. There have been a few days in which the two of us have
camped out in a dark corner of the café, strategically placed by an electrical
plug to keep our computers charged, from around 10 a.m. until closing time…at 8
p.m. We only leave to go buy food for lunch that is cheaper than ItIt’s organic
sandwiches. The ItIt staff not only lets us stay for this long period of time
without questioning us, but they also say nothing as we smuggle in kebabs or
large hunks of foccaccia that clearly did not come from their kitchens. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
actually haven’t been too many of these days, overall, but in these few days
that we are in Bologna we must make the most out of our time to study. Just
before April ended, I realized that I had a grand total of eight days to study
for my five exams. Yes, you heard me right. 8 days for 5 exams. Also, these
days are broken up, so it’s not like I have one, huge block of time to study.
How did this happen, you ask? Well, to be honest, I’m wondering that myself. It
seems that Past-Danielle had very little concern for the study schedule that
Future-Danielle would face in May. As such, Present-Danielle is sort of
stressed out and is scrambling to figure out a way to do this. Obviously,
everything will work out. But there is no doubt this is a challenge. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
issue is that as soon as I got back from my weekend in Gaeta, I had three
ItIt-filled days of studying before my wonderful four days in Barcelona. I
currently am on the last of three more days of studying before I go to Sicily
with Rebecca, Lydia and Kyra (tomorrow!!) and today I took Ivan’s Writing
Workshop exam. When I get back from Sicily, I will have ONE DAY before going to
London with Michelle. And upon returning from London sometime in the early
morning of Saturday the 18th of May, I will have the rest of that Saturday and
then Sunday to study…before exams begin on Monday. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So.
Things are busy. Things are exciting, but they are certainly busy. I know that
at home, my parents are nervously wringing their hands, remembering the promise
I made them at the beginning of the semester: I will return to the States with
15 credits of classes. This <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will</i>
happen. Not only am I determined to achieve these 15 credits, I also (obviously)
want to do well in my classes. I know semesters abroad can turn into vacations
abroad for a lot of American students (and I’ve certainly had my fair share of
vacation) but I also have really enjoyed my classes and I don’t want to let
myself or my professors down right at the homestretch. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
I will be studying and traveling traveling traveling. I have no time left to
write about my four-day-Barcelona-extravaganza, but that will come soon. I
promise. After my exams, I’ll have more than a week to play catch-up with blog
posts and to enjoy Bologna before heading back home on the 31st. Ahhh! It’s so
soon. I’m excited for this summer and for my upcoming Senior year at UMW (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yikes—</i>how am I a Senior?!) but I’m also
devastated that this whirlwind semester is coming to a close. I went into this
knowing that it would go by quickly. Every time I told someone that I would be
studying abroad for a semester, I got that same response: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wow. That’s going to go by so fast!</i> I kept this in mind every day,
every week, every month that I was here. Every meal, every opportunity for
travel, I leapt at. Even my full five months didn’t seem like a very long
time…and now that I’m here at the end of it, I’m constantly wondering how this
all went by so fast and yet how long ago that first plane ride to Italy now
feels.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
I can’t think about leaving too much because it takes away from the moments I
have left here. For now, I’ll just call it a night and head to bed in
preparation for Sicily tomorrow, where I’ll be exploring a seaside-town called
Taormina. I am <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beyond</i> excited...but I will also be lugging along my Italian Medieval History textbook. It can't all be fun and games.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I’ll
leave you all with the knowledge that tonight, when trying to discuss the
horrors of McDonald’s usage of preservatives and chemicals in its food, I used
the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">preservativi</i> and was very
confused as to why my roommates burst out laughing. This just proves that every
day, I am learning new things…or at least forgetting old things that I had
already learned. I just informed my roommates that McDonald’s French fries are
disgusting because they remain looking unchanged for over a month, due to the
fact that they are made out of condoms and chemicals. What can I say? Every day
is a new adventure.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-8886385300992430992013-05-08T02:00:00.000-07:002013-05-08T02:14:01.561-07:00MotivationCasually listening to Italian/Europe trashy pop music to get myself through studying and writing blog posts and packing for Sicily tomorrow (WHY AM I SO BUSY?!).<br />
<br />
Enjoy a little "culture" all the way over here from Bologna<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
This guy is basically Italy's next <i>American Idol</i> winner.<br />
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/goog_946926078"><br /></a>
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZvrJafIrgIA" target="_blank">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZvrJafIrgIA</a><br />
<br />
<br />
Club music always gets me through studying Dante, how about you?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3P06kyFpIQU" target="_blank">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3P06kyFpIQU</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-12592957185762986532013-05-07T15:29:00.000-07:002013-05-07T15:29:00.628-07:00Coming Home
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><i>It's a funny thing about coming home. Looks the same, smells the same, feels the same. You'll realize what's changed is you.</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Two
weekends ago I decided to make the long trek down to Gaeta, the little town in
the region of Lazio in southern Italy where I lived for three years while my
Dad was stationed at the Navy base there, just about an hour from Naples. With
such a busy semester, I wasn’t sure if I would actually be able to make it to
Gaeta (it is, after all, a very long trip), but it seemed ridiculous not to make
an effort to go back. So, with shorts, flip-flops, and Viola in tow, we took
the three trains down from Bologna to the place that I called home for some of
the most important years of my life. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
we arrived in the train station of Formia (the city just ten minutes from
Gaeta—much more commercial and modern), the humidity and sun hit us like a wall
as soon as we stepped out of the doors. Within a few seconds, I had an Italian
running at me and hugging me and it took me a moment to realize that it was
Selene and she was saying my name over and over again and jumping up and down. For
those who don’t know, Selene was my other half for the three years that I lived
in Gaeta; there was rarely a moment we weren’t together at the beach, sneaking
into our neighbor’s yards “searching for buried treasure”, playing with stray
dogs that we found on the street, stealing honeysuckle from the walls of the gardens
around us and—most importantly, it seemed—obsessing over <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Harry Potter</i>. It’s thanks to Selene that I learned Italian so well
and so quickly: I spent almost every single day playing with her one particular
summer after my first year in Italian school, either at her house or mine.
Selene and her family became very close with my own family. Both sets of
parents became friends and we all vacationed together multiple times. And,
lucky for me, Gianni and Lunnetta (my second parents) were more than happy to
host Viola and I for the weekend for my trip back home. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
soon as we got back to Selene’s house, it felt like home. Nothing had changed
in her house—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">nothing. </i>Even the little
knick-knacks lining the shelf under the bathroom mirror were in the same
position as they had been ten years before. One of her dogs was still there
(Sceila!) and the only thing that had changed about her room was that it seemed
a lot smaller than I originally remembered. Our neighborhood is also
interesting in that all of the townhouse buildings were built in the same way,
facing the same direction (towards the bay of Gaeta). So being in Selene’s
house was like being back in my own house, in that its structure was exactly
the same. Viola and I stayed in the bunk beds in Hansel’s room (Selene’s older
brother), which was the room that I had had when we lived there. I fell asleep
to the familiar swinging glow of the lighthouse, stretching across the waters
of the bay and shining through our windows. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IpQyAHf5AE8/UYl22UnTAeI/AAAAAAAAAfw/qTygXuq9yhU/s1600/IMG_2079.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IpQyAHf5AE8/UYl22UnTAeI/AAAAAAAAAfw/qTygXuq9yhU/s320/IMG_2079.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Iconic Gaeta view</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Gianni
and Lunnetta took care of us for every single meal, which was incredibly
generous of them and, of course, delicious. The weather forecast had originally
predicted high 70’s and sunny, but it rapidly changed, which was the only
downside to the entire weekend. We battled rain and wind and chills both Friday
and Saturday. The Sun only emerged on Sunday, the day we were leaving, which
was too bad, as Gaeta is a beach-town and is really best appreciated in summer
weather. But regardless of the poor weather, I had a great time and I am so
glad Viola came with me—we had a lot of fun together. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
neighborhood that Selene and I had lived in was actually situated right on the
edge of Formia, on a steep mountain, but my parents and I had always spent the
majority of our time in Gaeta. Although we had a few of our Italian friends in Formia,
the American base, my Italian school, the charming historical center, and the
rest of the Americans all lived in Gaeta when we were there. Gaeta—not
Formia—is where I have most of my memories, and Selene was patient enough to
drive me multiple times to and from Gaeta so that I could indulge my intense
nostalgia that had me begging her to walk just a few more streets in the rain, just
one more store that I once bought a book in a decade before from someone I
couldn’t even remember.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Selene’s
boyfriend Alexandro was with us for a lot of the trip, which was a lot of fun.
He was very personable and was able to pull shy Viola out of her shell, while
also catching me up on everything Selene had been up to in the years that we
had been apart. We went out to a few bars and also got gelato from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Il Molo</i> multiple times—a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gelateria</i> that was essentially my second
home and also happens to be an award-winning establishment, with approximately
20 trophies on their walls for “exquisite gelato.” When I left Italy, I had
drawn them a picture saying “Grazie per tutto il gelato” and they still had it
on the wall, which was adorable and also really strange to see (sadly, my
drawing skills have not improved in ten years). </div>
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<br /></div>
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Favorite gelato hangout!</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On
Saturday, I went back to my elementary school! This was kind of terrifying. I
didn’t call in advance to let them know I was coming, which actually ended up
being a good thing, as they would have probably turned us away. As soon as we
walked through the doors, a very intimidating nun came flying out of nowhere
and demanded who we were. I was an emotional mess, seeing the halls of my
school, so my explanation of who I was came out disjointed and Angry-Nun was
not impressed. She informed me that today there was no school and it was not a
good day for visits—the head nun from their order, a woman from France, was
coming very shortly and they needed to get ready. I’m not sure I really
understand who this woman was…some sort of Queen of Nuns? Selene, Viola and I
all called her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">la Regina delle Suore</i>
for the rest of the trip, since Queen of Nuns seemed like the only appropriate
name for a French woman who could whip these Italian nuns into such a panicked
frenzy. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
was so intimidated by the abruptness of this nun that I started to agree with
her and inch away, but thankfully Selene stepped in and insisted that I see
some old teachers, or anyone who would remember me. The nun looked at me for a
moment before demanding if I knew Pina. Pina! Yes, I knew Pina. Pina was a
non-nun (but still an old lady) who was essentially the groundskeeper of the
school. Angry-Nun called Pina over but of course, Pina did not remember me. It
did not matter, apparently. Because I knew someone, Angry-Nun decided that I was
worthy of a school tour. She made some random teacher (who was not running
around getting ready for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Regina delle
Suore</i>) take us about the school. I didn’t recognize this teacher, but she
was nice enough and showed us all of the upstairs classrooms and the “gym” (the
somewhat-dangerous room filled with marble walls and columns used for
recreational purposes) on the bottom floor. Ironically, they now had an entire
computer room. When I had gone to school there, my mom had raised enough money
to buy three computers for the school to use for educational purposes, but the
nuns had hidden them away because they considered them too precious to be
touched. Now they have technology and computer classes. Of course. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
classroom I had spent three years in was different when I walked in. It was
smaller, of course. They had also painted the white walls a sort of salmon
pink/orange and there were a lot more decorations on the walls, in comparison
to when I had been there and the only thing on the walls had been a map from
the 1940’s of Italy and Europe. The desks were also situated differently, but
the easel chalkboard was still the same, and I couldn’t help but smile when I
saw it. That chalkboard served many purposes—it was often a goal for those
in-class soccer games during snack time, in which the boys would play soccer
with a ball made of bunched-up paper and duct tape. It was where Francesca
proclaimed her love for Adriano, written with a shaking hand in pink chalk and
a heart circled around their two names on the backside of the board. It was
where I struggled through too many math problems and helped with definitions
during our English class (the “foreign language” class). I sat down in one of
the chairs and it was so weird, being back there. Mainly because there were no
children in the school and everything was silent, but also because those chairs
were teeny tiny and I probably broke it. </div>
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My classroom!</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
we came back downstairs, there was a nun waiting for us who apparently <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i> remember me: Suora Francesca. She
remembered my name and pinched my cheeks when she saw me, smiling and being
sure to kiss not only both of my cheeks, but also Selene and Viola’s. She kept
a good grip on my wrist, asking me about what I was doing now and how my
parents were, until our teacher offered to show us the gym and Suora Francesca
told me that she would be right back. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
few minutes later, she came down the stairs holding the arm of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Madre Superiore</i>—the Mother Superior. It
is a miracle, in all honesty, that this woman is still alive. I have never seen
someone so ancient. Even ten years ago she had seemed old, but now she was so
frail that I was afraid that if I held her hand too tightly she would crumble. Amazingly,
she remembered me and was all smiles and blessings as she asked me the same
questions—what was I doing now, how are my parents, why was I here. She
wouldn’t let go of my arm and seemed oblivious to the craziness of the other
sisters and Pina running around her, getting ready for the Queen of Nuns. I got
really emotional at this point and almost started crying…meanwhile, Viola was crying
beside me because, as she told me later, it was like watching a reunion in a
movie. I think it really meant a lot for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Madre Superiore</i> to see me and I really loved going back there and visiting
my school. She made me promise that I would come back to visit, but it made me
sad to realize that it might be a while before I’d be able to return to Gaeta,
and she might not be there by the time I get back. </div>
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Hallways (floors were originally Ancient Roman roads)</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YFGt8rHTt1o/UYl5QbHQq-I/AAAAAAAAAgU/8LZ7TEi001I/s1600/IMG_2112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YFGt8rHTt1o/UYl5QbHQq-I/AAAAAAAAAgU/8LZ7TEi001I/s320/IMG_2112.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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The entrance</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wYe9jm0prWg/UYl5SMSmSJI/AAAAAAAAAgc/sN9uWgIHpvw/s1600/IMG_2114.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wYe9jm0prWg/UYl5SMSmSJI/AAAAAAAAAgc/sN9uWgIHpvw/s320/IMG_2114.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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The walkway leading to my school doors</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
rest of our time in rainy Gaeta was spent eating pizza (Roby from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pizzeria Rustica</i> still remembered me!)
and exploring the street that Americans called Piccolo Alley, but everyone else
knows as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Via dell’Indipendenza</i>.
There, I also met the owners of the leather store that my parents had been friends
with (and where my mom had spent many hours shopping) and they remembered me
too! This was very exciting. They even pulled out the Christmas cards we still
send them every year and showed them to me, insisting on giving me a discount
on a beautiful leather wallet, which I brought back as a souvenir. I didn’t get
to see any of my old classmates or teachers (they forgot to check their emails
to set up a rendezvous point with me) but I luckily had the chance to see
Roberta—a classmate and a friend—a month or two ago when she came to visit her
brother in Bologna, which was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">great</i>.
While in Gaeta, we also climbed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">la
Montagna Spaccata</i>, which is a mountain/cliff in Gaeta that was supposedly
split in three the moment Christ died. Whether or not this is true, it’s a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beautiful</i> place, and I used to hike here
with my parents a lot. It was really nice getting outside with trees, breathing
clean air as opposed to city smog. </div>
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Climbing down/up to Montagna Spaccata</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZJvKbNfa-4k/UYl6Rmy-x8I/AAAAAAAAAgo/t0lXmYPfZDU/s1600/IMG_2153.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZJvKbNfa-4k/UYl6Rmy-x8I/AAAAAAAAAgo/t0lXmYPfZDU/s320/IMG_2153.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The split that leads out to the sea</div>
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Selene and Alexandro (what cuties!)</div>
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Viola, Me and Selene</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On
Sunday, before we had to catch our SIX-HOUR INTER-CITY TRAIN (so painful),
Selene and Viola and I took advantage of the Sun (which had finally decided to
show its face) and had a nice walk down on the beach. Selene and Alexandro saw
us off to the train station, where Selene hugged me about fifty times and made
me promise that I would come visit her soon in Perugia, where she goes to
college. </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WhWs-gcEg98/UYl84of-AnI/AAAAAAAAAhM/v8Cj9QQZWSw/s1600/IMG_2299.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WhWs-gcEg98/UYl84of-AnI/AAAAAAAAAhM/v8Cj9QQZWSw/s320/IMG_2299.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was so nice to go back to Gaeta and Formia, but it was also strange. The place
hadn’t changed a lot, other than being quieter with the lack of American base,
but it was very much like seeing an alternate universe. When Selene, Viola,
Alexandro and I all went out to Selene’s favorite bars, she and Alexandro were
welcomed by the owners like family. We met up with some of Selene’s old friends
and traded stories over beers and “Christmas shots” that Selene and Alexandro
insisted that we try. Later we got gelato and walked along the sea, looking out
at the lights across the bay and the boats that rocked with the stormy waves. It
was then that I became incredibly nostalgic for the life I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">could</i> have had. There was even a moment when Selene said very
honestly and abruptly: “things weren’t good after you left” and I thought…what
if I hadn’t left? I could’ve grown up there, beside the sea, still speaking
Italian every day and traveling throughout the world on spring vacations or
three-day weekends. I would’ve gone to Morgana’s Bar or The Dutchman with
Selene and Alexandro and their friends on the weekend, and it would’ve been <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> greeting the bartender by name. I
probably would’ve gone to Perugia for college with Selene and we would have
commuted home every month or so to return to the south, where the sun and my
parents and everything I had grown up with still waited for me. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
the locked gates of the base gave off an eerie, ghost-town sort of vibe. I have
been back to Gaeta three times since I first left ten years ago, but this
fourth time was the strangest, if only because I was so much older than the
other times I visited. I didn’t quite fit there anymore, as much as I wanted
to, and maybe that was the strangest part. Knowing that the place you had
always considered to be “home” had somehow changed—or maybe <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> had—and it wasn’t quite what you
thought it to be anymore. </div>
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But that view of Gaeta early Sunday
morning, when the Sun had just hit the water and everyone else in the house was
still asleep, felt so familiar to me that I stood out on that balcony for
almost an hour, perfectly content in watching the city wake up and remembering
all those other mornings that started exactly the same way, just ten years ago
to this month. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-84172463569437145022013-05-06T17:27:00.001-07:002013-05-06T17:27:06.340-07:00Visitors & Living in the Now
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So there are two important things
that happened in March and April! Even big events such as people coming to
visit me all the way from America seem easy to forget with everything that’s
going on, but I thought I would rewind just one more time for all of you to
recall those significant 6 days that each set of visitors spent here in Bologna
with me. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sam
came to visit me in March! Which was extremely exciting! I managed to find him
an apartment nearby to stay in (my dorm has very strict visitor policies) which
was small and had a somewhat-dangerous bathroom, but served its purpose. I had
a lot of plans to show him around and travel, but as is very usual in Bologna
in March, the weather was dismal. We <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i>
manage a wonderful day in Venice, which is a city that never gets old, no
matter how many times you visit. Also, the light drizzle of rain did not take
away from the beauty of Venice’s canals and windy alleyways. I really loved
showing Sam around, since I know Venice pretty well, having traveled there so
many times with my parents. I think that ended up being the most successful
travel day of his trip. We also did a half-day trip to Ravenna to see the
mosaics again…and then a disastrous trip to Siena in which we:</div>
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(1). Took the train to Florence
from Bologna in the morning.</div>
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(2). The train from Bologna to
Florence was delayed.</div>
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(3). When we finally got to
Florence we waited for a bus to arrive to take us to Siena.</div>
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(4). We got on the wrong bus.
Rather than taking us on the highway, it took us on back country roads and
stopped at every. single. little. town. on the way to Siena.</div>
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(5). Over-eager, I made us get off
the bus at the bottom of the hill of Siena. Siena is at the top of the hill. </div>
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(6). We climbed for about two
hours, getting lost multiple times, until we finally reached the city center. </div>
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(7). At this point it was 3 p.m…so
everything was closed. And it was grey and raining. </div>
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(8). We ate a spectacular lunch.</div>
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(9). The tower in the Campo was
closed due to rain. We went to the church instead, which was beautiful.</div>
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(9). We struggled to find the bus
ticket booth to get back to Florence. We got on the correct bus this time. </div>
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(10). We made it to Bologna and
crashed, completely exhausted. </div>
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This day-trip to Siena was physically
and emotionally draining. It was probably the most difficult traveling I’ve
dealt with, just because one thing kept piling on top of the other. Other than
these small days of traveling, I toured Sam around Bologna, which involved a
lot of food-eating. Welcome to Bologna. </div>
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Siena!</div>
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On the Rialto in Venice</div>
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The top of Asinelli Tower in Bologna</div>
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My parents also came to visit! They
came quite recently in April. We stayed in Bologna for the most part, but spent
two days in the city of Lucca, in Tuscany. We really went full-circle with this
trip: the only other time we visited Lucca, I was eight years old. I had been
incredibly excited about this completely-walled medieval city for weeks and it
was just my luck that as soon as we got there, I had developed an incredibly
high fever and became so delirious that I woke up in the middle of the night,
babbling in Italian. It was at this point that my mother discovered that every
time I had come home from Italian school claiming to have learned nothing was
all a lie. I was apparently fluent in Italian. Or at least I was in my
fever-induced state. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
a result, I didn’t really get to see the city I had been so excited to see. My
eight year-old-self was always very disappointed by this. My parents were nice
enough to take me back there this time! We even stayed in the same hotel that I
had originally gotten sick in. Luckily, this time, there was no fever. We spent
a wonderful two days touring around the medieval city and eating way too much. In
the morning of our second day, we rented bikes and rode them along the walls of
the city (the walls are so wide that there is a huge bike/walking/running path
that runs along the top of them, so that you can look down at the city or the
moat on either side the entire time). We also rode our bikes into the city and
got a bunch of sliced meat, cheese, vegetables and bread and had a huge picnic
up on the walls in the sunshine. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once
back in Bologna, I showed my parents around the city. They really had just
wanted to get a feel for how I was living here in Italy and I think I succeeded
in showing them…again, mainly through food. I also was able to tell them a lot
about the history of the city thanks to my Urban History class, which was
really cool. I was kind of surprised by how much I had learned since being here!
Marta and Viola cooked my parents a feast, just as they had done for Sam. Both
dinners with my roommates were really fun and I can’t express enough how
grateful I am for the apartment I was placed in. They are just such a wonderful
people. </div>
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In Lucca</div>
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Riding bikes!</div>
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Lucca's walls</div>
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Cooking dinner with Marta</div>
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:)</div>
<br />
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My absolute favorite picture ever.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was strange having people from home here. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I have a very Military-brat type of mentality when
abroad: when I’m in a new place, I immerse myself completely. My contact with
“home” is limited, if only because as a kid, I grew up knowing that “home” was
not the place I had left behind, but the new place that I was in at that
moment—and the one that would follow soon after, just three years later. This
should explain to some of you why I’ve been so bad at keeping in touch
throughout this semester: not out of lack of love, but just a lack of
consciousness of what “home” is. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because
of this, I have the world of Bologna and the worlds of Virginia Beach and
Fredericksburg very divided. Having people come from one place into the other
was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> weird. It was like their
faces didn’t fit on my streets here, just as I’m sure it’ll be strange when I
visit the American friends I’ve made here when we’re all back in the States. I
know that not everyone goes through their semester abroad like this—a lot of
people spend hours skyping family and friends every week. There is nothing
wrong with this way of studying abroad! I completely understand the need to
stay in touch with the people you feel closest to. I’ve just realized that
being raised by the Navy means that when I’m in a place, I’m in it completely.
I’m looking forward to my summer at home and my Senior year at UMW, but I can
still wait for it to come. Right now, I’m enjoying the moment and the people
here. Speaking of right now, it’s 2:30 a.m. and tomorrow I have to study for my
exams, in addition to writing an update about my trips to Gaeta and Barcelona. I
should probably head off to bed soon!</div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16px;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
if I’ve been out of touch, but you still stop by this blog from time to time, this
is my way of reaching out and letting you know that thousands of miles away,
I’m still thinking about you occasionally. I’m just very much invested in my
time here; and let’s be honest, that’s how it should be, right? Virginia Beach
and Fredericksburg will still be waiting for me on May 31st. I only have
Bologna and Europe for these next few weeks and I’m going to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">be</i> here completely as much as I can
before these five amazing months come to a close and I have to figure out how
to go back to normal.</span><!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-63224296463679519972013-05-01T17:54:00.000-07:002013-05-01T22:09:09.995-07:00Flashes of Greece<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Weeks
later, my memories of Greece are a blur of turquoise waters, blazing sun, and
the smell of gyros wafting from street vendors. We left for Rhodes, Greece—the
eastern-most island of the country, just a few miles of ocean away from
Turkey—a few days after our program trip to Naples. After having spent so long
in the dreary grey cloud of Bologna, we were desperate for some sunshine and we
found it. Maybe a little too much of it. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While
I think of my other trips in the form of a timeline (one tourist attraction to
the next), Greece is best thought of in moments. I think of our beautiful
terrace in the apartment we rented, right in the center of Old Town. It was on
that terrace that, on the first day, I woke up before everyone else and spent
the first hours of daybreak looking out across the rooftops of what used to be
the homes of the Knights Templar. These led down to the blue waters, across which
were the hazy forms of other islands and, most exciting of all, Turkey. It was
on that terrace that I also, shamefully, got so sunburned (along with Lily,
Krystal and Sami) that I resembled a nice pink lobster. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When
I think about Greece I think about the food. Oh, the food. We woke up every
morning and went to the center of town to get frozen yogurt with strawberries
and kiwi. We ate our weight in gyros (chicken or lamb and beef with onions,
tomatoes, cucumbers, French fries and tzatziki sauce wrapped up in freshly-made
pita bread). Writing about this now is making me incredibly hungry.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
think about the hours we spent late at night, taking advantage of the wifi and
watching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Say Yes to the Dress</i> with
Krystal’s iPad and Netflix. For days we debated the pros and cons of certain
wedding dress designs and the ridiculousness of reality television shows…all
the while obsessively pressing the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">next</i>
button.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
remember being able to wear shorts and flip flops and best of all, tank tops. I
remember the incredible feeling of getting to wear a sundress as a light breeze
flitted through the ancient streets of Rhodes. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
remember laughing incredulously the first night we got there. I laughed at the
taxi drivers who struggled to communicate with us in Italian <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> English as we struggled in return,
with our very limited knowledge of the Greek language. I laughed, completely
shocked, when we left Old Town to go into New Town in search of a gyro stand
that was open late and we realized that the division between and Old Town and
New Town was not like in the rest of Europe, in which the city center is
usually the historical center. No, Old Town was, indeed, a completely separate
entity from New Town—divided by its original medieval walls, a bridge, and a
moat. I laughed as the men who stood outside of the touristy restaurants,
yelled to us and called us “sexy ladies”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and invited us to eat at their venue (which is obviously
the best way to make people want to eat at your establishment). </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
love to think of the history of Rhodes—a beautiful combination of classical
ancient Greece, the medieval ages, steeped in the tradition of the Christianity
of the Crusades, Jewish synagogues, Turkish architecture, and beautiful mosques
that pierce the skyline. There are little alleyways with cobblestones that have
grass growing up between their edges. Doorways are studded with pebbles and
seashells, forming a mosaic in front of every household. From there, ancient,
wrinkled yaya’s (grandmothers) sit on their wicker chairs and watch as the city
strolls by. The shops all open out to these ancient streets, as they must’ve
done a thousand years ago, selling their goods and calling out to customers
that pass them on the street. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
have those few pictures that attempted to capture the pristine, turquoise
waters that surround the island. The waves rocked gently beneath the gleaming
hulls of sailboats and the rusty bottoms of fishing vessels. The water was too
cold to swim in, but we walked across the pebbled beaches, stones and shells
sticking between our toes, and let the waves lap up onto our ankles. The
sunburn on our shoulders and the warmth of the sun still beating down kept us
warm, despite the fact that our toes slowly began to go numb. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
enjoyed the feeling of sleeping in and staying up late. I liked taking part in
the cultural experience of Greece’s siesta (that extends from 1 pm to about 6
pm—nice life they have) and napping as the sun was at its highest peak. I liked
not rushing from class to class and not worrying about the future. The stress
of college has never been further from my mind. Here, the lines between fantasy
and reality blurred. Never again will I be twenty-one in my rented apartment in
an island in Greece, waking to the sounds of laundry on the clotheslines,
snapping in the wind and a man’s voice emerging from a speakerphone as he
drives through the city, advertising the fresh strawberries he has in the
basket on the back of his moped. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
most of all, I like to think on the three nights we spent eating at a
restaurant called Nireas. After the first night, we knew we had to return…an
unlucky bout of rough winds kept our plane leaving on our last day and so we
came back to Nireas for a third time, always welcome. I remember studying <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">xenia</i> in high school—<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">the
generosity and courtesy shown to those who are far from home. It is often
translated as “guest-friendship.” Theo, the owner and head honcho of Nireas,
and his wife and father (Pappou!) were a true testament to this idea of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">xenia</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lily
and I had originally scoped out this restaurant because we noticed that the
menu included spicy feta cheese as an appetizer. Theo, a man in his 40’s,
welcomed us into his restaurant for the first time as if were old friends and
gave us a table under low archways and candles. When he took our order, he sat
down at our table with us and didn’t just rush us through our food, but was
meticulous in helping us chose food we would enjoy or food that was typically
Greek. We <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feasted</i> all three nights. I
can’t even remember the amount of food we had: mussels, lamb and crab cakes,
grilled vegetables, fried potatoes, Greek salad, prawns stuffed with lobster,
olives, bread soaked in oil and then dessert…baklava coated in cinnamon,
apple pie topped with fresh cream, chocolate cake so dense that Krystal had to
take a break halfway through eating it…all delicious. Theo provided us with
free beer each night and free, homemade limoncello and grappa on our other
nights. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
Theo also provided us with conversation. We learned about his life and his sons
(studying in America; they speak Italian, Greek and English and are studying to
do business and become a doctor). We learned about how he met his wife
Constance, a quiet but sarcastic American woman, and convinced her to vacation
with him in Paris for a month…and then move to Greece with him. As youngsters,
they would sleep in a tent outside on the beach and would be woken by the sun,
which signaled the start of a day of fishing in the waters of Rhodes and
cooking their catches on the beach. We heard stories from Pappou, Theo’s
90-year old father, who had lived through World War II. He told us about
the Italian occupation of the island and how he had been forced to forgo his
education in Greek and only learn Italian (hence why we were able to speak with
him). He told us about his brother dying in the war and showed us pictures of
his mother and her family…and his wife, who had died many years before. We were
informed that Pappou had come very close to becoming engaged multiple times as
a young man…apparently he had been quite the charmer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
restaurant was just so personable and friendly. Other patrons would begin
speaking to one another from across the tables and, finally fed up with the
distance, would just move their plates over to their neighbor’s table to eat
dinner together. Dinner lasted for almost four hours. There, we met a member of
Italian parliament and saw an ambassador for the Czech Republic. We were made
fun of for our sunburns by Greeks who were eating there and we laughed about it
with no worries for the fact that we did indeed look like lobsters. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By
the end of our dinners there, Theo was calling us “his girls” and was trying to
set us up with one or both of his sons. He even told us we could work at the
restaurant over the summer, if we ever got the chance to come back to Rhodes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hospitality
continued onto Italy, where wonderful Paola—a friend of Valeria’s, who stayed
with me over Thanksgiving when she was visiting our mutual friend—happened to
live in Bergamo. This became very handy when our plane that was cancelled was
rescheduled the next day at night, in which we were scheduled to arrive in Rome
at midnight. There would be no trains to Bologna at that hour…we would have to
sleep in the airport until the next morning. Breaking RyanAir law, we got off
early in Bergamo (just outside of Milan), and I called Paola. This
angel-of-a-girl picked us up from the airport, drove us to her house, cooked us
dinner, helped us figure out train tickets, and then woke up at 5:30 a.m. to
drive us back to the train station so that we could get to Milan…and then
Bologna…and then our first class of the day at 9:30 a.m.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
can’t express how much fun I had in Greece. It was a very different experience
from any of my other travels thus far and it was truly beautiful. The sunshine,
the food, the people…I loved it all. Even if our last forty-eight hours were
slightly stressful with the cancellation, rescheduling and delay of our flight,
it ended well. It comes back in flashes, sometimes, when I think about the
smell of spices at the gyro stand or the burn of sun soaking into my skin. Traveling
to Rhodes made me realize, as corny as it sounds, how much of the world there
is left for me to explore and how there are places that I must return to
someday. There are some places that take root in your heart, calling you back
even years later to explore it once more. Rhodes, I know, is one of those
places. My home in Gaeta is also one of those places…and it called me back just
this past weekend, where I spent a few, precious days with old friends, walking
down the halls of my old elementary school. That story, unfortunately, will have
to wait. It’s much too late at night and I’m getting up early tomorrow to leave
for Barcelona.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many more
adventures to come! And just one more month before I go home to Virginia Beach.
I’m not sure how this has all gone by so fast, but I’m wishing that I had just
a few more weeks, a few more days of sunshine, if only to return again to
Rhodes, to hear Theo yell out “my girls!” and welcome us back under those old
archways and talk once more about Greek culture and the freshness of the olives
that came in just this morning from his neighbor’s farm. </span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-91800824191825015002013-05-01T16:06:00.002-07:002013-05-01T17:29:37.021-07:00Mozzarella Madness<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
am currently curled up in my bed in a t-shirt and shorts, my heavy duvet cover
fallen on the floor beside me. Spring has finally come to Bologna and I am <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> happy. However, the days are slipping
by much too fast and I’ve realized that while I have been catching up with
writing posts about daily Bolognese life, I haven’t written anything on my
travels. April has gotten away from me, but before May starts to slip away as
well, I’m taking you all south to a sprawling, dirty, colorful metropolis known
as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Napoli</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
is a saying in the Neapolitan dialect that essentially states that once you’ve
seen Naples, you can die, because you have now seen all the riches the world
has to offer. But there is also a saying that goes something along the lines
of, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">si è
nato a Napule</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">,
<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">ce vò</span>' <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">murí</span></span></i><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">. It comes from an
old Neapolitan song called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Santa Lucia
Luntana</i> and it means that if you were born in Naples, you will come back
here to die. It’s the idea that the place really settles into your bones—a
feeling that can’t be replaced by other cities or climates, but one that
consumes you entirely with nostalgia. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh
hey guess what guys? I was born in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Napoli</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Okay,
technically, I was born in Pozzuoli, which is essentially Naples. Of course, I
don’t think Naples has found its way into the recesses of my soul. I was born
there, but I didn’t grow up there. No, that spot of honor is reserved for
Gaeta, the quiet little beach-town just about an hour north of Naples, where I
spent three formidable years in Italian school. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
the air was the same when I stepped off the train that had brought me all the
way down from cloudy, rainy Bologna. It’s such a distinct smell that I’m
surprised I forgot it—the salt of the sea air, the wafts of fried food, the
trash that litters the streets…and sunshine. Oh, the sunshine. If sunshine had
a smell, southern Italy has it in bounds. All of it smelled like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">home</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
had such a stupid grin on my face, walking through the doors of the train
station and out onto the bustling street of what was once one of the Roman
Empire’s proudest cities. It was loud and out of control. Taxi drivers were
yelling at each other, cars honked furiously on the streets, there was music
playing somewhere, immigrants eagerly moved towards us with their flashing
gadgets, trying to convince us to spend three euro on a toilet bowl cigarette
lighter, and everywhere you turned, there was the smoke of cigarettes clogging
the air. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">great</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
got on our bus, which took us to our hotel, which was big and nice and facing
the Bay of Naples just next to the ports. We had a few minutes to put our stuff
into our rooms (I was rooming with Lily) and then comeback downstairs to go to
lunch and then our next destination. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
restaurant we went to was just around the corner from the hotel, so it too had
wonderful views of the water, with wide windows that opened up to the sea and
the fresh air. ECCO’S staff (the wonderful Giuliana, the formidable
Mariantonnieta and the spectacular Ivan Tassi) all informed us that we would be
eating a very quick lunch, so be sure not to dilly-dally…and by quick lunch,
they actually meant a three course meal, plus coffee. Thinking that we needed
to eat as quickly as possible, we ended up devouring the three plates of
appetizer-type food that the waiters first brought out to us. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This</i> was the food I remembered from
Italy: fried zucchini, bread made with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">salt</i>
(why why why is northern Italian bread made out of flavorless sawdust?),
tomatoes filled with rice and meat, peppers and eggplant and all of these are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">vegetables</i>—do you see a pattern? We were
very far from Bologna’s world of heavy meat sauces and hunks of lard (lard is a
specialty in Bologna and I don’t know why—who thought that was ever a good
idea?). And then…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mozzarella di buffula</i>.
I’m surprised that everyone in the program didn’t kill me over the amount of
times I freaked out about real mozzarella…I had only been talking about it
non-stop for the two weeks leading up to the trip. There is a distinctly
different taste between mozzarella made with cow’s milk and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> mozzarella, made with water
buffalo’s milk. Even certain northern Italians are not used to the strong taste
of southern mozzarella, as it almost has a sour tang to it (I gave some to
Viola once and she spat it out—she had never had it before). It’s hard to
describe, but I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">love</i> it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
after eating two mozzarella’s (seeing my enthusiasm over the cheese, the young
Italian girl who is an intern for ECCO gave me hers, claiming to dislike it—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">blasphemy</i>), we all leaned back and
smiled contentedly, thinking that was our quick lunch and now we would be on
our way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Until
the waiters came around the corner with dishes filled to the brim with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gnocchi alla Sorrentina</i>: little gnocchi
(southern Italian gnocchi tend to be smaller and lighter than their northern
counterparts) with delicious tomato sauce, melted mozzarella, and basil. The
smell coming from those little pots of gnocchi was delicious, so we forced
ourselves to eat almost all of it before the waiters then brought us out a
lemon rum cream cake, which I of course had to eat, before sliding down in my
chair and slipping into a food coma. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>ECCO’s
staff forced our over-stuffed selves out of the restaurant and back onto the
bus. We drove through Naples (there were piles of trash <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everywhere</i> along the roads) and headed in the direction of Mt.
Vesuvius: we were going to Pompeii. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
have been to Pompeii multiple times, so originally I was grumbling about having
to go back again. But I quickly realized that my first few times in Pompeii, I
was under the age of twelve and most of my knowledge of the place came from
that famous <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Magic Tree House </i>book in
which those kids go back in time and almost get charred to a crisp from the
exploding volcano. My most recent visit to Pompeii was on my trip with Mrs.
Wilgus and my high school classmates, but I remember the weather being so
ridiculously hot that I was pretty much incapable of paying attention. This
trip to Pompeii was great because I was old enough to truly appreciate the
history and was also able to focus, as I was not baking under the summer sun.
This time, the nice, crisp breeze blew through the crumbling streets of
Pompeii, almost chilling us, if not for the sun—so much bigger in the sky down
in the south—which was slowly setting throughout our time in the ruins.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FWTwkKdtN3A/UYGcc_UujwI/AAAAAAAAAaI/oygMujwWWeo/s1600/IMG_7385_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FWTwkKdtN3A/UYGcc_UujwI/AAAAAAAAAaI/oygMujwWWeo/s320/IMG_7385_2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
THESE LEMONS.</div>
<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Dxpsfl5Qrt8/UYGcb2cOhbI/AAAAAAAAAaA/kTdnZmswYDk/s1600/IMG_7406_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Dxpsfl5Qrt8/UYGcb2cOhbI/AAAAAAAAAaA/kTdnZmswYDk/s320/IMG_7406_2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YdfA4PqrFDM/UYGcdX4LpqI/AAAAAAAAAaM/fej5ZEgMGQ8/s1600/IMG_7441.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YdfA4PqrFDM/UYGcdX4LpqI/AAAAAAAAAaM/fej5ZEgMGQ8/s320/IMG_7441.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
tour guide, Alessandro, was really good. He did a great combination of history
and humor and I really felt like I learned a lot. After the tour, while
waiting for our bus to pick us up, we went to one of the stands just outside
the walls of Pompeii, and got freshly-squeezed orange and lemon juice. It was
delicious and it was a lot of fun, sitting out on the curb as the sun lit
everything with a golden glow, talking and marveling at the fact that we were
wearing short-sleeves. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
got back to Naples and were free for the rest of the night, which meant that we
were on our own for dinner. With wifi in the hotel, I did some online research
with my iPod and attempted to find a good restaurant in the immediate area.
This was a challenge, as we were a little bit of a walk from the real center of
the city. However, I found a place that sounded promising (a small <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">trattoria</i> in a piazza surrounded by old
palaces and ‘fashionable boutiques’, according to TripAdvisor). Krystal got
walking directions from GoogleMaps on her phone and so along with Lily and Megan,
the four of us made our way out of the hotel, on the hunt for this cute little <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">trattoria</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
first few directions took us just a few streets up from our hotel, where there
was a well-lit main street filled with small grocery stores, touristy restaurants,
and families. We took a left onto an alleyway that led us up the hill…and
walked into a completely different world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
alleyway was at a sharp incline on the hill and there was very little light
leading the way up the uneven cobblestones. We walked by a group of about ten
children from the ages of about four to thirteen, playing soccer, barefoot and
unsupervised, at nine o’clock at night. We walked by women whose hair was
unkempt and cigarettes hung from limp fingers as they watched us suspiciously as
we walked by, blowing smoke into our faces. The doors to the houses along the
alleyway were all open to the street and everyone was eating dinner. I saw one
little boy run up to the open door of a house and make faces at another little
boy sitting at the table before the mother inside the house yelled, “Get out,
go on! He’ll be done eating soon and then you two can play, but let us eat!”
And the little boy making faces ran off, peeking his head into other doors
along the street. A man wrung out his laundry in a bucket filled with suds out
on the street, singing loudly in that thick, confusing Neapolitan accent as his
radio chimed in as well. The walls of the buildings were covered with lines of
laundry and the occasional shrine to the Mother Mary, which was framed by
rotting flowers and candles that were melted down to the wick. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
we became acutely aware of how American and, more specifically, how wealthy we
looked. As romantic and typically Italian that scene above might sound, there was
also the large amount of men leaning against the walls, their faces hidden by
shadows, that watched us eagerly as we walked by. Out of instinct, we began
speaking to each other in Italian, but even that was dangerous because our
accents (and our clothes, obviously) immediately gave away the fact that we
were not Italians. I tried to talk the loudest, doing my best to imitate the
southern accent, but I had always had trouble really getting the wishy-washy
Neapolitan sound down. The best I could do was sound nonchalant as men began to
follow us down the street and we laughed at “what the boys would do” when we
finally met up with, just down the road. It’s hard to describe exactly what it
was…but there was just a very distinct <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feeling</i>
in the air that we shouldn’t be there. We stood out and not in a good way.
Krystal kept her iPhone out and kept charging forward, apparently determined to
reach this <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">trattoria</i>, but we finally
managed to grab her and turn her around, going back the way we came.
Eventually, the men lost interest in catcalling at us and following us, and we
made it back onto the main street with no problems. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was quite the experience and although I would not highly recommend for anyone
to go searching for the outskirts of Naples’ more dangerous areas when visiting
(it is, after all, not the safest city), I don’t regret walking up that hill. I
actually was really lamenting the fact that I couldn’t pull my camera out and
take pictures while we were there; although that would have immediately alerted
all possible pick-pockets in the area to come my way, it would have been so
neat to capture the feel of that place. It was Naples to its core and I don’t
think it’s very often that tourists wander into the midst of those streets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Still
a little shaken from our experience, we met some of the other girls from the
program at a restaurant that was very touristy and safely situated on the main
street, in which the food was terrible and over-priced. We luckily made up for
this one terrible meal with the wonderful ones that followed throughout the
rest of the weekend. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next day we got up early to take a bus along the Amalfi Coast. Unfortunately,
it was rainy and grey out, but there is very little that can dull the beauty of
that coastline. Our bus was clinging to the road alongside the windy cliffs,
zig-zagging back and forth with sometimes alarming speed, until reaching the
city of Positano. It took us about 20 minutes to climb down the hill to the
city, which was quite the trek. I’ve been to Positano with my parents quite a
few times, as it’s one of our favorite places. A lot of the buildings are all whitewashed,
with purple flowers and massive lemons hanging down from trellises. We walked
around for a little bit, did some shopping (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">limoncello!</i>),
and made sure to walk alongside the water. Afterwards, a group of us decided to
avoid the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">extremely</i> over-priced and
expensive tourist restaurants down by the water (again, English-speakers <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everywhere</i>) and we climbed up the hill a
little bit and found a restaurant that was priced normally. We sat outside
despite the slight chill in the air and had a wonderful view of the steeped
hill of Positano, studded with its tiled church and little villa’s. The food
was delicious—I had my second <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gnocchi
alla Sorrentina</i> of the trip and did not regret it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A-NVaxJLtPg/UYGc4_DG8hI/AAAAAAAAAac/_9dqJI2Dlpc/s1600/IMG_7631.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A-NVaxJLtPg/UYGc4_DG8hI/AAAAAAAAAac/_9dqJI2Dlpc/s320/IMG_7631.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Springtime!</div>
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-egGutSGl5uI/UYGc51nBgXI/AAAAAAAAAao/S6j59FjWYwQ/s1600/IMG_7633_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-egGutSGl5uI/UYGc51nBgXI/AAAAAAAAAao/S6j59FjWYwQ/s320/IMG_7633_2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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View of Positano from our restaurant</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WDzlVfuOgD4/UYGc4uQkVXI/AAAAAAAAAaY/ScTRUsiY3VY/s1600/IMG_7640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WDzlVfuOgD4/UYGc4uQkVXI/AAAAAAAAAaY/ScTRUsiY3VY/s320/IMG_7640.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Gnocchi alla sorrentina!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
Positano, we climbed up the hill again (so. many. stairs.) to get to our bus,
which took us back along the coastline to the city of Amalfi, where we toured
the Church there and ate more <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sfogliatelle</i>
pastries (typical of the south) and then explored for a bit before it began
pouring rain. We hurried onto the bus and headed back to Naples. Our bus driver
was nice enough to drop us off at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Da
Michele, </i>which is the most famous <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pizzeria</i>
in Napoli. You may remember it from the scenes in which Julia Roberts devours
pizza in the movie <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eat, Pray, Love</i>.
It’s been around since 1870 and it only served two types of pizza: the classic <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">margherita</i> (tomatoes, mozzarella, basil)
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">marinara</i> (tomatoes and oregano).
Normally, when coming at dinner time around eight p.m. the wait to get into <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Da Michele</i> can be as long as three
hours. However, we fortunately arrived at around six p.m., so we only had to
wait twenty minutes. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pizzaiuoli</i>
(the men who make the pizza) kept up a steady production of pizzas, never stopping
to rest. I couldn’t see the face of the guy who was rolling out the dough, as
his head was entirely obstructed by an enormous pile of basil. We all got <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">margherita</i> pizza, which was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">delicious</i>, and the place was really loud
and chaotic and fun. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Pizza boxes galore</div>
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Churning out the pizzas</div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
our experience the night before, we thought it would be better to be back in
the hotel a little earlier. We ended up getting gelato at a place right by our
hotel and then crashed in our rooms to watch <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Harry Potter</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Extreme
Makeover: Home Edition</i> in Italian. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next morning, we woke up extremely excited to go to the island of Capri…only to
find out that the waters were too “agitated” for the boats to cross. We were
stuck in Naples for the day. This was somewhat disheartening. I didn’t know of
many things to do in Naples and it was also rainy and incredibly windy. The
good news is it was Easter Sunday. So four of us had at least one activity to
do: Mass. We walked all over Naples’ dirty, flooded streets, looking for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Duomo</i> and we arrived thirty minutes late
to the service. It was a very neat experience. The churches (and all the
buildings in Naples, for that matter) have a sort of strange air about them—a
mix of smog-smothered marble and ornate, golden window frames. I didn’t
understand a lot of the service (Latin and antiquated Italian are not my strong
suits) but it was still worth the long walk with our sodden shoes. Afterwards,
we met up with other people in the program and explored Naples some more. It
became pretty miserable at one point, what with the pelting rain and wind, so
we trekked over to Castel d’Ovo (a castle that extends out onto the water) and
ate a three-hour lunch there in the shelter of a restaurant with heat lamps. By
the time we had finished our lunch it was sunny out and we enjoyed some
precious sunlit moments out by the ocean. I’ve missed the smell of salt and
brine more than I could imagine. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Easter Mass</div>
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Mozzarella!</div>
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Enjoying the sunshine</div>
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Strolling alongside the ports</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Like
true southern Italians, we took a nap in the afternoon afterwards. We met in
the early evening to do a tour of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Napoli
sottoterranea</i>—Naples underground. The tour was led by a very Neapolitan
young man: tight dark jeans, denim shirt, laced-up boots and slicked-back hair.
His accent was pretty strong, which made his Italian difficult to understand.
Luckily, having lived just about an hour north of Naples, I had some experience
with this sort of speech and I could understand a lot of what was being said. I
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">loved</i> the humor in the tour. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Essentially,
we were touring what was originally a Greek well, which then became an
underground Roman aqueduct. Eventually, Renaissance palaces were built
throughout the city and each of them had a direct line to the waterways. During
this time, the rich lords of the palaces had these little men employed to them
(I say “little” because their job actually required them to be of a short
stature) who would almost live down in these waterways (there were walkways
down there as well) to maintain the still-usable aqueducts. Whenever it was
time for these little water-men to be paid, they would dirty the water. With this,
the lords would pull up a bucket from their personal well, see the dirty water,
and know it was time to leave a little pile of coins along the rim of the well
for their water-men. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
wells for these palaces were directly within the palaces most times. There’s an
urban legend that these well-men would be climbing up the walls of the well to
either go home or collect their money (climbing using only their hands and feet
in foot-holds, straight up 40 m) and they’d take a peep into these palaces’ windows.
Whoops! The well-man might see the lady of the house, undressing. And then
maybe the well-man and the lady would have a little affair. She’d leave gifts
for him around the house for him to pick up when he’d sneak in. If the lord
demanded an explanation for what the gifts were for, the lady would simper and
tell her husband not to worry, she had to leave gifts out for the “ghost of the
well.” It’s bad luck of she doesn’t!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
boy on the tour then made a joke about his Grandma and it was at this point of
the tour that we discovered that the old man holding the flashlight throughout
the tour was the young man’s Grandfather. He promptly yelled at him, gave him a
slap on the head, and swore to all of us that his wife had never been involved
with any of these well-men. The comedy of this duo was adorable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>These
wells and aqueducts were expanded during World War II. Italians dug out a
staircase and painted the lower walls white, so as to reflect light better.
People would come down here during bombings. They even built toilets and dug
out little caves for people to live in. It spread throughout the entire city
underground and could shelter approximately 270,000 people. Artists, poets and
musicians escaped down here. As such, the best graffiti of Naples is underground—the
pictures and drawings down there are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beautiful</i>.
A young couple named Anna and Renzo were married down there. They got to have
their own little alcove to sleep on their wedding-night, above which they
carved their names and wedding date. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CElH9wmp1Zg/UYGfJTtt18I/AAAAAAAAAb4/DZK7AGOvP3Y/s1600/IMG_7894.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CElH9wmp1Zg/UYGfJTtt18I/AAAAAAAAAb4/DZK7AGOvP3Y/s320/IMG_7894.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
tour was just a really neat, different experience. Afterwards, we went to a
restaurant called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brandi</i>, where the
first <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">margherita</i> pizza was invented
for Queen Margherita. This was a wonderful dinner mainly because most of our
program was there—including Giuliana and Ivan! Any dinner with our favorites
within the ECCO staff is guaranteed to be a good one and the pizza was also
delicious. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next day, we went on a walking tour led by our Pompeii guide, Alessandro, who
taught us a few things:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Naples
is a weird combination of Catholicism and lingering pagan traditions. For
example, most Neapolitans are very superstitious. A lot of them carry a tiny
symbol of Naples with them at all times, for good luck: that little red pepper
made out of coral. Only today do people recognize it as a pepper. Before, it
was actually the horn of the Roman god of fortune, which was then later
converted into a pepper to be more Christian-friendly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Back in
the good ol’ days, Naples used to be one of the largest Roman cities (and later
European cities) in the world. It still has the longest-standing Roman road in
the entire world (called “Spacca Napoli”). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Because
of its geographical position and the direction of the windflow, Naples has
never been affected by the eruptions of Vesuvius. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Along <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Spacca Napoli</i>, vegetable and
bread-sellers would make their way down the street, yelling up to the people in
the buildings. Typically, the woman of the house would emerge on the balcony
and yell back before lowering a basket on a rope down to street level.
Vegetables and bread would be exchanged via basket and if the woman didn’t pay
him, the vendor would stand there for hours, screaming about how she had robbed
him. He’d create such a ruckus that all her neighbors would emerge, staring,
and she’d <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> to pay him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Naples
was occupied by the Spanish for a while, who were the first to introduce a
mafia-centered culture to the city. The long, sloping alleyways in the center
of the city that lead up the hill were originally built as barracks for Spanish
soldiers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">After
the tour, I stopped by a grocery store and bought a ball of mozzarella and ate
it like an apple in the hotel lobby before heading to the train station. I feel
no shame whatsoever. From there, I took a luxurious ride in Italo’s First Class
cabin (the only tickets left available) in which I ate and drank for free and
watched the rugged, southern landscape roll away and fade until I was back on
the flat, green plains of Emilia-Romagna. Once in Bologna, I had just a few
days to myself…before getting on a plane and heading to Greece. But that is
another story <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Wingdings;">:)</span></span><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-47265739122140986902013-04-22T13:28:00.000-07:002013-04-22T13:28:50.636-07:00Vignette # 8: City Happenings
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There have also been a few things
happening around the city of Bologna that are worth mentioning, if only to give
you a better idea of my home. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometime
in February, there was a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">massive</i>
concert celebrating a recently-deceased Italian singer Lucio Dalla at which
many other semi-famous Italian singers came and sang the artist’s original
songs in order to honor his memory. I didn’t realize how big of a deal it was
until Viola, Sami and I made our way to the city center and we discovered that
the entire city of Bologna was crammed into <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza
Maggiore</i> and the surrounding streets. The concert itself was just in front
of the Neptune statue in the piazza, but people were milling about the streets
as far back as the two towers. The music was being projected on speakers
everywhere and there were multiple screens showing what was happening on the
main stage. It was, essentially, one big city-wide party. There is no
open-container law in Italy, so everyone was drinking and toasting one another
in the streets. People had climbed on top of dumpsters and newspaper stands
(which are fairly tall) and were sitting on them, swaying back and forth while
singing, their arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders. It was an odd
combination of students and the elderly and middle-aged adults and families
with small children. The closer we got to the stage, the more people there
were, but Viola seemed determined to drag us right to the front. We ended up
stepping on a lot of people’s toes (literally and figuratively) and only
managed not to lose each other by holding hands and forming a human chain the
entire way. There was one particularly amusing moment in the throngs of the
crowd in which a grungy old homeless man got his daily thrill when pinching me
from behind, but he was not prepared for the furious glare and violent “HEY!”
that came his way afterwards and he quickly pushed his way through the people
to get away from me. The concert overall was really fun, but we couldn’t find
Marta anywhere (we had originally said that we would meet her there) and
eventually we gave up trying to push to the front of the crowd and snagged some
gelato before heading back to Forni. </div>
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Incredibly squished!</div>
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Climbing for a better view</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Something
interesting that has been occurring in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza
Maggiore </i>on a regular basis: every week or so, a man wearing that infamous
mask from the movie <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">V for Vendetta</i>
comes into the piazza with two short step-stools. He then sets them opposite of
each other with a good amount of space in between the two and encourages random
passersby to join him in discussion. A circle forms around the stools and
citizens of Bologna take turns standing up on the stools to express their
opinions on politics, religion, social issues, etc. The masked man serves as a
sort of mediator of discussion, often jumping up on the stool himself and
telling everyone what he thinks. This is just one of the many examples of
Bologna’s revolutionary leanings…although this is mild in comparison to what
the city looked like in the 70’s (the Italian government had to send in army
tanks to stop a student revolution) I still find it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> interesting. Just like the concert, this crowd also has a mixed
combination of the elderly, businessmen, grungy students, and respectable
ladies in high heels and Prada purses. I love that Italians are so interested
in discussing issues that we, as Americans, sometimes shy away from. It is well-known
that bringing up politics at family reunions is taboo back in the States,
whereas here, your personal political leanings are discussed every day in the
bars, the classrooms, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gelateria</i>’s,
the city piazza’s. Although Italy’s current political situation is not the
strongest, its citizens at least seem somewhat more educated on the issues than
the general American population is. And if they’re not actually as educated as
I think they are…well, at least they’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">talking</i>
about the issues openly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza Verdi</i> is also an essential component
of the heart and soul of Bologna mainly because it is the center of activity
for students. This piazza is cut through by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Via
Zamboni</i>, the street with the most UNIBO buildings, and it is just a
one-minute walk from ECCO’s office. At UMW we have Ball Circle or Seaco…UNIBO
students have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza Verdi</i>. At any
time during the day, you can find university students there, talking or
drinking or eating or all of the above. It is a central location for graduation
celebrations (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">la laurea</i>) in which
students wear this Greek/Roman laurel of leaves (I should probably just say
Roman, but I always think of the Greeks first) about their heads as opposed to
the voluminous folds of our own American cap and gown. The outfits that
accompany these laurels vary from nice, classy dresses to out-of-control
inflatable pig suits. People gather around the recent graduate, holding them up
on their shoulders, singing songs that I still don’t understand or occasionally
throwing eggs at the graduates or running through the streets playing music and
yelling. Italian universities don’t seem to have any specific, set graduation
days like we do. They have many of them that happen throughout each semester,
which are entirely dependent on when the students themselves finish with all of
their courses. I don’t understand it completely, but it’s always fun to watch. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza Verdi</i> has also become even more
popular in the warmer months. On the weekends, the piazza was always popular
late at night, but the biting, cold winter nights did not encourage people to
stay out there that long, no matter how warm that wine made you. But recently,
the weather in Bologna has—miraculously—taken a turn for the better. As a
result, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza Verdi </i>has become one
of the most social spots of the city at night. Even on weeknights, you can find
hundreds of students sitting out on the ground in the piazza, talking and
drinking the night away. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It is so much fun</i>.
I am loving Bologna’s new spring weather; it’s as if the entire city has come
alive. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
finally, my own little claim to fame: in March, Bologna celebrated <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">la Festa della Donne</i>…International
Women’s Day. Apparently this is a worldwide phenomenon, but of course America
barely celebrates it. Italy, however, is very eager to sell little, puffy
mimosa flowers to everyone for you to give to other women on every street
corner at long tables filled with pollen and yellow buds. The money goes
towards helping women shelters and abuse prevention centers. Rebecca, Lydia and
I knew little about the celebration, but we decided to buy each other flowers
anyways while in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza Maggiore</i>.
Just our luck: this was the moment in which a news crew came up to the table
and asked us rapidly in Italian if we had a few moments to talk about our
opinions on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">la Festa delle Donne</i>.
Flustered more by the huge camera and microphone in our faces than the prospect
of speaking Italian, we stuttered nervously long enough for the men to realize
that we were not, in fact, Italian and I heard the interviewer mutter rather
critically under his breath: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stranieri</i>.
Foreigners. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
tend to get a little offended when Italians think I’m stupid just because I am
not a native speaker, so I then informed the man that regardless of being <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stranieri</i>, we could still understand
him. I suppose he thought this snippy response was an invitation for an
interview, because he promptly swung the microphone back into my face and began
asking me questions on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">festa</i>:
what did the celebration mean to us? What did we think it meant? As foreigners,
what were our opinions of the celebration so far? And most importantly, why did
you buy yourselves flowers? Shouldn’t a man buy them for you?</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
do not have a need of a man to have flowers,” Lydia jumped in suddenly in
Italian at this point of the interview, her justified women’s-power ideals
surpassing any nerves she had about speaking in an Italian television interview.
“When I can buy flowers for me. And for friends.” Our Italian didn’t flow
perfectly, but we got the idea across: America may not celebrate International
Women’s Day very extensively, but we certainly didn’t need to celebrate it with
men by our side, as is often an Italian cultural understanding (please don’t
get me started on gender inequality here. Because it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everywhere</i>).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
honestly forgot about the interview. I don’t have a tv in my apartment and I
didn’t think to look for the interview on the internet. Then, a few weeks ago,
I was walking with my elementary class down the stairs as the final bell rang
and we were heading towards the door to the outer courtyard where anxious
parents wait for their children to emerge, with the same level of reaction upon
seeing them that you typically see at an airport arrivals gate. One of the
little girls (her name is Karina) tugged on my sleeve and informed me that she
had seen me on the news, on tv. At first, I was really confused, as the memory
of the interview had completely slipped my mind. Karina reminded me with, “You
had flowers for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Festa delle Donne</i>
and I saw you on the tv! I showed you to my mom!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Breaking
news folks: I am a celebrity on Bologna’s local news channel. I’ll be sending
you all autographs as soon as I can get my agent to organize everything. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-39910642074075996172013-04-22T13:15:00.000-07:002013-04-22T13:15:14.883-07:00Vignette # 7: Day-Trips
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The great thing about Europe is its
train system; every time I look at the list of cities that I can get to from
Bologna’s central station, it kills me to know that America’s train system is
not nearly as extensive or efficient. Admittedly, a train system through
America has a lot of ground to cover, but that still doesn’t change the fact
that for about 35 euro I can reach Venice in an hour and a half and Rome in two
hours. As such, I’ve been taking advantage of this and have done a few trips
around Bologna—some with friends, others with my classes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rebecca,
Kyra and I took a small day-trip to the city of Ferrara in February, which is
about twenty minutes away by train. Ferrara has a distinctively medieval feel
to it (very much like Bologna, but without the porticoes) and an extremely
impressive castle + moat which we’ve actually discussed before in our Storia
Urbana (Urban History) class. Ferrara also has delicious pumpkin pasta, which
was a welcome sight after two hours walking in the freezing cold. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Being culturally sensitive to Ferrara's griffon statues</div>
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The castle</div>
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On the streets</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
regards to my Storia Urbana class, we go on a lot of field trips throughout
Bologna and the surrounding area. My class often spends half the time in the
classroom and the other half walking around the city, looking at medieval
towers and commenting on the structure of piazza’s and Church statues. This is
one of the reasons I absolutely <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">love</i>
this class—I’m learning so much about the city I’m living in. I’ve noticed this
is a pattern in certain study abroad programs: the UMW partner program that I
did last summer in Bath, England (ASE: Advanced Studies in England) also
focused one of its courses on learning about the history and the buildings of
the city through studying Jane Austen, which really enriched my experience. You
just become much more connected to the place in which you’re studying and I’m
really glad that I’m taking this urban history course.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
class also went to a castle outside Bologna in the country, which is one of the
best-preserved medieval castles still standing; a lot of the castles here in
the north were bombed (by Americans) in World War II, as they were commonly
used as Nazi or fascist hideouts. Miraculously, this particular castle survived
any significant destruction. This castle was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beautiful</i>. It was also very refreshing to get out of the city and
breathe some air free of smoke and exhaust fumes. The castle today is casually
owned by a billionaire who was generous enough to allow our class to tiptoe
through his ridiculously rich house (house? HA), which was a spectacular
combination of medieval architecture and state-of-the-art kitchen appliances. The
groundskeeper (YES, THE GROUNDSKEEPER) even made us all coffee before ushering
the peasants (our class) out and back on the bus to Bologna. </div>
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Lydia and I</div>
<br />
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Millionaire decor</div>
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5GYdLXvaNmw/UXWZRN79dTI/AAAAAAAAAYg/l60cNkYYYnA/s1600/IMG_1023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5GYdLXvaNmw/UXWZRN79dTI/AAAAAAAAAYg/l60cNkYYYnA/s320/IMG_1023.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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Our professor! Explaining the mysteries of the well</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
also went to Florence for a day in March, which was spectacular. Until quite
recently, Bologna tended to be in a perpetual state of fog, rain and cold.
Going into Florence for the day was beautiful mainly because of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sunshine</i>. It was so warm and beautiful
out. I’ve been to Florence multiple times with my parents, so I didn’t have any
burning desire to go to the Uffizi gallery or into the Duomo, so while the
other girls did these things, Lily and I amused ourselves simply with walking
around the city in the gorgeous weather, eating our way through the day (this
is not an exaggeration—I probably ate five meals) and just taking in the sights
and the people and the markets. It was shocking how much English we heard—there
were Americans and Brits <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everywhere</i>.
Once again, I am so glad that I decided not to study in Florence. Although the
city itself is spectacular, it’s been turned into a sort of amusement park for
English-speaking tourists. I heard more English than Italian that Saturday and
I did not like that any waiters or store-owners that we talked to insisted on
speaking in English, even when we could clearly hold our own in Italian. I just
know that I’m getting a much more authentic Italian experience here in Bologna
and am especially happy with the amount of Italian language I speak on a
day-to-day basis. However, I can’t complain about Florence’s ample use of
truffle oil, its excellent gelato, and its beautiful bridges. I also can’t
complain about the fact that it takes me only thirty minutes by train to reach
Italy’s cultural capital and that this sort of accessibility can take me
practically anywhere throughout Italy and Europe combined. So thank you Trenitalia/Italo.
I love you. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Il Duomo</div>
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9W775GSY7F0/UXWZ57wX2EI/AAAAAAAAAZA/es-acjHxxYs/s1600/IMG_7067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9W775GSY7F0/UXWZ57wX2EI/AAAAAAAAAZA/es-acjHxxYs/s320/IMG_7067.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Ponte Vecchio</div>
<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oSzj27Ubr2U/UXWZ-zRUM8I/AAAAAAAAAZQ/PUxXiGMD6yQ/s1600/IMG_7086.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oSzj27Ubr2U/UXWZ-zRUM8I/AAAAAAAAAZQ/PUxXiGMD6yQ/s320/IMG_7086.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Enjoying the <i>tramonto</i> (sunset) by the river :)</div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-7453002748701945682013-04-22T12:59:00.002-07:002013-04-22T12:59:57.871-07:00Vignette # 6: The Big Twenty-One
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My birthday was the week after we
got back from Paris (wow, so long ago!) and it was strange, not celebrating
back at home, with the usual crowd. The people here are wonderful, though, and
they made my big 21st birthday so much fun, despite the fact that it was on a
Tuesday. I had a day of over-eating and then a night out with the girls. We went
to get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aperitivi</i>, where I had a tiara
on my head and a giant pink tie to wear around my neck that screamed “Happy
Birthday!”, all courtesy of the amazing people here and the Asian Market across
the street from the gym. After drinks, our group of ten went to dinner at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Osteria dell’Orsa</i> before returning back
to Forni, where Marta was waiting for us with a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pan di Stelle</i> (chocolate cookie) and chocolate mousse cake that she
had made from scratch for me. My room also was completely filled with balloons
and a “Feliz Cumpleanos” sign (for some reason the Asian Market only had
Spanish birthday decorations). The night ended with music and talking and cake
and cake and cake…until the wee hours of the morning, in which Viola taught us
all traditional Albanian dances and Skyla tried to teach us Hawaiian hula
dancing. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
fact that I ordered a drink on my twenty-first birthday was not nearly as
special here as it would have been in the U.S., since I’ve been drinking wine
with dinner since the first night we got here. But it was still really nice to
have such a big group to go out with to celebrate, especially being so far from
home. </div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-16465610352802343632013-04-11T05:12:00.002-07:002013-04-11T05:12:32.580-07:00Vignette # 5: Pumping Iron in Spaghetti Straps and Sequins
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
I mentioned in previous blog posts, I subscribed to a gym the first month I got
here. Although I haven’t been nearly as diligent in going as I should have,
being able to work out a few times a week has definitely helped burn off some
of those plates of pasta that I seem to be constantly eating here. Working out
is obviously also a great way to alleviate stress and sometimes it’s nice to
take a break from trying to wear semi-dressy clothes out and about (which I
fail at anyways) and put on some running shorts and sneakers (a.k.a., my
natural state at UMW). </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
funny thing about the gym, however, is the clientele of Italians who frequent
there. Let me preface this by saying that I do not judge people in the gym; I
am no varsity athlete and I know that my workouts are not the stuff of legends
and so I do not think anyone should be criticized for how they decide to
exercise. HOWEVER…Italian women are not exactly exercising, so I feel perfectly
at ease demanding <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why would you come to
the gym dressed like you’re going to a club?</i> I am not exaggerating. Most of
the Italian women who come to the gym are wearing full make-up, rings,
necklaces and hoop earrings. Their clothes vary from bedazzled sweatpants to a
white spandex tank top—yoga pant combination that almost always includes a
sparkly pink push-up bra. Their workouts typically involve walking at a very
slow pace (about as fast as you would walk while strolling down the street) for
thirty minutes, and then doing some lengthy stretches in front of a mirror,
perfectly positioned so that the men of the gym can observe you. This is, after
all, the reason why Italian women come to the gym. To be looked at. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
men work out like normal people work out: with the goal of actually achieving some
form of exercise and exertion. However, they are also all extremely
self-conscious: when running on a treadmill beside an Italian man, you must run
with the understanding that throughout your entire workout, that man will be
watching your machine to see how fast you’re going, how long you’ve been
running and at what incline your treadmill is at. They will then try to match
you for speed but, ironically, they sometimes can’t keep up. This also occurs
on the elliptical (that wonderfully simple machine that confounded one Italian
man so extensively that he tried to use it moving completely backwards for a
solid five minutes and it took three trainers to explain to him how to do a
forward motion). Even if it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i>
satisfying knowing that your machine is at level 18 and theirs is at 6, it’s
still really distracting, trying to work out with someone watching you the
entire time. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Despite
the fact that the ideas of using a gym to exercise and minding your own
business have not yet reached this part of Italy, the gym is great. We’ve
become friends with some of the employees there and they recognize us and say
hi whenever we’re there. Our little group of Americans always ends up
regrouping in the locker-rooms at the end of the workout to trade stories about
what crazy tattoo-man did today in the weight room, or what yoga position bedazzled-pants
was practicing for over an hour. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-68989721616705545632013-04-11T04:53:00.001-07:002013-04-11T04:53:07.685-07:00Vignette # 4: The Locals
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
the weeks fly by, native Bolognese have become more and more entrenched into my
day-to-day life. A few examples…</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Max</b> is still a constant figure in our lives. We go to his bar to
get a cappuccino and a pastry any morning that we have class and he’s gotten
very comfortable teasing us and calling us his “ragazze”. He is still trying to
set Skyla up with one of his two sons that also work at the bar and most of his
other regular patrons know who we are now—that large crowd of American girls
that orders three cappuccino’s, one café lungo and one café macchiato, and all
of our individual pastry orders that Max knows by heart. </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The old vegetable couple</b> belong to the little vegetable stand along
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Via San Vitale</i>, the street that leads
to my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">studentato</i>, in which tables of
vegetables and fruit line the street and the open-air store. They are also
helped by a young man who is either their grandson or their
vegetable-apprentice. I now only buy my fruits and veggies from them and refuse
to buy them at the grocery store, as they are both better quality <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> cheaper. This also encourages me to
cook more and cook healthier. I made the mistake of trying to pick out my own
vegetables…a big no-no. The old lady yelled at me pretty harshly but we have an
understanding now: I tell her what I want and I get all of my fruits and
veggies packaged neatly for me in brown paper bags. We’ve progressed to very
basic conversations about the weather and I really like having “my place” to go
to.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The leprechaun man</b> is the cutest, tiniest man I have ever
encountered. We call him the leprechaun man because he is less than half my
height and wears a long green tweed jacket and a fedora hat. He shuffles down <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Via San Vitale</i> with a long cane and
deep-set wrinkles that frame eyes that watch carefully as you walk by. Old
people here have incredibly interesting faces and it’s always a welcome sight
to see him in the morning, making the same (albeit much slower) trek as us
towards the center of the city. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The staff of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gelatauro</i></b> by
now know me. This <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gelateria</i> is
certainly not the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">best</i> gelato I’ve
ever had, but it’s just a two minute walk from my apartment and all the gelato
is “slow-food”; that is, super organic and snazzy and with funky flavors like
“Principe di Calabria”: jasmine, cream, and sponge cake. Or, our personal
favorite, “Regno delle Due Sicilie”: pisctachio, Spanish cream (whatever that
is), pine nuts, and sponge cake (again). Ahhh! So good. There’s one particular
employee there, a sassy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gelateria</i> girl,
who definitely judges me based on how much gelato I ate in one 48-hour window.
It’s okay. Deep down, I know we’re best friends. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The staff of BomboCrepe</b> also knows me and the majority of the other
American girls really well. I guess there is a pattern to this…all of the
locals I seem to be getting to know are somehow connected to food. But
BomboCrepe is a favorite because they make crepes with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everything</i>. My personal favorite? Nutella and strawberries. The
standing-room-only <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">creperia</i> is just a
few feet away from ECCO’s office and on the weekends is open till around 3 am.
These people, unlike Gelatauro, do not judge me when I come in for my nutella
fix. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-11135475799169077112013-04-11T02:52:00.000-07:002013-04-22T13:38:57.117-07:00Vignette # 3: Home Sweet Home<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
Forni apartment 17, things continue on as they have been. I’ve started calling
it “home,” which is very accurate, as Marta still acts like my Italian mother
and Viola a little sister. As for Letizia…there are a few inner-apartment
issues with my often-absent fourth housemate, but for the most part they don’t
affect me (unless you count the multiple times I am left unable to access the
bathroom until two in the morning because she’s in there for three hours
talking on the phone and refuses to get out). Overall, I’ve realized that this
living situation is temporary so the issues that bother Marta and Viola don’t
bother me too too much. I’ve become really close with Marta and
Viola—particularly Viola—and we cook dinner together and watch movies together
almost every night. I’ve been consistently trying to convince Viola that we can
sneak her across the U.S. border in my suitcase.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
almost learning to be a grown-up, as far as apartment-living goes! I clean the
apartment (when I remember it’s my turn) and I manage not to flood the bathroom
too much when I shower (if I do, then I have to use the mop to dry it up). I am
only slightly terrified of doing laundry in the morgue (one harrowing
experience involving strange noises down there late at night has led me to always
bringing a buddy when washing my clothes) and I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">finally</i> bought a lighter that is longer (and thus much safer and
usable) than a cigarette lighter, so I can light our gas stove by myself. I’ve
been cooking successfully! But then again, it’s easy to make good food
here—nearly everything is fresh. Something that still amazes me is how quickly
bottles of milk expire here; they last…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">maybe</i>
three days. No preservatives! Freshness! So cool! The shelf above my bed is
filling up with little souvenirs from all of my trips. At the end of those long
traveling weekends, my cozy duvet cover, the Christmas lights, Marta’s endless
chatter and Viola’s “how are you doing, girl?” in her thick Albanian accent become
like a light at the end of the tunnel—that safe, familiar feeling of home that
I always look forward to returning to after flying all over Europe. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XZc55w72PII/UXWfzuZKB0I/AAAAAAAAAZw/1y8qrxE9mA4/s1600/Photo+on+2013-04-22+at+21.08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XZc55w72PII/UXWfzuZKB0I/AAAAAAAAAZw/1y8qrxE9mA4/s320/Photo+on+2013-04-22+at+21.08.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-84332316438895388392013-04-11T02:43:00.001-07:002013-04-11T02:43:16.873-07:00Vignette # 2: Back to School
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<b><i><br /></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For
the past month I’ve been volunteering at an Italian elementary school in a
third grade class. Choosing to do this has been one of the best decisions I’ve
made since coming here. I don’t think I can adequately express how refreshing
it is to step into my classroom to see most of the class jump to their feet and
throw their arms in the air while shouting my name. I specifically chose the
third grade because I wanted to go back to the same grade that I started
Italian school in. Eight and nine year-olds are just such a great age and it’s
an added bonus that they are all speaking in adorable little Italian voices. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Gualtierro
is by far my favorite. He sits in the back of the class with Greta (the
responsible girl) and doodles quietly, only drawing attention to himself when
he looks up and catches my eye to give me a small smile. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mohammed
gets in trouble far more than he should; the scapegoat of the class, I often
find myself trying to walk by his desk and help him with his English homework,
because he is dreadfully slow at copying notes. He is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> sweet and gets really excited about everything, which inevitably
leads Aleladin to make fun of him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
Amanda is the cutest girl <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i>. She
also gets bonus points because after my first day of class, I was in such a
good mood that I stopped by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gelatauro</i>
(a local gelato favorite) to treat myself and she was also there. She pointed
me out to her mom and told her that I was the new “maestra d’inglese” (English
teacher) and her mom—who is officially the coolest person ever—promptly bought
me a gelato and told me that she was looking forward to seeing me in the
upcoming weeks. So in addition to her 90’s scrunchies and sweet little voice,
Amanda also has a cool mom. Kudos to you, kid. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Italian
elementary school is, unsurprisingly, completely different from American
elementary school. The children are much sassier (although maybe that’s just
their age) and the teacher is much more…vocal. By vocal I mean she will often
scream at the top of her lungs, slamming her hand on her desk repetitively like
a Judge Judy with anger management issues, for approximately ten minutes
straight. Although the classroom is overall far calmer than my own Italian
school experience, Maestra Giovanna is from southern Italy so there are
definitely a few minutes in which I have serious flashbacks to my times behind
those little desks, terrified of where the teacher would direct her anger next.
Ironically, during these outbreaks of fury, Maestra Giovanna turns to me for
confirmation—as if I’m about to stand up in front of these little terrified
munchkins and tell them how right she is in yelling at them. This is ironic because,
as a 21 year-old, I still side with the kids and I usually just end up smiling
nervously and refusing to join in on the screaming match since I consider most
of them overreactions anyways. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Overall,
though, you can tell that the teacher loves the kids, despite how much of a
challenge they are. I definitely was landed with the troublesome class and I
can understand why Maestra Giovanna gets frustrated with them, but she also has
a great sense of humor and I often catch her hiding a grin after she’s yelled
at someone, which is then followed by an affectionate sort of eye-roll and a
shared, knowing look that she sends my way. The kids’ English (and, admittedly,
the teacher’s as well) is very limited and most of my responsibilities have
involved talking to them in English (with very basic sentences) and correcting
their own pronunciation and sentence structure. We struggled through the first
day in which my introduction of, “My name is Danielle. I am twenty-one years
old. I am from Virginia, in the United States. I have no brothers or sisters
and my father is a pilot” became “She has a sister named Virginia. She’s
thirty-eight years old and is a pilot from Australia. She also has a father.”
They’re still learning a few things.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
also lead them in class sing-a-long’s with the teacher’s book of British
nursery rhymes in which the words <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">color</i>
and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">favorite</i> are spelled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">colour</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">favourite</i> and I have to say “chips” and “granddad” instead of
“French fries” and “grandpa.” We also play a game called “Stand Up-Sit Down”
which is played exactly as it sounds: I stand in front of the class and say
either “stand up” or “sit down” and the kids have to listen and be sure to have
heard me or understood me. If someone does not do the correct motion, the rest
of the class turns on them and waves, yelling rather obnoxiously: “BYE-BYE!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There’s
also some drama within the class. Besides the usual small fights and scruples
between friends, there’s also <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">romance</i>.
Yes, you heard me right. Love is in the air within the halls of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Zamboni </i>school. One day, Maestra
Giovanna was criticizing someone’s artwork on their English homework
(ironically, the quality of someone’s bubble letters becomes a higher priority
than their spelling of the English language in this class) and Amanda came up
to the desk to ask to go to the bathroom. Without really looking at her,
Maestra Giovanna waved her away and continued to point out the lack of effort
and color her student had demonstrated on the cover of their booklet titled
“Yummy Food.” Soon after, Giacomino came to the desk and also asked to go to
the bathroom; again, Maestra Giovanna waved him away impatiently and continued
her extremely necessary art-critique. A few minutes later, her lecture was over
and she turned back to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who
asked to go to the bathroom?” She demanded suddenly in Italian. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Um…Amanda
and…I think Giacomino?” I responded, unsure. She grabbed my arm, her eyes
widening comically, and she whispered:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They’ve
going to go kiss each other in the bathroom.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What?</i>”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Maestra Giovanna proceeded to rifle
through her desk and withdraw a crumpled note with messy handwriting that said
clearly, in Italian, “Let’s both meet in the bathroom to kiss today.” Maestra
Giovanna leaned forward and eagerly informed me that she had found this note
under Amanda’s desk and she was almost certain that it was Giacomino’s
handwriting. She then giggled and, almost gleefully, repeated that they were
going to go kiss each other and then informed me of all the different couples
that were currently together in the class (these kids do not mess around—out of
the 13 children in class, there are 3 couples). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They’re
probably kissing right now. Go look!” She promptly shoved me out the door and
demanded that I go catch them in the act of smooching between the stalls. It
was clear that she did not want to get them in trouble, but merely wanted to
know what was going on—the elementary school teacher’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Days of Our Lives</i> equivalent. By the time I made it out into the
hallway, Amanda and Giacomino were already making their way back to the
classroom and both of them were very red in the face. The mystery remains
whether or not they are currently together.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
love teaching the class in English. I’ve always loved kids but I have no
experience in teaching so this is a completely different world for me. I really
look forward to my weekly lessons with them, even if I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i> forced to sing songs by myself in front of a room of fourteen
people, since I’m the only one who can pronounce the lyrics properly. </div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-64936091657823548942013-04-11T02:37:00.000-07:002013-04-11T02:43:39.027-07:00Vignette # 1: Rewinding a bit<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Re-Cap<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
have realized that my blog has become less of a study abroad blog and much more
of a travel blog: most of my motivation to write blog posts comes directly
after a weekend trip, and I spend the remainder of my time soaking in the
Bologna lifestyle and completely forgetting to write about my daily life. I’ve
said it once and I will say it again: living over here somehow just allows the
time to slip away. Whereas at home I could probably have time to sit at home to
write hundreds of blog posts, here it is so much easier to find myself walking
around Bologna or eating my fourth gelato of the past 48 hours or traveling on
the weekend …all of which fill up my days, making the idea of writing a blog
post such an intimidating and time-consuming idea. But here I am! Finally, after
a much-too-delayed break, I will try to do a re-cap of my recent time here in
short little vignettes, so as to give you something to read and to give myself
a record of what I’ve been up to and then follow it up with a few more travel
pieces…since I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> just traveled to
Southern Italy and Greece. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Breaking out the Books<o:p></o:p></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
as my father has pointed out multiple times, the amount of blog posts that I’ve
dedicated to the actual academic portion of my study abroad experience has been
slim to none. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i>, indeed, studying.
Here’s the breakdown of my classes:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Italian
Cinema</b> (focusing primarily on the directors Fellini and Pasolini)</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Italian
Literature</b> (of the 1800’s variety—Leopardi and Carducci)</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Urban
History </b>(studying the development of Italian cities from Etruscan times to
the Renaissance and beyond)</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Italian
Writing</b> (an internal course with Ivan! includes more dancing from my
wonderful professor and more literature set in World War II)</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: 150%; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Medieval
History</b> (mainly focusing on the Italian sphere during this time)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some
of my courses are internal; that is, within my program. These courses are still
taught by Universita’ di Bologna professors, but within ECCO’s office and with
a somewhat American university structure. And then there are the UNIBO courses,
which involve a lot of confused looks exchanged between Sami and Lily and I
(who are also taking the Medieval History course with me) and a fun time trying
to figure out who “Giovanni senza terra” is (literally, ‘John without land’ =
Prince John of Robin Hood). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Choosing
an UNIBO course was an interesting experience because of the difficulty in
getting it to match up with my other courses, ensuring that the professor will
accommodate American students, choosing a course that does not take place on
Friday’s (hey, I have to travel), and also—most importantly—finding a course in
which I could understand both the material and the professor. The first course
I tried out was a Contemporary History course within the department of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lettere e Filosofie</i> which, as I
mentioned in a previous blog post, was complete chaos. Although the class was
definitely a cultural experience, I decided to try another course in Medieval
History, since it worked better with UMW’s course approval of my classes for my
Italian major. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
Medieval History class is, admittedly, much calmer and organized than the
Contemporary History course, but it is still probably the greatest challenge
out of all of my classes, since it’s taught at UNIBO and it’s sometimes hard to
keep up with a professor who is lecturing to a classroom of Italians, rather
than a classroom of Americans. The professor is completely bald but with a
wonderfully white handlebar mustache and big, round glasses. He is also clearly
a genius and his nickname within the department, apparently, is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Merlino</i> (Merlin) because of the
mustache, I am assuming, or perhaps because he seems to be filled with infinite
wisdom on medieval history. My notes for this class are particularly amusing:
there are usually a lot of question marks drawn all over the page with small
notes in the margins that say “look this up on Wikipedia later” for concepts or
names I didn’t understand as he lectures at a record-pace. Regardless of those
moments in which I have no idea what century we’re talking about, I love the
class because I’ve been a medieval history nerd since around the age of seven.
Also, because the class is all from a somewhat Italian point of view,
everything becomes all the more entertaining. For example:<br />
<br />
“And
then these men would do something extremely Italian: they would declare themselves
to be lords by building their own castles. They would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">then</i> later ask<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>their
sovereign lord for permission to build this castle. So, you know…very Italian.”—Merlino</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Merlin also makes jokes about
excommunication and medieval eating habits, so we are basically best friends. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Urban
History is probably my favorite class because it is so incredibly different
from anything I’ve ever studied. I feel like I have learned so much—not only
about the development of Italian medieval cities, but specifically Bologna. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love feeling like I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i> the city. For example, Bologna’s
main symbol are its two crooked towers in the center of the city….but did you
know that there used to be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">over two hundred
of these towers throughout the city</i>. Over two hundred. Crazy. Also, the
reason for why a lot of Italian piazzas are in an oval or circular structure is
because they used to be roman amphitheaters. When the barbarians attacked the
Roman Empire, the people retreated into these amphitheaters <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and lived in them</i>. That is, the amphitheaters
became small cities. This blew my mind for some reason. Why didn’t anyone teach
me this in the U.S.’s take on Medieval History?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cinema
is also a refreshing break, mainly because we watch a lot of movies. Originally
I thought the class would involve a lot more film analysis, but our professor
seems determined to make us watch only Pasolini’s films and then talk about his
murder and the corruption of society in post-fascism Italy. Some days I love
this class and then other days I wonder why I haven’t watched <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Dolce Vita</i> yet and talked about it
like any other Italian cinema class. We are starting Fellini this week, though,
so I’m pretty excited about that! I’ve come to realize that it is much more a
history of Italian cinema than an analysis of it but I really enjoy it
regardless. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Literature,
ironically—as I am an English <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i>
Italian major—is my least favorite class. I find it somewhat tedious, although
our professor has an excellent poetry-reading voice and I think our entire
class swoons every time he breaks out the 19th century Italian love poetry in
his perfect, crooning voice.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
Writing Workshop class with Ivan is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">excellent</i>,
of course, because I am back in Ivan’s classroom and his enthusiasm for life
and dancing around our desks has not diminished. We are studying an Italian
writer named Beppe Fenoglio and one of his books on WWII by reading the book,
discussing it, and writing essays on it. This is an awesome class because
everyone in it is from my Intensive Italian portion of the class, so we’re very
comfortable with each other and have a great group dynamic. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All
of my classes are taught in Italian, class discussion is in Italian, all work
is done in Italian. The professors all have pretty high expectations of our
language skills. Also, the structure of the classes is different from the ones
back home. There is a lot less busywork, which I’m incredibly grateful for,
because I feel like I have a more time to actually enjoy what I’m learning. There’s
barely any reading—you just take notes upon notes upon notes. And although when
I call home and talk to friends at UMW who are killing themselves over work and
I have time in the evening to watch five episodes of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How I Met Your Mother</i> with Viola, I don’t feel as if I am learning
any less than them. I’m just learning in a different way.</div>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-23701282911618750322013-03-25T11:51:00.001-07:002013-03-25T14:50:57.380-07:00"So why are you going to Poland?"<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
I’m
starting off this blog-extravaganza with an account of this past weekend in
Krakow, Poland because it’s fresh in my mind and my blog posts about these
recent weeks in Italy may take up as many as five extra blog posts, so I’ll
save you that torturous experience for later ;) In the meantime…to Krakow!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
choice to go to Poland was a pretty random one. I have had about twenty people ask me why I was going to Poland and the answer is that I had originally intended to
use this weekend to visit my friend Ambar who is currently studying in Spain,
but tickets to Spain were either ridiculously expensive or at really difficult
departure times, so I postponed that plan and tried to find something else to
fill my time. It seemed like everyone in our program had already planned out
their trips and I was trying to find something different than the usual American
student study abroad trips of London, Paris, Madrid. Scrolling through the
possible locations that RyanAir flies to, I saw Krakow, Poland. The flight was
relatively cheap and the times were perfect; then I googled Krakow and saw
things like (1) largest main square in all of Europe, (2) cultural capital of
Poland, (3) 700 year-old salt mine with underground lakes and cathedrals, (4) Wawel
Castle, (5) St. Mary’s Church, (6) Polish food, (7) an Eastern European city as
close to Prague as possible and so so so much more. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
I turned to Lily in ECCO’s library while we were studying and said: “Hey. Do
you want to go to Poland?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lily
is pretty much game for anything and Lydia (another girl in our program) soon
joined in. This past Thursday we left a very sunny and warm Bologna to the
frozen tundra of Krakow. I am being only slightly dramatic. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
got in at around six to the airport and decided to take a taxi for the
thirty-minute ride into the city center because—guess what?—the currency exchange
rate between the American dollar and the Polish zloty is 3 to 1. So that’s 3
zloty to 1 American dollar people. SO EVERYTHING IS CHEAP. I will keep bringing
this up because the amount of things we did this weekend for so little money
still amazes me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
got a nice welcome to Poland right away; our taxi driver’s radio started
playing “Thrift Shop” and he turned it up when he heard us laugh at the
strangeness of hearing the song on a Polish radio. He then asked us—in somewhat
broken English—to explain the lyrics of the song because even though he knew
most of the words, he didn’t actually understand what any of them meant. After
this he was nice enough to try to teach us a few Polish words like “thank you,”
“good morning,” and “good bye.” Polish for some reason sounds like a strange
combination of German and Chinese and it was actually really difficult to
repeat any of the words he tried to teach us. By the end of the taxi ride, we
had asked him to repeat the pronunciation of “thank you” about seven times, which
is: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">dziękuję</span></i><span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">, which is pronounced something along the lines of JING-KU-YAY. The
only other word in Polish that I learned for the weekend was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tak</i> = yes. Other than that, there was a
serious language barrier for the three days we were there. It’s a good thing that
the majority of the citizens of Krakow speak English because I’m not sure how
things would have turned out, otherwise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
got to our Best Western Hotel (which is of course extremely cheap because of
the amazingness of the zloty) and got settled in. We then headed out to a
restaurant that Lily had researched beforehand, which was the first indicator
of a solid trip: a place called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pod
Baranem</i>, which is run by a father and son. Polish presidents, painters and
poets apparently frequently come here and I think Polish mob bosses as well,
since we saw an extremely well-dressed man with a cigar at a Reserved table by
himself, looking broody and dangerous in the dim light. The ceiling was held up
by old, dark wooden beams and dried herbs hung down to where swords and boar’s
heads were mounted. Everything was dark and lit by candles, with very
well-dressed folk and three American girls in jeans and over-sized North Face
jackets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
were only in Poland until Saturday night so we didn’t hold back for dinner. Our
table looked something along the lines of this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">What
you see there is two steaks, a plate of duck, two types of potatoes, fancy
coleslaw, some sort of beet mash-up, water, and amazing Polish beer. After that
we got three desserts (one for each of us and one to share) and then we each
got a shot of their homemade vodka. The total cost of this feast? Less than 25
dollars each. YOU HEARD ME. Less than 25 dollars. I still can’t get over it. It
was such a neat experience, eating at such a fancy restaurant with waiters who
had actually been to Waiter School and placed your napkins on your laps and put
your coat on for you when you stood up. It also felt very Polish, with all the
ambiance and the dim lighting and the food…it was great. We made little attempt
to pronounce the things on the menu in Polish because the English translations
were right there and we would have probably somehow insulted our nice Polish
waiters with our terrible pronunciation of their language. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
dinner, it was below freezing outside and we were tired, so we headed back to
the hotel, slipping on the black ice all over the sidewalk as we went. Once we
were in the room we watched Polish television (always entertaining—particularly
the show that we named <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love Lives of
Krakow</i>) and went to sleep early, ready for an early start the next morning.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On
Friday we decided to do something that most people tend to avoid: we decided to
go to the concentration camps of Auschwitz-Birkenau. </span><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Oświęcim is the Polish name for the city that played
host to one of the most atrocious Nazi concentration camps in the history of
World War II and it’s only about an hour and a half away from Krakow by train.
Lydia really wanted to take a guided tour of the camps, but Lily and I
preferred the solo route, so while Lydia was being picked up by a bus filled
with wonderful British tourists at our hotel, Lily and I decided to brave the
Polish train system. Surprisingly, despite our lack of Polish and the train station
employee’s lack of English, we made it on our ridiculously old train to Oświęcim
with no problems. Once we reached the dismally grim train station, we managed
to navigate the local bus system to reach the outside of the city where the
camps were without paying for bus tickets (where are the bus kiosks?!). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Walking
up to the camps was a really surreal experience, particularly because the
modern city of Oświęcim has expanded so that the camps are no longer isolated
and surrounded by miles of fields. Instead, there is a large parking lot in
front of the museum that is packed with tour buses and SUV’s and high school
classes on their rather grim field trips. Across the street is a strip mall,
with restaurants and a hotel; although I don’t know who would ever want to stay
in a hotel across the road from one of the most notorious concentration camps <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i>. Once you squeeze past the tour
buses, you enter a very stark information center/museum where there are
multiple guides waiting there to demand if you’d like a tour. Lily and I walked
past these guys and went to the book store, where we both bought cheap
guidebooks that actually had a predetermined tour planned out within it,
complete with a map and a room-by-room explanation in all of the major
buildings you could look into. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Without
paying for a guide, entrance into Auschwitz and Birkenau is completely free, so
we just walked out of the doors of the information center and…we were walking
towards the camps. The path was a sort of muddy cobblestone, made even more
difficult by the fact that snow was drifting down from an entirely grey sky, so
that puddles formed in the ruts of the walkway. Again, I can’t emphasize enough
how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">unreal</i> it felt. I’ve been reading
about Auschwitz since I was little; I’ve always been interested in World War II
and the history books are splattered with stories about Nazi cruelty and the
plight of the millions of Jews and minorities that suffered in Auschwitz. But
it’s especially weird to stand under that iron gate with the words, ARBEIT
MACHT FREI—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">work will set you free</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
walked through multiple buildings that used to be used as barracks, prison
cells, administrative buildings, etc. It’s amazing how quiet it is. While just
a few minutes before we had been accosted by the sounds of the street and cars
zipping by and the advertisements of guides, trying to rope you into their tour
group…within the camp it was quiet. It was just all so orderly, with the dark
brick buildings in a perfectly organized grid pattern. So thought-out and
precise. It still didn’t hit me, even when we went in and looked at the displays
and the old artifacts. The museum/memorial portion of the camp did its job
well: with each room, you were hit with more and more information, like a
relentless slew of statistics and letters and pictures. With so much
information being thrown at you all at once it was hard sometimes to really
absorb it, which was a blessing in a way. But there were a few rough parts. A
few? More like the entire experience. But some moments were worse than others. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
was the room that had a wall filled with hair. Women’s hair, which was used to
make rope and cloth for the army. The mug shots of the children. The Death
Block. The thousands upon thousands of pictures that lined the walls of men and
women staring straight ahead in their stripes. Some had no expression, some
were angry, some confused. The worst ones were the eyes open wide in fear. Or
maybe it was the eyes of the older men, whose faces showed grim resignation. As
if they already knew. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">There's
just something about the place that makes you want to say “I’m sorry.” We would
walk from block 6 to block 7 and the snow would fall quietly on the muddy
walkways and I just kept saying the words over and over again in my head: “I'm
sorry.” I mean, what else can you say? You see thousands upon thousands of
pictures and below them there’s a birth-date and a death-date and its just not.
fair. There was one mug shot of a little girl who was eleven; you could see her
eyes welling up with tears and I just wanted to reach into the photograph
and pull her out. Pull her out and away from all of this. Her picture should’ve
been hung up on the walls of her great-granddaughters house, not the walls of Auschwitz.
And that Death Wall. And then the shoes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
room with the shoes is where I lost it. I think I had been numb to a lot of it
until that moment. Lily had kept a steady mumbling of the statistics as we
walked through, reading off the information and saying, “Oh God. Look. Look.”
But it just did. not. hit me. And I don’t know why. But then there was that
room with the shoes. There were children’s shoes and men’s nice leather oxfords
and colorful, strappy sandals and high heels. You would think that because they
were old shoes, they’d feel like they belonged to some distant era that
couldn’t affect you, but some of the shoes looked like the ones that people
would wear around campus. Those could’ve been <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> shoes. And there were just so many of them, immortalized on
either side of you behind glass panes, and it just felt like they were closing
in on me in that narrow, long room and my chest felt like it was constricting.
I had to stand and look out the windows for a few minutes because I couldn't
stop shaking and I was trying not to cry too loudly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
I’m just so so sorry. I don't know what else to say. I'm sorry that this happened.
I'm sorry that the owners of those shoes never got to put them back on. I'm
sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
became real after that, walking beside the barracks or seeing the gallows or
worse, walking inside the crematorium. Think about that. Walking inside the
crematorium. About seventy years ago, the people who walked inside that
structure never walked out. I walked by the ovens and the one window and there
was barely any light and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">chimney…</i>I
could hear lily trying to breathe normally beside me because how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can </i>you breathe normally in a place like
that, where people suffocated on smoke and gas and flame?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
think it’s a place you have to go to. I think that it’s awful and disturbing
and disgusting. But if you can do it, you should see it. You have to because if
you don’t, those people won't be remembered and they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> to be. If you don’t see it you won't actually feel the
atrocities and most of all, you won't see those pictures of people who
resisted, who fought back, who offered their lives up in exchange for others.
Because those are the stories that make Auschwitz seem not as grim, if that's
even possible. Those are the stories that you cling to, knowing that the other
ones will destroy you if that’s all that was left. On the train returning to
Krakow and the evening that followed, we came back to that always, like
drowning people desperately clinging to life vests. The idea that people fought
back and resisted made us feel better after a long day in the snow under barbed
wire. That, and about an hour and a half of Polish television under blankets
with bars of chocolate. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
we had recovered that evening, we walked into the Kazimierz Jewish district and
found a little hipster burger bar where we indulged our American cravings of
cheeseburgers and potato wedges and milkshakes and smoothies. A big glass of
hot milk and honey also warmed us up, as the cold seemed to have settled into
our bones the moment we had walked through the gate of Auschwitz. We stayed
there for hours talking and laughing and exchanging stories of home before
walking back in the snow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next morning we woke up early and explored Krakow in blinding sunshine and
freezing cold. At around 10 am the market began to open up in the main square,
which was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wonderful</i>. We basically ate
our way through the day, starting with this weird, smoked cheese and then
moving onto peirogi’s and kielbasa and more bagels and cupcakes (WE FOUND
CUPCAKES). We walked around the area of the Main Square, going into St. Mary’s
Church which was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">spectacular</i>. Unlike
Italian churches, which encourage tourism, St. Mary’s had a lot of signs that
said “NO VISITING. PRAYER ONLY.” We dutifully ignored these signs and went to
sit in the pews to respectfully admire the expansive Church from there, but
unfortunately Mass started at that exact moment and when the bells and the
incense came out along with the Eucharist, we realized we couldn’t afford to
spend an entire hour in Polish Church, so we made the quickest escape possible
and continued our exploration of the square. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
market was just so much fun, with the music, the friendly people, the pottery
and the beautiful Polish craftsmanship of painted wood. Afterwards we went up
to Wawel castle, which offered a beautiful view of the city, and we also saw a
Leonardo da Vinci painting! Up close and personal. All very cool and all under
the brilliant sunshine and the blinding white of the snow. It was also marvelous because as blondes, we blended in as native Polish girls! People actually asked us for directions! We were so excited to blend in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
later explored the Jewish quarter some more and ate these weird, long
pizza/sandwich hybrids called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">zapiekanka</i>
that were delicious but also made a mess as we tried to eat them outside. We
ended up dropping food all over the ground and were attacked by pigeons who
were trying to pick up the scraps. After a successful stop inside a little shop
that sold jewelry made out of old watch pieces, we made our way to the airport
where we got on our plane back to Bologna. It was nice to be back in my
apartment, cuddled in bed with hot tea and the Polish bagels that I had packed
along for the trip.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was such an amazing weekend. Lydia and Lily made <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">great</i> travel partners and we did so much for so little money in so
little time. It was really neat going to a place that is so different from the
rest of Europe; there’s a very distinct culture in Poland and it was wonderful
going to a place that a lot of people don’t think of. Auschwitz was difficult,
but so incredibly worth it. And Krakow was such an interesting city and I know
that we barely scraped the surface of everything it had to offer. I’m really
hoping to go back someday and I can’t help but smile every time I think about
our weekend—it was probably one of my favorite weekends of my semester thus
far. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ll
be updating all of you on daily life in Bologna in the next few days before my
next adventures. Up next on my schedule is a program trip to southern Italy
(home, here I come!) and Greece (yeee!). If you read all the way through this
post, you are a champion and I love you. Keep an eye out for another update!
More soon to follow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">A dopo ragazzi!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Danielle<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'IM Fell English'; font-size: 17px; line-height: 25px;">© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.</span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-61192099135935728952013-03-05T15:51:00.002-08:002013-03-05T16:04:14.478-08:00How many croissants can you eat in less than seventy-two hours?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I think it’s a sign of a good study
abroad experience if a blog has no posts for over two weeks, because clearly I’m
much too busy to bother with sitting down for one second and write down what’s
been happening. Or at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself, as the days
after Paris slipped away one by one and I continued to tell myself, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tomorrow. I’ll write it tomorrow.</i> I’ve
been informed that maybe I should try writing shorter posts, but let’s get
real. When my English teacher in middle school asked our class to write a
three-page mystery story, mine was a walloping ten pages…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">with</i> editing. Since then, I’ve started a long and terrible habit of
no self-control—whether it’s in the number of pages in my papers, the details
in the stories that I tell in person, or in my blog posts. So bear with me
through the length in the blog posts that will continue to follow this one and
I’m so very sorry that it has been such a long since I’ve written on here. I’m
going to promise that it will never happen again, but I think we all know
there’s a good chance that I’ll get caught up in this study abroad adventure of
mine and forget to reach out to the other side of the ocean sometime in the
near future. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
the answer to the question in the title of this post is: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a lot</i>. I got on the plane to Paris expecting to sing a lot of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Les Miserables</i> soundtrack, sit on a
gargoyle hanging off the side of Notre Dame like Quasimodo, be yelled at my
French people for my complete lack of French language skills, and eat a lot of
pastries. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Singing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do
You Hear the People Sing?</i></b> <b>on repeat:</b> Check!</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Sitting on a gargoyle Quasimodo-style:</b>
Sadly, no.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Getting yelled at by stereotypically-mean
French people:</b> No, thank goodness! More
on this later.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Eating a lot of pastries: </b>OF COURSE. </div>
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We left for Paris early in the
morning two Friday’s ago. Megan, Krystal, Lily and I all shared a taxi to
Bologna’s airport. Upon getting dropped off, we had to find RyanAir’s check-in
booth, which ended up being an “eight-minute” walk, according to the extremely
accurate signs outside of the airport building, which led us through a parking
lot and in what looked like a warehouse building. There, we checked in and
walked <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">back</i> to the central terminal
and waited—barely awake—for our flight.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For
those of you who don’t know, RyanAir is basically the answer to every student’s
dreams: affordable flights to most primary cities throughout Europe and beyond.
It also means that you only bring one carry-on piece of luggage that fits their
very stringent requirements and you have to be okay with being bombarded by
advertisements for their on-flight menu of food and delicate perfumes available
for your purchase. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>An
hour and a half later, we were in a tiny little airport about an hour and a
half outside of Paris, from which we took a bus into the city. From here on
out, I was relying entirely on Lily, who had lived/visited in France multiple
times and the only words that I know in French are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yes</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">water</i>. Lily tried
to teach us a few words but my brain seemed completely incapable of absorbing
anything. Whereas in Italian I feel relatively comfortable and I’ve actually
become relatively talented at imitating Viola’s Albanian when she yells on the
phone, French is this mysterious entity that intimidates me probably more than
it should. I think it has something to do with that weird hacking noise they
make in the back of their throat…when I try to imitate it, I sound like a cat
with hairball. Native French speakers, on the other hand, sound like they’re
trying to seduce the bus driver when asking how long the drive will be. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once
we got to Paris, we found our beautiful hotel, which we got thanks to Krystal’s
mom’s connections (thanks Krystal’s mom!) and it was very nice (no sketchy
hostel stories here). After taking a few minutes to regroup and realize that
our television included Cartoon Network in English, we went out to explore the
city.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sadly,
with this blog being written two weeks after my fateful weekend in Paris, my
memories aren’t as fresh as they were that Monday after. But I can try to
describe how incredibly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lucky</i> I felt
as I walked down the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;">Champs-Élysées</span></i><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;">.
The streets are just so wide, lined with trees and glittering windows filled
with pastries and designer clothes. The people I brushed by ranged anywhere between
American tourists wearing that stereotypical uniform of sneakers, jeans, and
baseball hat to stunning French women who somehow managed to embody the 1940’s
in modern fashion with exquisite class and grace, clearing a path with each
decisive stride in those black leather boots. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
got our first wave of pastries and let me just say that Italy has nothing on
France. Oh my lord. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The pastries</i>. So
buttery and flaky and golden and oh my gosh I miss it and I was only there for
less than three days. We walked all over the center of the city and then
stopped for lunch, which included for me a baguette with ham, cheese, and
mustard (I HAVE MISSED MUSTARD SO MUCH) which was a classic French meal, according
to my Dad, who was texting me food recommendations while I was at the table.
After lunch…well, more pastries. And then more walking! We saw so much. The Arc
de Triomphe (which was right by our hotel), museums, palaces, the Louvre, the
Pont Alexandre III—which gave us a spectacular view of the Eiffel Tower—and
more side-streets and the bridge filled with couples’ bike locks that they’ve
attached to the fence…there are street vendors along the Seine who are selling
old schoolbooks in French or postcards from the 1950’s or pictures of people
who have now passed on, but for 1 Euro you can take home a bundle of their
family memories, captured in blurred black and white photos and tied together
neatly with a rubber band. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
afternoon/early evening of walking and exploring was just…wonderful.
Afterwards, we met up with some of Lily’s friends who are studying in Paris for
drinks and then dinner, which included three huge pots of mussels accompanied
by plates of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">frites</i> (French fries). Following
the Paris students blindly, we traveled through the metro system (in which
everyone clutched their purses as if in preparation of getting mugged) and we
then found ourselves at this bar/club in which we dealt with somewhat creepy
French young men with some really excellent live music and a very enthusiastic
crowd. With the help of a taxi and, again, Lily’s French, we made it back to
the hotel and watched a little Cartoon Network before crashing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next morning we got kind of a late start to the day, which made me antsy. I’m
so used to traveling with my parents, in which every vacation day begins
approximately at 8 am and we are out the door and ready for adventures and
sightseeing almost immediately. There are, admittedly, many different ways to
travel. I’m a fan of a balance between sightseeing and experiencing and
although Saturday was not exactly the rigorous tourist day I had imagined, I
left Paris feeling like I had a real feel for the city. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We walked
for what felt like forever up to the </span><span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Basilique
du Sacré-Cœur</span><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> (near <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Moulin Rouge-</i>ish area). The sun was
lighting up all the buildings (most of them a white/grey color) as we hiked up
the hill. The area surrounding the massive cathedral at the top of the hill was
out of a storybook—exactly how I imagined what the little town that Belle from
Beauty & The Beast would look like. It was filled with tourists, but if you
could look past the fact that we were tourists too, it was really beautiful.
There was an art fair, street music, and sweet sweet lemon and sugar crepes, which
we ordered out of a window and ate while continuing our trek up to the church.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once
reaching the top of the hill, we reached the </span><span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Basilique
du Sacré-Cœur and the</span><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"> top of Paris. You
can see almost the entire city from up there and the pictures I took will never
do it justice. The sunlight and the clear blue skies and the chattering of
the people milling about the steps, where a man sang <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Over the Rainbow</i> with a microphone and behind him a guy was
doing soccer tricks while standing on top of a meters-high lamp-post…it was
just amazing. I didn’t actually go inside the church. Outside was much too
beautiful and although I appreciate a good Baroque painting when I see one, I
think the sunlight lighting up Paris, the city stretched out beneath me, was
infinitely more beautiful than any sculpture could be. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Afterwards,
we made our way back down into the city and met Lily’s friends for lunch, where
we ate at a quiet little café. We then navigated the metro (again) and found
cool things like a vintage clothing store that sells clothes by the kilo and
also the famous bookstore, <b>Shakespeare&Co.</b>. This had been on my list
and I am <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i> glad we made it there.
It’s this beautiful little bookstore, originally run by the woman who first
published <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ulysses</i>, and one-third of
the store is filled with all sorts of modern or classic books that made me want
to spend all my money and attempt to lug 15 new volumes back on RyanAir. The
second-third of the store is upstairs, in which there are such special,
one-of-a-kind books that you are only allowed to go up there to read them, but
to never take them out of the store. Some of those are first-editions or signed
by the authors or maybe even the possession of famous authors themselves.
Regardless, that quiet little nook upstairs, with the bookshelves leaning into
each other like stooped old men, and the worn leather chairs made me want to
never leave. The other third of the store sells old, used, and rare books, all
of the drool-worthy. I ended up treating myself to an old edition of Victor
Hugo’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Les Miserables</i>, leather-bound
and illustrated, translated into English. This was, after all, just a few days
before my 21<sup>st</sup> birthday. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Throughout
my time in Paris, I was also constantly (and pleasantly) surprised by how nice
everyone was. Although you can’t make assumptions about an entire country (not
all Americans, for example, are obnoxiously loud and wear socks with their
sandals to historical monuments in Europe), there has certainly been a
prolonged stereotype in the States of the “snobby French.” And although there
is no doubt in my mind that there is the occasional snobby person in Paris,
just as in any city, I did not encounter the amount of French hostility that I
had been expecting. Everyone was perfectly patient with my utter lack of French
and most were even nicer than some of the encounters I’ve had in Bologna. I
really shouldn’t have been worried, in all reality. Having lived in UMW’s
International house this past semester, I had the opportunity to live with
Hugo, Emmanuelle and Matthieu: all three of them wonderful French students who
I miss and talk about a lot here in Bologna. Hugo, in particular, because I
think he’d be proud of me for no longer eating Velveeta instant
mac&cheese—I have now graduated to cooking real lunches with real food! And
I have also been shown that my assumption of French snobbiness is not
necessarily true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
explored the ruins of an ancient city that was Paris’ predecessor (France’s own lost
city of Atlantis, in a way), which is directly below Notre Dame. The ruins were
really interesting and we had some nice historical discussion down there
amongst the former homes of Ancient Romans. We didn’t end up going in Notre
Dame because the line would’ve taken us hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Notre Dame!</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ironically,
we ended up standing in line for dinner, though. We met Krystal’s cousin, who
is also studying in Paris, at this famous little restaurant that has a fixed
menu of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">steak frite,</i> which is indeed
steak and French fries. But as simple as that sounds, I assure you that it was
marvelous. It was also fun to get dressed up and go to fancy restaurant,
meeting even more people who were willing to show us around beautiful,
wonderful Paris. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 11.6pt;">
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
dinner, Megan and Lily were tired so they headed back to the hotel. Krystal and
I navigated the Paris metro system alone until the wee hours of the morning,
during which we saw the Eiffel Tower lit up at night and then promptly
decided to leave after taking our touristy pictures because some nice man came
up behind Krystal and whispered in her ear, asking if she’d like some cocaine.
We then explored the center of Paris a bit, gallivanting around the Louvre and
singing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Les Miserables</i> songs, before
we somehow (miraculously) managed to hail a cab and tell him the name of our
hotel with a decent French accent (hacking in the back of the throat included).
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--dSEugyUVf0/UTaDtREIopI/AAAAAAAAAVE/oqYSFlDK3dY/s1600/IMG_6561.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--dSEugyUVf0/UTaDtREIopI/AAAAAAAAAVE/oqYSFlDK3dY/s320/IMG_6561.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Me, Megan, Lily and Krystal</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;">The
next morning was somber: we ate what must’ve been about our eleventh pastry of
the weekend before buying some for the road, in addition to stocking up on an
entire loaf of bread and three different types of cheese. We snuck these into
Italy in our backpacks: there was one harrowing moment in which the French TSA
man at the airport demanded that I open my bag and as he was going through my
things, he held up the vacuum-sealed package and inquired, “Cheese?” I gave him
my brightest smile and nodded, and he sort of shrugged and put it back into my
backpack. I think he understood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was hard to describe such a beautiful weekend and so I delayed writing this post
for far too long. Tomorrow I will have to write another one, bringing you back
under the porticoes of Bologna to tell you how my classes are going, how I’m
planning trip after trip around Europe, how I’m now teaching English at an
Italian elementary school, and how with each day, I keep reminding myself to
indulge and get that extra gelato or stay up late to watch <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How I Met Your Mother</i> with my Albanian roommate because it’s just
going by way too fast. Paris doesn’t even seem real, sometimes. I look at the
pictures and try to remember the smells and the sounds of French and the
sunlight blazing down on white walls. But all I can really remember is how </span><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">our cab driver was wearing a fedora and playing jazz
music that night Krystal and I explored Paris until two or three in the
morning. As we drove up the </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;">Champs-Élysées</span></i><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;">,
the city was still lit up with its big golden globes and car headlights. At the
end of the long stretch of cobblestone road stood the Arc de Triomphe and for a
brief moment, Krystal grabbed my hand and squeezed, only letting out a shrill
giggle beside me. It’s hard to describe little moments like those, but I think
those are the moments that I like most about studying abroad. Those brief
flashes in which you turn to the person next to you and grin like a maniac
because you’re here, you’re in Paris, the city is ablaze with light—a show,
just for you. The jazz music continues to roll out of the car stereo as you’re
jostled from side-to-side, the cobblestones making the ride less-than-smooth,
and you crane your neck to catch one last glimpse of that golden glow and the
shadows on the marble faces of the Greek statues before the cab turns a corner
and it’s all gone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'IM Fell English'; font-size: 17px; line-height: 25px;">© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-5972495137819206512013-02-11T03:34:00.001-08:002013-02-11T15:40:00.585-08:00In Limbo<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
Italians have this cute little
habit of carrying umbrellas in the snow. I’m of the mindset that whether it’s
rain or snow, coats and jackets with hoods are the best option. This way, your
hands are free and the wind won’t rip away your little 5-Euro umbrella and
twist it inside-out. However, Italians seem to think that umbrellas are a grand
idea when the snow begins to flurry down and as I walked down the narrow
sidewalk towards ECCO’s office, about three people (one right after the other)
were forced to raise their umbrellas above their heads to allow me to pass by
them. I felt like a princess being hailed by her people and I was really
tempted to curtsy back at them, but I’m not sure if they would have thought it
as funny as I did. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
Monday morning and ECCO courses are about to start this week (A.K.A. today);
that is, I am officially leaving the limbo period I’ve been in since last
Sunday, in which I didn’t really have a set schedule. This past week has been a
little strange, in that respect. I’ve been doing a lot of different things,
which I’ll try to summarize here before yet another busy week. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Last
Monday I actually went to my first UNIBO class to test it out. Viola, my lovely
roommate, was sweet enough that day to first take me to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">la mensa</i> (the UNIBO cafeteria) and it was nice to actually see
Italian students bustling around with what they considered sub-par food
(actually WAY better than anything Seaco has ever offered me at UMW) and
talking. I really started to feel I was in an Italian university then.
Afterwards, Viola proved herself to be even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">more</i>
amazing by walking me to the building that my test-class would be in a few
hours later. We then walked in the building, figured out its weird floor plans,
and found the room where my class would be. Viola gets 50 extra brownie points
for being my little tour guide. I think she could tell earlier that morning
that I was a little nervous, and I am so grateful that she took me under her
wing.<br />
The
building that the class was in, under the department of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lettere e Filosofia</i> (Letters and Philosophy = language, literature,
history, religion, art, etc.) was incredible. It was like stepping back into
the 70’s, in the midst of a student revolution: there was graffiti all over the
walls within the building, but not just bubble letter graffiti. This stuff was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">art</i>. Protest slogans, calls for societal
change, and an explosion of colors were splattered across the walls. The
students were incredibly loud and the whole place was filled with a haze of
smoke from the ridiculous amount of cigarettes that were lit up both in and
outside the building. My classroom was a relatively small,
amphitheater-style room, with the benches and desks so close together that you
had to sit with your back ram-rod straight and turn slightly so that your notebook was
sideways (otherwise it wouldn’t fit on the desk). There were so many students
in the classroom that there weren’t enough seats, so about fifteen people were
sitting on the floor. The course was Contemporary History, which basically
includes everything from the Industrial Revolution to present day, with a
strong emphasis on the 1900’s. At some point, there were multiple phone
conversations going on behind me. There was graffiti carved all over the desks
(I particularly liked the one that said SLYTHERIN PRIDE, written in white-out)
and people were blatantly texting and having side conversations as our sassy,
middle-aged Italian lady professor tried to lecture. Also, contrary to what I
think regular Italian classrooms are like, there were multiple discussions (=
fights) with the professor about issues within World War II. I was both
fascinated and terrified throughout the two days I went to class (I pulled a
very Italian move and skipped the third day to walk around and explore Bologna
in the sunshine) and always made sure to sit next to the Chinese foreign
exchange student, who looked just as scared as me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was a really interesting class, overall, but I don’t think I’m going to stick
with it. Instead, I’m shooting for a Medieval History class at the same time, taught by a
professor who I’m told looks like Merlin (bald with a really long white beard)
and is supposedly extremely nice and patient. That class, however, does not
start until <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">next</i> Monday, so an update
on that will arrive next week. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
(Megan, Lily, Krystal and I) also took a day-trip to Ravenna this past week! We
had booked our tickets to Paris (YEE!) for this upcoming weekend a while ago
and didn’t realize until later that ECCO would be taking everyone on a tour of
Ravenna on that same weekend. Determined to not miss anything, we took our own
trip to Ravenna and it was simply amazing. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ravenna
is a tiny little city, just about an hour away from Bologna on the regional
train. At some point in the history of the world, it was the capital of the Holy
Roman Empire, but for a very short time. Today, it is most famous for its
Byzantine mosaics, which were the main purpose of our visit. We also saw Dante's tomb, so that was an added bonus!<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A3csAaA0X0E/URjUeY2C1OI/AAAAAAAAASA/JOFCJmCygcg/s1600/IMG_0791.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-A3csAaA0X0E/URjUeY2C1OI/AAAAAAAAASA/JOFCJmCygcg/s320/IMG_0791.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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Dante's Tomb</div>
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("Welcome to hell [the inferno]!")</div>
<br />
<br />
It’s hard to put
into words how amazing the mosaics are in person and the pictures really do not
do it justice, but I’ll try to describe them. First
of all, the outside of the Basilica with most of the mosaics is very plain and
built with rustic, brown bricks. You could easily walk past it and not think it
very special at all. When we first walked through its doors, we entered a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">massive</i> church, with ceilings that
stretched all the way up to the sky. The first part of the church is relatively
dark, with the center ceiling painted Renaissance-style, with a lot of dark and
overly-ornate images of women in togas. The sort of thing you see in almost
every church in Italy or Western Europe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
directly ahead, where the altar stood, were the mosaics. Windows framed the
small (well, it was pretty large, but small in comparison to the rest of the
Church) alcove of the Basilica, and the sunlight streaming in made all of the
mosaics glow a warm gold. </div>
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Mosaic details</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Pr1ByCMAYN4/URjUXxh3cBI/AAAAAAAAAR4/nDcGcS4RYx0/s1600/IMG_0808.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Pr1ByCMAYN4/URjUXxh3cBI/AAAAAAAAAR4/nDcGcS4RYx0/s320/IMG_0808.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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Inside the Basilica</div>
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I just can’t put it into words. That
Basilica had more of an effect on me than <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i>
gothic-style cathedral in Europe ever has. All those other churches always look
the same, with the repeated paintings of death-by-sword (as mentioned in a
previous post) all over the walls. But this place was much more…I don’t know.
Stunning. Impressive. Beautiful. The gold mosaics were offset by the rich blues
and greens and reds. And the detail! Oh, the detail was spectacular. This was
the first time in a long time in which I had been really and truly quieted by a
church. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
walked around, craning our necks up at the ceiling for a while, until Megan and
I decided to lay down on the floor and Krystal and Lily soon followed. At
first, I was a little nervous someone was going to come in and yell at us, but
we were the only ones in the church. The four of us stretched out on the cold
marble in front of the altar, simply looking up at the sunlight reflected on
the gold of the mosaics that had been there for thousands of years. I don’t
know how long we stayed there, but those quiet moments in the Basilica were
some of the best I’ve had this entire trip. </div>
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I spent the rest of the week exploring
Bologna, going to the gym, and spending time with friends. Lily and I
discovered a grocery store that sells American food, which was surprisingly
exciting. We bought pancake mix and maple syrup and are planning on cooking an
American breakfast for our roommates the minute we have a free Sunday. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
Saturday we went to the opera! Which was simply amazing. Obviously, I’ve never
been to an opera before and walking in that building was like stepping into
Italy in the 1800’s. We were by far the youngest group in the place, which was
made even more obvious as we giggled somewhat loudly at the sometimes
“interesting” stage direction/choreography of Giuseppe Verdi’s adaptation of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Macbeth</i> as the elderly patrons stared on
coolly. I was admittedly surprised by how much I enjoyed the opera (it helped
that there were Italian <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> English
subtitles) and apparently this production is actually becoming very famous (it
was being taped!). I only really felt like I was at the opera, however, when
the very enthusiastic man behind me began yelling, “Brava! Brava!” every time
Lady Macbeth sang with her creepy makeup and crazy eyes. It was such a neat,
quintessentially Italian experience. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
After the opera we all went to a
party at Ghigi (the other dorm) which was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">way</i>
different than our dorm in that they have boys and they are allowed to speak in
above a whisper. I’m exaggerating slightly, but really: the atmosphere of Ghigi
is much different than Forni (in other words, much <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">louder</i>). It was really fun getting to see Italian guy students, as
opposed to all the quiet girls in our dorm (cough-psychiatric hospital-cough). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
internet has been really bad these past few days so I’m overloading the web
with blog posts in preparation for this week, during which I am sure I’ll have
to regale you with tales of my courses and, later on, my weekend in Paris (SO
EXCITED). Thank you to whoever has sent me letters! Please know that I
appreciate them, I’m just a little daunted by the prospect of figuring out the
Italian postage system at the moment, but you will receive postcards/letters
from me very soon! I’m excited for courses to start so I can get out of this
limbo zone and into a schedule—I like having things to do. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
really settling in here and enjoying myself. I realized that I’m starting to
call Forni/Bologna “home” and it especially felt that way last night, when I
successfully cleaned our apartment and did laundry without mixing chemicals or
shrinking all of my shirts. It’s a little sad how accomplished I felt after
this, but at the same time, I take this as a sign that Bologna is starting to
take root in my heart, and I’m already dreading the end of the
semester, when I’m going to have to say goodbye. <br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'IM Fell English'; font-size: 17px; line-height: 25px;">© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-30421634087444223792013-02-10T08:26:00.002-08:002013-02-10T08:41:35.352-08:00Masks and Monsoons: The Epic Saga of Venice<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
corny as this sounds, there are definitely moments in life when you just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can’t. stop. smiling.</i> This condition is
usually accompanied by the urge to squeal out loud, jump up and down, and even,
in some extreme cases, break into dancing. Throughout my time in Venice last weekend,
that is exactly how I felt. The reason why it’s taken me over a week to write
this is because the idea of describing such a weekend seemed daunting…and then
I also had a very busy week. Brace yourselves, this is a long one: my weekend
in Venice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
bought tickets for Venice the first week we arrived in Bologna and I am so glad
that we got an early start on it. We bought the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">FrecciaBianca </i>train tickets, which means that by paying a few extra
Euros, it only took us an hour and a half to get from Bologna to Venezia. The
train was beautiful and although I had to sit across from a short Italian
businessman who thought he deserved all of the leg-space under the table (I WAS
A WHOLE FOOT TALLER THAN HIM) it was a pretty nice ride. By the time we pulled
into Venice, it was already dark out. Then, as per the instructions given to us
by the place where we would be staying, we hopped on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">vaporetto</i> (a water-bus, because there are no cars in Venice, all
transportation is by foot and by boat) and took a thirty-minute boat ride to a
residential neighborhood, just about a fifteen minute-walk from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza San Marco</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
of the lovely ladies in my travel group, Megan, had the forethought to look on
a website called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Airbnb</i>, which allows
you to rent apartments in most cities throughout Europe for decent prices. For
the two nights that we spent in Venice, I only paid about 35 Euro after the
bill had been divided amongst our group. Most hostels in Venice are about 30
Euro <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">each night</b>. This was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">such</i> a score. I highly recommend renting
an apartment if any of you are considering traveling abroad and you want your
own space. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All
nine of us settled in the apartment and I got the double bed up in the loft,
which I shared with Sami and Skyla. We also had a pull-out couch, a single bed,
a regular couch, a full-sized kitchen and a balcony that overlooked a courtyard
that we shared with our neighbors. Once we were all moved in, we then set out
in search of a restaurant that I had done research on a few days before.
Unfortunately, we hit a few snags: (1). Some people were so hungry that they
were incapable of speech, let alone going on a wild goose chase; (2) We didn’t
really have a map, unless you count the small picture that the travel book
included as part of its “Introduction to Venice”; (3) There was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no one</i> out on the streets to ask for
directions. That was the strangest part; it was only about 8:30 or 9:00 when we
started walking around, which is prime eating time in pretty much every other
Italian city. But the streets were deserted and not only was this inconvenient
for asking directions, it was also somewhat creepy. It was as if the plague had
hit Venice again and we were the only survivors. Eventually, we were pulled
into a restaurant by a man who, with very broken English, stood outside the
door of his place and asked us if we would like to come in for pasta. This was
our first encounter with the reality of Venice tourism. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Despite
the fact that I immediately hated the restaurant for giving us menus written in
English (I sent it back like a snob and asked for the Italian menu because,
well…yeah), the food was actually delicious and it we had a good time. Two
girls were actually brave enough to try the linguini soaked in black squid ink
(Venice specialty) but I’m not sure if they knew what they were ordering
beforehand. After dinner, half of the group went on to explore <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza San Marco</i> in the dark while the
other half of us headed back to the apartment to crash in preparation for the
next day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now,
I had read the weather reports for Saturday: 60% chance of rain, they said.
Light showers, they said. What the weather report <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">failed</i> to mention was the hurricane-speed winds, the piercing rain
and the cold that reached down to our bones. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dramatic?
Only a little.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
good news is, Lily, Sami and I made a decision at the beginning of the day that
would make the rain and the wind seem like mere inconveniences: we got our
faces painted. I honestly think that this singular decision had a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">huge</i> effect on our attitudes on rainy
Venice. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With
glitter on our faces to celebrate Carnevale, we proudly marched through the
crowds of tourists until we decided that doing something educational would be a
good idea. I personally have a hard time making it through wall after wall of
art paintings and sculptures that all start to look the same to me after
approximately fifteen minutes, so instead of going to one of the many
noteworthy galleries of Venice, we went to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Palazzo Ducale</i> (the Ducal Palace) which has a good balance of those
paintings and sculptures, but also grand rooms, large displays of swords and,
of course, the Bridge of Sighs. We managed to get half-price tickets (thank
you, student ID’s!) and somehow ended up going into the bookstore and moving
backwards through the tour of the Palace. Lily and Sami are convinced we snuck
into a section of the Palace that required extra payment, but I’m not entirely
sure. Regardless, we were definitely going through the Palace the wrong way,
seeing as we had to constantly fight against the stream of tourists who looked
very confused as to why we were coming from where they were going. This made
walking through the Palace even more exciting; with the extra thrill of
sneaking past the guards, it felt like we were contributing towards Casanova’s
legacy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Palazzo Ducale </i>escapes. We
got through the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Palazzo</i> without being
yelled at, with the added bonus of having seen some beautiful rooms and
depressing jail cells, circa 16th century. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
walking in the rain (again) we began to make our way through <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza San Marco </i>towards the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rialto</i> for food. Again: tourists
everywhere. And I am only emphasizing the amount of tourists (while ignoring
the fact that I myself was a tourist as well) because in Bologna, there are
none. When walking the streets of the city that we’ve started to call “home,”
English is hardly ever spoken; if it is, we tend to spin around and stare at
the other Americans/Brits/Aussies/etc. with the same amount of fascination as the
local Italians. However, in Venice, we’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everywhere</i>—English-speakers,
that is. After having spent just about a month in a city where the only
Americans around are those in my program, walking through the streets of Venice
was a small reminder that yes, America is still across the ocean. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We are not alone</i>, someone said at one
point during the trip; and although this sounded sort of ominous, it was
exactly how I felt in regards to the large amount of Americans that we bumped
into throughout the day. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With
all of us American tourists comes those slightly-insulting moments when local
Italians insist on speaking English with you, even when you’re clearly doing
fine in Italian. We got a nice break from that when we stepped into <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trattoria alla Madonna</i>, a restaurant
that my parents and I used to go to when we visited Venice. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Despite
the fact that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Madonna</i> has menus in
almost every single language, the feeling of extreme tourism that comes from
the stands of cheap masks and glass-sellers on the streets seems to drift away
when you step through the tiny door of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trattoria</i>.
All the walls are whitewashed, with massive, dark wooden beams holding up the
ceilings. It’s a bustle of noise and movement and the smell of fish (which is,
obviously, also a Venetian specialty). All the waiters are in white suits and
black bowties and are probably some of the most polite people you’ll ever
encounter in the service industry. As soon as we walked in the door, looking
like drowned, stray dogs, they immediately whisked our coats off to be dried
and led us to a small, cozy side-room filled with all Italians and one Chinese
family who was having some serious problems figuring out the menu. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was really nice going back to a place that I remembered from when I was younger.
I have a lot of memories of being in that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trattoria</i>,
since my parents and I would stop in there at least once every time we went to
Venice. The food is spectacular and costs almost nothing. We spent over an hour
in the restaurant, warming up with our fresh gnocchi and bread. We couldn’t
stop talking about how, despite the inclement weather, this day was simply
amazing. There’s something about the windy streets of Venice that makes you
fall in love with it, no matter how rainy or touristy it is. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
some helpful directions from our waiter, we set off looking for a famous <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pasticceria</i> (pastry shop) that had been
in Venice since either the 1400’s or the 1700’s (there is some conflicting
information regarding its date of origin). The important thing to note: it was
old. However, streets in Venice do not go straight and locals’ directions are
less-than-accurate. They usually include the words: “Left, then left, then
straight. It’s right in front of you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>LIES.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
We took many lefts and lefts and
lefts and also went straight and yet we somehow still ended up lost and
confused. At this point, Sami—who had decided to only wear a thin shirt and a
windbreaker for the day—was really struggling with the idea of continuing to
walk through the city. We stopped inside a book shop, where the owner not only
told us how to find the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pasticceria</i>
(which was, admittedly, right in front of us), he also taught us about his
work: the very Venetian tradition of marble book designs and bookbinding. His
work was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beautiful</i> and I ended up
buying a book from him that also had paper in it from a family down on the
Amalfi coast that has been making paper for centuries. In fact, they were the
first Italian family to learn paper-making from Arabic merchants, and they
still make it to this day. Their family name is printed very lightly on the
center page of my notebook, and this added bit of history just makes it all the
more beautiful. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
efforts to reach <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pasticceria Rizzardini</i>
paid off. The little pastry shop had a lot of character, but this was mainly because
of the baker, who insisted on choosing our pastries for us. Lily and Sami got
the infamous “Casanova’s Balls” (chocolate and hazelnut and all sorts of
deliciousness) and I got traditional Carnevale pastries, which were
out-of-this-world-amazing. Please imagine fried balls of dough, studded with
raisins, sprinkled with powdered sugar, and filled with the lightest, sweetest
cream (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">panna fresca</i>) imaginable. It
was Heaven. So much so, that we each had two pastries. No shame. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
then asked the pastry shop man where a good mask store was; we wanted to go to
a mask store that wasn’t extremely touristy (which made the baker-man laugh,
since we were obviously tourists) and so he pointed us in the direction of a
bridge, that was just a few left and right-turns away. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Surprisingly,
we made it to the store with little problems, where we found two rooms filled
with masks, from the ceiling to the floor. Unfortunately, the owners were very
strict on taking pictures so I couldn’t capture the extreme claustrophobia that
can sometimes come from being stared at by thousands of empty eyes, but it was
amazing. We spent a good thirty minutes in the store, trying on masks and
marveling at the craftsmanship. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While
happily cradling little bags of bubble-wrapped masks, we headed back to our
apartment. Originally, Lily and I were going to dry off and then head back out
into the rain to eat out, but once we got inside and peeled off the layers of
soaking clothes, staying in started to seem like a much better idea. When we
then looked out the window and realized that the rain had mutated into some
sort of hurricane-monsoon-maelstrom-hybrid, we decided to stay in the apartment
with the other girls. We spent the night listening to 90’s music and cooking
risotto and chicken (which Skyla has now taught me how to make!). It was a
nice, relaxing night after a long, long day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
next day, we woke up relatively early and set out to explore the city again
before going back to Bologna on our three o’clock train. Waking up early was
the second-best decision we made all weekend, after the face paint. Being able
to explore the city in its quiet hours before the hordes of tourists got off
the boats was such a gift. And what was even better was that the skies had
cleared: slowly but surely, the sun began to fight its way up into the sky. With
the sun, everything seemed new. We got lost in the back alleyways searching for
a particular tower that our book-man had recommended to us the day before and
it was definitely worth the search. We then spent twenty minutes trying to find
our way out of the maze to go back to our apartment to pick up our stuff
(check-out was at 11) and then return back to the center of the city for a few
more hours of exploration and lunch. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
thing about Venice is that if you get pulled into its little streets, the
buildings start to learn into one another. You’re always craning your neck,
squinting up at the windows and small balconies of the apartments above, where
trellises of purple and red flowers hang down like moss. It really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> like being in a maze, albeit a
beautiful one. While the Grand Canal offers wide streets, views of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Rialto</i>, and plenty of opportunities to
inter-mingle with fellow tourists, the back alleyways are the closest thing to your
childhood’s dream of an imaginary world. There is a definite sense of being
closed off from the rest of the city, as you carefully inch around the next
corner or street, not knowing if you’ll end up facing a street of water or
another alley. You follow the old, yellow signs and wall etchings that have
arrows pointing towards <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza San Marco</i>
and you hope that they’re right, because at this point, even that 3 Euro map
you bought won’t help you. Other tourists brush by with the same dazed look in
their eyes, and I think it’s the mystery of this city that keeps people coming
back for more. What a conundrum Venice is: a hodgepodge of grand, white marble
staircases and slimy fish markets that reek of raw octopus, fish scales littering
the ground like silver. The gondoliers paddle down the almost-turquoise water
of the little canals, singing loud renditions of Andrea Bocelli when they have
tourists in their boat, but quiet little lullabies when they are alone, bending
over as they glide beneath the bridges. It’s peaceful back here, in the
alleyways with the little mask shops and the doors that have lion heads with snarling
jaws that open to the keyhole. It’s the kind of place you never want to leave,
on the off chance that there’s just one more discovery to be made over the next
bridge. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
then suddenly a huge crowd of people dressed as mushrooms rushed by us singing
and we were pulled with them and the rest of the crowd into the chaos of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza San Marco</i>.</div>
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<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
piazza was an explosion of colors and music and costumes and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">people</i>. To the right, there was a huge
stage where commentators were yelling loudly over the melee, announcing
different types of costumes and parades and traditions of Carnevale. There were
at least three different types of music playing. The costumes surrounding us
were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stunning</i>. And it was all lit up,
amazingly, by sunlight. The skies were clear and Venice was giving us one last
show to make up for the bad weather the day before. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
We walked around, completely
overwhelmed, trying to find some sense in the crowd. As the parade began, we
realized that we had to get our stuff from the apartment. We walked/ran as
quickly as possible back to our little quiet corner of Venice, grabbed our
over-stuffed backpacks, and ran back to the center. I use the term “ran”
loosely, seeing as I had really over-packed (lesson learned: you only need one
pair of boots) and Sami was somehow trying to carry her Vera Bradley duffle bag
(which is made for looks, not for comfort) as a backpack. The crowds had
multiplied and now we could barely push our way through, there were so many
people. As we shuffled over bridges, I tried to snag a few pictures of the
costumed people walking the streets. Some of the people who are dressed up are
paid to walk around by the city, but others are just locals who do it for fun
(or tourists who are fulfilling a life dream—a.k.a., me in ten years, when I
have enough money for one of those costumes). </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While
the rest of the group was off in some distant part of Venice that we didn’t
have the energy to find, Sami, Michelle and I grabbed a quick lunch and got
directions from our waiter on how to walk to the train station, as opposed to paying
the money to sit on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">vaporetto</i> for
thirty minutes. Our route included a short gondola ride across the canal that
was sort of like a ferry-service. They were supposed to charge us 2 Euro for
the trip, but no one asked us for the money that we awkwardly held in our hands
as we stood on the dock, waiting for someone to tell us what to do. So we
eventually just walked away and got a free gondola ride (and almost tipped the
boat over, with our over-packed bags). </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
then walked through a residential neighborhood of Venice, which was really fun.
Here, Carnevale was also in full swing, but rather than hordes of American,
Chinese and German tourists celebrating, it was the Italians themselves. This
area was much less chaotic than <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Piazza
San Marco</i>, but it had that same feeling of excitement that Carnevale seems
to create. There were a lot of families in costume, street musicians, pastries
being sold from vendors, and explosions of confetti and streamers everywhere. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On
the way, we happened to find the Jewish Ghetto, which has been around since the
14th century but obviously became a much more significant part of the city
during the 1930’s and 1940’s. It was the quietest part of the city, with a piazza
filled with small boys feeding pizza to pigeons beside a wall commemorating the
Jews who were sent to Nazi concentration camps. </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wxgLUSYLQgQ/URfHGpJmhRI/AAAAAAAAAQw/Z9RY1nDuKvo/s1600/IMG_0692.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wxgLUSYLQgQ/URfHGpJmhRI/AAAAAAAAAQw/Z9RY1nDuKvo/s320/IMG_0692.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
then made it back to the train station and took a relaxing ride back to Bologna.
It felt nice to come back to something familiar, but it was also heart-breaking,
leaving Venice. I’ve heard a lot of people say that Venice is like the Orlando,
Florida of Italy: a tourist trap, with nothing to offer but plastic masks and
the chaos of long lines at the art museums. But I think that if you can look
past all the tourism, there is a truly beautiful city hiding behind the street
vendor’s carts. There is so much history and culture to Venice and it is
singularly unique in the fact that there was a day when a bunch of Italians had
the nerve and the ingenuity to look at sinking lagoon and say, “Yeah. Let’s
build a city on that.” </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Venice
is still, and I think will always be, one of my favorite cities. The brief 48
hours I spent there this past weekend was a whirlwind of rain and sunshine and
masks and music. I love the city even more than I did when I first saw it as a
ten year-old little girl, clutching my copy of <i>The</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thief Lord</i> and peering down a crooked alleyway, wondering where it
led.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Th3GuFye_WQ/URfNuO-OpMI/AAAAAAAAARY/hB2MQKov_EM/s1600/579749_4296824429317_28789910_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Th3GuFye_WQ/URfNuO-OpMI/AAAAAAAAARY/hB2MQKov_EM/s320/579749_4296824429317_28789910_n.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'IM Fell English'; font-size: 17px; line-height: 25px;">© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.</span></div>
</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09660571468448760341noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1218847630926083962.post-7765124891374551652013-01-30T17:46:00.002-08:002013-01-31T08:10:15.171-08:00La Resistenza<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
should really be asleep at this point of the day. Here, it’s almost three a.m.
and although to the average college student that may not seem very late,
tomorrow and the weekend that will follow are going to both be very busy. I
could use as much sleep as possible, but after today’s events, I just really
felt the need to write some things down. Also, as I just mentioned, this
weekend will be busy: me and a few other girls are going to Venice for the
weekend to celebrate Carnevale. I wanted to write about today before I left for
that trip, but I should probably warn you: most of this post will probably be a
bit of a Debbie-downer. But not everything in life is puppies and pink
champagne, so here it goes…</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
week, in class, we’re studying <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La
Resistenza</i>; that is, the Italian resistance to Nazi Germany’s invasion and
occupation of Italy during World War II. I’ve had a sort of morbid fascination
with World War II and the Holocaust since I was about nine years old; in
Italian school, I had to memorize the chronology of the entire war, the
geography of Germany, how an atomic bomb works, and various poems written by
Italian Jews who survived the concentration camps. All of this was a part of my
final exam in fifth grade, in which I graduated from elementary school, and all
of it had a profound effect on me. I’ve made the mistake of saying, “I love World
War II!” multiple times, before realizing that I should clarify and explain
that I don’t actually love the existence of an awful war. I love studying it. </span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With
that being said, it should be no surprise that when we were told that we’d be
traveling just outside of Bologna’s city limits, into the mountains, where
there is a key landmark of Italy’s history (or at least Bologna's history) of resistance during the war, I was
extremely excited. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
bus wound its way up hills and small roads that would barely fit an SUV, let
alone a vehicle filled with 20+ students and various professors. The
surrounding hills and valleys were beautiful, with little orange, red, and
brown villas and farmhouses scattered around, with steep vineyards and cliffs
dividing them. After about thirty minutes, we arrived at our destination: a
small memorial on the side of the road. It looked like the sort of thing that you could easily
drive by if you didn’t know it was there.</span></div>
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</span>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
seems like a simple little place, at first. Just a wall with the words: “A
memorial for the fallen partisans at Sabbiuno.” There’s an old
farmhouse further up the hill (where the museum is housed) and the fog from the early morning blocks
almost everything below in the valley from sight, besides the pale sun that
fights its way through the clouds. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
then Professor Pretti, a UNIBO professor, and an elderly man from the memorial
museum step in front of us and they both tell us the story of this cliff and these
people. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
hard to give you an accurate representation of the significance of this
hillside to the Italian people (or at least the Bolognese) and what it symbolizes without an extensive
background of Italy’s participation in WWII. I feel that some knowledge of
history would help put it in perspective and I guess the best way to make you
understand (if you don’t already know your European history) is that at this
point in the war, Italy is in a state of chaos. An armistice has been signed,
so Italy has officially pulled from the war, but apparently these orders are
not sent to everybody, so there’s some confusion. The Allied Forces are
marching through Italy from the South, slowly but surely moving towards the
heart of Europe. The Third Reich obviously doesn’t like this and Hitler also
sees Italy as a traitor in their little alliance, so he sends a large amount of
troops into Italy from the North. Let’s not forget that the Italian fascists
are there too, so there’s also a bit of a civil war going on between Italian
fascists and Italian ‘rebels,’ which come in many forms. One type of rebel? The
partisans; or rather, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">i partigiani</i>:
the farmers and factory workers and the occasional student who saw the Germans
as invaders of their own land and decided to engage in guerilla warfare to
drive them from the Italian countryside. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>An
ambitious endeavor. They had some success and it’s certainly noteworthy that
they fought back, but these acts of rebellion resulted in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">serious</i> retaliation from the Nazi’s, as can be seen on the little
hill of the area of Paderno right outside of Bologna, where I was this morning.
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Over
one hundred young men were rounded up and kept in the prisons of Bologna,
suspected of being <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">partigiani</i>. Some
of the men were indeed rebels, others were just farmers who had been kind enough
to provide a roof and some food to the <i>partigiani</i>. Regardless, they were held
captive and tortured for information for a good amount of time in a building
that now belongs to the University until December of 1944, when this group of
over one hundred young men was marched up into the hills surrounding Bologna.
They were brought to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sabbiuno di Paderno</i>,
on a tall hill that overlooks a peaceful little valley. They stood on the edge
of the cliff and were then executed, en masse, by the Nazi soldiers. Their
bodies rolled down the cliff and were buried by the snow in the valley until
the following summer, when the snow melted and a hunter found them. </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
is where I was today. I stood right there, almost precisely where they would
have stood. Where boys—some no older than twelve or thirteen—stood shaking in
the snow, facing the muzzles of German automatic weapons. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They were so young</i>. Younger than me. Braver than me. How do you do
that? How do you, as a poor farmer, take on the immense power of the Third
Reich? I think that’s what amazes me the most: the fact that these men (and
women—although in this case there weren’t any women killed, there were
certainly plenty killed in other instances) took this incredibly huge risk, but
not for a political motive or even for an ideological one. The did it for their
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">land</i>. As we watched <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;">L'uomo che verrà </span></i><span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;">in
class this week (a film depicting the tragic mass murder of partigiani and
innocent farmers—women and children alike—in an area called Montesole, also
very near Bologna), they kept emphasizing that idea. This was their land, their
home, and it always had been. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That</i>
was why they fought. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
am always amazed by the connection Italians seem to feel to the land. I’ve had
a lot of Italians tell me that the U.S. is much more patriotic than their
country and in some cases that’s true, but I see a very individual sort of
patriotism in Italy. Americans are often patriotic for an ideal: the American
dream. The idea that you can do anything, if you try hard enough. The flashing
lights of New York City, the beaches of California, the cowboy boots of Texas.
We’re patriotic for the red, white, and blue because we’re proud of this
immensely expansive country that has been a country for all of two hundred
years. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
Italians? They’re proud of the land they’re standing on. That hillside, with
the trees sloping down the cliff to lead to a giant, white cross to mark the
spot of the bodies? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That’s</i> what
they’re proud of: the tangible home that you can reach out and touch, not an
ideal of stars and stripes. Now, there’s nothing wrong with being proud of
those stars and stripes (I will admit to singing my fair share of hard-core
American country ballads). But when Italians tell me that there’s no patriotism
in their country, I think that they’re wrong. I can hear it in their voices
when they talk about their people; the ones who fought back against the
impossibly-strong force of the Third Reich of Nazi Germany. I see it at Rita’s
table in our cooking classes, when she explains the differences in wine that are
particular to each region of Italy. I feel it in the way my housemate, Marta,
describes her family and shows me the pictures of her backyard, where she and
her cousins used to play beneath the shadow of the Alps. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
listened to our elderly tour guide describe not the movement of armies, but the
names of the <i>partigiani</i>. Dante Drusiani? He was a ladies-man and apparently
very charismatic. He was also very short, so he was sometimes teased by the
other rebels; he chose the codename <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tempesta
</i>(Storm), to seem more fierce. He ended up being one of their best fighters,
until he was killed. For some reason, hearing these small details was even more
crushing than looking at the overall statistics of how many people were killed
in the war. It made it so much more real, as we were walking along the
cliff-side, where each man that had been identified had his name inscribed on
a large stone. I read every single name. I felt that if I had been willing to
die for something, I would want people to remember my name. I would want them
to read it out loud and wonder who I was and what I had done or what I would
have done. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That’s
what’s so beautiful about Italy. The past isn’t in old history books or
museums—it’s on the streets, it’s in the mountains, it’s in the old ladies who
shuffle by with canes to keep themselves upright, clearly old enough to remember a
time when three different world powers marched themselves through their countryside. I
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">love</i> that history is just a part of daily life here.</span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
we walked around the cliff and our fingers were numb with cold, we were brought
down to the lower level of the farmhouse, which used to be the barn, where “the
old lady has made you some tea and food.” Literally, an exact translation.
Waiting for us was steaming lemon tea and homemade pizza and foccaccia. Our
elderly tour guide took turns coming up to each of us and telling us how
beautiful we are. He especially insisted on staring into our eyes and marveling
at their colors, so it’s good to know that after the age of 75, you’re still
allowed to flirt with people fifty years your junior. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then later this
evening, I had my third cooking class with Rita. We made <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pasta fresca</i>; that is, we made <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tagliatelle</i>
from scratch and they were delicious. Kneading the dough required a sort of swaying motion, so Rita put on the equivalent of Italian salsa and told us to dance while kneading the dough. When we apparently weren't moving in the correct way, she told us to pretend there was a handsome man at our backs, watching us. As we got into the dancing, Rita laughed, clapped her hands, and proclaimed: "You see? Pasta is sexy!" </span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;">Enough said. </span><br />
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 30.0pt;">With the tagliatelle, we made a ragu’ sauce! And
then a salad with </span><span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">some sort of green
lettuce, slices of blood-orange, fennel, raisins, pine nuts, slices of pecorino
romano, and a balsamic vinaigrette (AMAZING). Then we made tiramisu’! Again.
Everything was so great. Rita gave us a small lesson on wine while her husband
Giovanni made jokes down at the end of the table. We talked about America’s
tendency for binge-drinking and how drinking wine “con calma” (calmly) makes you
appreciate alcohol so much more. I’ve been trying to drink wine with dinner;
I’m not a huge fan of the taste, but I’m getting used to it. When in Rome [or
Bologna]…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With
the morning having such a heavy subject, ending the night with the cooking
class was nice. It’s almost impossible <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i>
to be in a good mood when leaving Rita’s house, with all the amazing food, interesting conversation, and good company. We spent a large portion of the evening trying
to explain the words “awkward” and “clumsy” to Giovanni. Of course, there is no
exact translation for either of these words into Italian because Italians are
neither awkward nor clumsy. Ever. Giovanni really liked exchanging English
colloquialisms for Sicilian ones, so I think it’s safe to say that both sides
are learning something. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’d
also like to say that Sami (another American) and I successfully did laundry
for the first time in over three weeks! Don’t ask me how I’ve survived this
long with the clothes that I’ve had. Also, chances are I’ll be doing laundry
very infrequently. Seeing as the laundry room used to be the morgue, it is
absolutely terrifying. I actually was planning on taking a picture of it to
post on here to show you, but I was legitimately afraid of offending some
random spirit. For the record, I do not believe in ghosts…except for maybe in
the laundry room of this building. It’s dark down there and things rattle and
it’s just…incredibly creepy. Pictures will come soon once I’m brave enough to
take them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now
it’s really late and I should probably get to bed. This Friday I’ll be off to Venice
and you’ll get another update after that. Hopefully I won’t fall into
a canal because, unlike the Italians, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i>
clumsy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Once
again, thanks for reading! I hope my overly-passionate history lesson didn’t
turn you off from tuning in next week for a Venice update. I hope you have a
spectacular rest of your day! I’ll leave you with this quote that was on a sign overlooking
the cliff:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #262626; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">"Better men will be born to us. The generation that will
come will be better than those born from the earth, from the iron and from the
fire."<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">-Nazim Hikmet, 8th grader<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Buona
notte, ragazzi!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Danielle <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: #262626; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'IM Fell English'; font-size: 17px; line-height: 25px;">© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.</span></div>
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