Friday, May 24, 2013

Bouncing around Barcelona


            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.
            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.
            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.
            Barcelona was a wonder of architecture. With Antoni Gaudí having designed and built multiple buildings throughout the city, in addition to the famous 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.








Eyeball building?



Sagrada Família

            We spent the nights eating tapas and drinking sangria; the most popular tapas were the patatas bravas: 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 quiet in there—a nice change from the bustling streets near Las Ramblas. That little courtyard became one of my favorite places I’ve ever visited.


The Cathedral






            We also explored the famous food market, which was amazing. 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.


Las Ramblas


FRUIT AND SMOOTHIES: please come to Italy




Accurate



            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.







            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. Such a good decision. The show was amazing and it was a lot of fun, having to navigate taxi rides in Spanish by myself.




            As a group, we climbed up to Parc 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.








            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 patatas bravas 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. 

© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Exam Cram


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.
            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.
            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.
            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 will 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.
            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 (yikes—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: Wow. That’s going to go by so fast! 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.
            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 beyond excited...but I will also be lugging along my Italian Medieval History textbook. It can't all be fun and games.

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 preservativi 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.

Motivation

Casually 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?!).

Enjoy a little "culture" all the way over here from Bologna



This guy is basically Italy's next American Idol winner.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZvrJafIrgIA


Club music always gets me through studying Dante, how about you?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3P06kyFpIQU

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Coming Home


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.


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.
            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 Harry Potter. 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.
            As soon as we got back to Selene’s house, it felt like home. Nothing had changed in her house—nothing. 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.


Iconic Gaeta view

            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.
            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.
            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 Il Molo multiple times—a gelateria 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).


Favorite gelato hangout!

            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 la Regina delle Suore 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.
            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 Regina delle Suore) 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.
            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.


My classroom!

            When we came back downstairs, there was a nun waiting for us who apparently did 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.
            A few minutes later, she came down the stairs holding the arm of the Madre Superiore—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 Madre Superiore 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.


Hallways (floors were originally Ancient Roman roads)


The entrance


The walkway leading to my school doors

            The rest of our time in rainy Gaeta was spent eating pizza (Roby from Pizzeria Rustica still remembered me!) and exploring the street that Americans called Piccolo Alley, but everyone else knows as Via dell’Indipendenza. 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 great. While in Gaeta, we also climbed la Montagna Spaccata, 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 beautiful 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.


Climbing down/up to Montagna Spaccata


The split that leads out to the sea


Selene and Alexandro (what cuties!)


Viola, Me and Selene

            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.



            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 could 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 me 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.
            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 you had—and it wasn’t quite what you thought it to be anymore.




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. 


Monday, May 6, 2013

Visitors & Living in the Now


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.
            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 did 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:

(1). Took the train to Florence from Bologna in the morning.
(2). The train from Bologna to Florence was delayed.
(3). When we finally got to Florence we waited for a bus to arrive to take us to Siena.
(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.
(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.
(6). We climbed for about two hours, getting lost multiple times, until we finally reached the city center.
(7). At this point it was 3 p.m…so everything was closed. And it was grey and raining.
(8). We ate a spectacular lunch.
(9). The tower in the Campo was closed due to rain. We went to the church instead, which was beautiful.
(9). We struggled to find the bus ticket booth to get back to Florence. We got on the correct bus this time.
(10). We made it to Bologna and crashed, completely exhausted.

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.


Siena!


On the Rialto in Venice


The top of Asinelli Tower in Bologna


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.
            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.
            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.


In Lucca


Riding bikes!


Lucca's walls


Cooking dinner with Marta


:)


My absolute favorite picture ever.


            It was strange having people from home here.  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.  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 really 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!
            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 be 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.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Flashes of Greece


            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.
            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.



            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.





            I think about the hours we spent late at night, taking advantage of the wifi and watching Say Yes to the Dress 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 next button.
            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.



            I remember laughing incredulously the first night we got there. I laughed at the taxi drivers who struggled to communicate with us in Italian and 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”  and invited us to eat at their venue (which is obviously the best way to make people want to eat at your establishment).
            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.




            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.




            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.
            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 xenia in high school—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 xenia.
            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 feasted 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.
            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.
            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.





            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.
            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.
            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.  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.