One more Hello and One more Goodbye

           

The gang reunited in the rain!

 I guess I lied when I said London was my last trip of the semester. It was originally supposed to be my last trip, but I ended up taking just a few more days outside of Bologna during my last week…but this time not nearly as far away—two hours on a train, and I was already in Milano.

            With my exams finished, I had one weekend and about a week left in Bologna. I had originally intended to spend every last waking moment in Bologna before I had to say goodbye, but I realized that on this last weekend before I left, a good majority of my roommates and friends would be gone. Marta was going home for a few days; Viola was studying like a madwoman; quite a few people in our program were leaving early to return in time for things like graduation, family trips, etc.; and Lily—who I have talked about so much only because she has been such an amazing friend these past five months—was off to Brussels with a friend from school for a few days. I’m sure I could have found ways to amuse myself in Bologna, but the lovely Valeria Mazzucco invited me to come stay with her in Milano for the weekend so that we could finally be reunited and I impulsively jumped at the chance.

            I have talked about Valeria a few times in my blogs, if only because she had such a profound effect on me last semester back at UMW. Although I had had some Italian interaction with my professors and the occasional passerby that I would accost on the street upon hearing them speak Italian in America, my contact with Italians my own age had been slim to none until this past year. Valeria, Francesca and Gianluca changed that when they came to Mary Washington and I became particularly close with Valeria, that sweet, introspective, motherly girl who would get frustrated when I used too many English idiomatic expressions when she cooked many Italian dinners for me. By spending so much time together at college (and then later inviting her to my house for Thanksgiving), I was able to give Valeria a small piece of the America that I knew, which I think was incredibly important. In a liberal arts college, it is easy to slip into cynical critiques of society; and rightly so—the world isn’t perfect and it needs improvement. College has been instrumental in teaching me this. But there are amazing things to life (and life in America) as well—things that get overlooked or forgotten as we argue endlessly on gender equality or increases in tuition costs. And so I made it my goal to show Valeria the pieces of America that I found to be special and important, which ended up being instrumental to the both of us.

            Visiting Valeria at her home was a great experience because I really got to feel like a part of an Italian community. It can be difficult to integrate oneself into the Italian university system—it is not built like American colleges, in which the feel of community and school spirit is everywhere. In Italian universities, you are very much on your own and it is not always easy to make friends. So to be a part of an Italian community for a weekend—one with families and children and the elderly—was truly amazing.

            I took an early train and made it to Milano where Valeria and a great deal of rain were waiting for me. It was so strange seeing her in Italy! I had her permanently fixed in my mind as an entity that would only exist in Fredericksburg, as strange as that sounds. I hadn’t been that excited to see someone in a very long time and what was even more strange was that I wasn’t really sure what language to speak. Back at Mary Washington, we probably would have spoken English for the most part, with just a few paragraphs of Italian here or there. Valeria, after all, had come to America not only to work, but also to learn English. However, after having spent five months in Italy, my immediate reaction was to speak to her in Italian, which I think we both found a little weird. Valeria also complained good-naturedly, saying that she missed English and wanted to speak it with me, but I insisted. I only had about a week left in Italy and I planned on speaking as much Italian as was possible

            Valeria took me to the Universita’ Cattolica—the Catholic university of Milan, which is where Mary Washington’s Italy partner program is located. It was kind of strange to walk onto their campus (surprisingly, this university actually had a physical, cohesive campus), knowing that this was where I could have potentially studied for the semester. UMW’s Italian department certainly tried its hardest in convincing me go there but I was insistent on going somewhere different and, to be perfectly honest, I’m really glad I did.

            The University was really beautiful though, even in the rain. It had a lot of history to it and Valeria, being the bookworm that she is, managed to charm her way with the librarians into a locked room filled with books that dated back to the 14th and 15th centuries. I was freaking out. Old books are kind of passion of mine and these were ancient. It’s so funny how Italians treat history—somewhat haphazardly, as if it were just another newspaper thrown on your front porch. Both Valeria and the librarian encouraged me to take down any and all ancient texts that I wanted, with free rein to flip through their molding, crumbling pages with my oiled fingers which could do who knows how much damage to a medieval text. At first I was so nervous that I kept my hands clasped behind my back, simply staring up at all of the bookshelves filled with leather-bound spines in a child-like amazement. That is, until Valeria made fun of me. And so I pulled down a few of the volumes and was careful not to rip any pages or breath too heavily, for fear of damaging an irreplaceable edition of the Decameron.

Inner courtyards of the university

            Afterwards, Valeria took me on the metro to the outskirts of Milano, where her family lives. I was welcomed there like long-lost family and it was wonderful. Valeria’s fiancé, Filippo, was also there and it was nice to see another friendly face. I had met Filippo when he had come to visit Valeria at UMW in the fall and the two of them together are quite possibly the most adorable couple I have ever had the pleasure of creeping on. We all ate lunch together and I had a great time; Valeria’s family was so eager to try to speak English with me that, much to their daughter’s chagrin, they kept throwing out random English words or turning to Valeria and saying, “Explain this to Danielle…” apparently forgetting that I spoke Italian. I found this hilarious, though. Over these past few months I have found myself, admittedly, quite frustrated with Italians who attempt to speak English with me on the street, if only because I know that my level of Italian surpasses their ability to communicate in English. However, being around Valeria’s family and their uncontrollable excitement made me realize that a lot of Italians insist on trying to speak English with you mainly because they’re trying to be polite and reach out to you in your madrelingua—mother-tongue.

            After spending a few hours with Valeria’s wonderful family, we bundled up and went to Bergamo, a little town just outside of Milano. This was ironic, seeing as Lily, Sami, Krystal and I had all gotten stuck in Bergamo that fateful night of our return from Greece, only to be saved by Paola. And who did we meet in Bergamo that afternoon after lunch? Paola! I love this girl and I am so incredibly excited for her to be at Mary Washington next year as the Italian language coordinator (she’ll be taking over Valeria’s job). Paola is one of the sweetest human beings I’ve ever met. It was a lot of fun, taking the funivia up the mountain to the medieval portion of Bergamo, which looked like a small Tuscan village (even in the rain), and seeing a much more charming version of the city than I had originally pictured, after having spent hours on delayed flights from Greece with obnoxious, drunk Italians on our plane.

Going up the mountain!

Valeria, me and Paola :)

Such a beautiful view

Valeria and Filippo...essentially, the cutest couple ever and my substitute parents

            After our exploration of Bergamo, I was chauffeured over to a community dinner up in the mountains, outside of the actual city of Bergamo. There was a sort of fundraiser event in which different organizations in this countryside community each had a booth and they made food for people in the surrounding area to come and buy. All the money went towards their volunteer organization. Valeria, Paola and Filippo are all a part of a church-based organization that goes to Belarus to work with children in orphanages, so their group young Italian do-gooders were whipping up pizza’s in a wood-fire oven. It was surprisingly freezing up there in the mountains, which was quite a shock when compared to the sunny weather that I had left in Bologna. But it was really neat, being surrounded by such kind, curious people. Valeria had in fact only just returned from the States a few weeks before, so a lot of her friends still hadn’t seen her. To them, she was very much the returning hero, back from her grand adventure. Teenagers and young adults alike gathered around her with wide-eyes as she described her American university experience and it took a lot of self-control not to giggle as Valeria explained various differences between the two cultures, if only because I was usually the one giving out such explanations to my friends. It was so interesting (and somewhat strange) to hear Valeria describe a world that I was so familiar with to people who had no comprehension of it whatsoever.

            Valeria’s friends were all very welcoming and were often intrigued by me—Valeria’s little pet American that she had brought back like a souvenir or proof of her adventures. I spent the night surrounded by the people from those surrounding mountains as they ate traditional pasta and too much pizza. Little children giggled and screeched as they played soccer in the empty tennis courts. Large, white tents filled the spaces around these games, lined inside with long picnic tables at which old men leaned forward, earnestly gossiping and swapping stories as their wives fussed over their plates. In the corner was a man calling out numbers…some sort of strange bingo or raffle, I think. And Valeria, Filippo, and Paola’s group of friends made beautiful balloon animals to give out to children as they all danced to Russian club music that I had never heard of before. By the end of the night, my fingers were numb and even my wool scarf couldn’t keep me warm, but the mountains and the lack of city glare meant that I could see all of the stars above me and my breath puffing out in the night air as Filippo and Valeria led the way back to the car.

            The next morning, Filippo took us to his village’s church, which was small and filled to the brim with elderly people and sunshine pouring in from the windows. I felt extremely Italian then; and more specifically, I really felt that Milanese Catholicism. Milano and the area around it is notoriously Catholic and conservative, which I definitely got from the fact that I had so far been to two church-related events and that there were multiple chapels in Bergamo’s airport. After church, I was taken to the florist shop owned by Filippo’s parents, who were some of the kindest people I had ever met, after Valeria’s family. They gave me this magical rose, which I am calling magical because it reminds me a little bit of Beauty and the Beast. Because it’s been treated chemically, as long as I don’t water it, the flower should remain the same (appearing to be in full bloom) for FIVE YEARS. Flower, magic, my friends. In case this small fact doesn’t convince you, let me assure you that Italian florists are artists. The way they put together the simplest of bouquets is done with such flourish that it makes your little pot of daisies from Wal-Mart look like…well, a pot of daisies from Wal-Mart.

            We said goodbye to Filippo, who had to stay home to work on his thesis, and Valeria and I took the train into Milano, talking about her future and jobs and other scary, grown-up things. Once we got into the city, we met Francesca, the other Italian girl who had been at Mary Washington, and we saw a historical castle and some beautiful gardens. We later ate out under another tent; this time the event was run by the Associazione Nazionale Alpini—a group of elderly men who used to fight in the troops of the Alpini, an “elite mountain warfare military corps of the Italian Army” (thanks Wikipedia). Still fiercely proud of their service, these old men tend to organize reunions throughout Northern Italy in the spring to celebrate, raise money, and sing old war songs. It’s not every day that you get to eat traditional northern Italian food on a side-street of Milano as men who probably fought in World War II bang their fists against wooden tables, starting up chants and winking flirtatiously at you as they clear off your plates. This was where we met Alessandra, who had stepped in as Italian language instructor and Italian professor my sophomore year at UMW, when the head of the department was on sabbatical. Alessandra was a wonderful professor and I had promised her that if I studied abroad in Italy, I would be sure to visit her in Milan. It seems crazy now, that it actually worked out! Now finally reunited with my three Italians, we walked around Milano in the sunshine, getting some delicious gelato and climbing to the top of the Duomo, which was spectacular.

Me, Valeria and Francesca!

Me and Alessandra, reunited

            After about an hour at the top of the Duomo, looking out over Milano and the surrounding mountains, Valeria took me back to the train station and saw me off to Bologna. It was really odd, saying goodbye. When I had said goodbye to Valeria at the end of the fall semester at UMW, I had sobbed, completely convinced that I would never see her again even though I knew there would be every chance that we would both be in Italy at the same time in just a few short months. But as the train pulled away from the station and I watched Valeria walk back down the platform, I was strangely okay with saying goodbye. It was as if I knew somehow that I would see her again, regardless of the immeasurable distance between Italy and America. The world seems so much smaller, now. Living abroad used to seem like such a far-off dream but now it seems more and more attainable…so much so that these partings at train stations have become less of addio’s (“farewells”) and more of ci vediamo’s (“see you laters”).

Inside the Duomo

Whatta view!

Life talks up at the top of the Duomo

Fancy Milano

Love this girl

The Beginning of the End

            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 anything 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.

            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.

And I had two days to study.

            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—memorizing 1300 years of Italian medieval history. 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.

            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.

            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.

            My cinema exam was successful—we talked extensively about Fellini and symbolism in La Dolce Vita, 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.

            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.

            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 never 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.

            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.

            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 thrilled 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, the culture. The culture.”

            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 si 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 

            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 apperitivi 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. 

            Also, the night ended on a high note.  I succeeded in getting a picture with the wonderful Professor Ivan, so all is right in the world. 

© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.

London Calling

            

            Regardless of my long and arduous journey with the Curriculum Committee that finally 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 amazing my impromptu trip to London was, ending just two days before my exams. Brace yourselves, my friends: this is a long one.

            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 need 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 Merlin, 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.

            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 Merlin, would be performing in a production of The Tempest 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 five pounds.

            I was ecstatic. 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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

            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.

St. Paul's Cathedral, right by our hostel

St. Paul's YHA Hostel

Michelle's weird top bunk

            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 delicious. 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.

            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 expensive) 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. 

Our Beefeater!

The bridge in the distance

            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 loved 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 experience it.

            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.

Trafalgar Lions

            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.

            Following the crowds of Buckingham, we walked a bit around London Town, seeing Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, and the House of Parliament.

Westminster Abbey

Big Ben! And House of Parliament

            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.

            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.

           

            I admittedly did not always like Shakespeare. I remember struggling in Mrs. Inderlied’s freshman class in high school as we covered Romeo&Juliet. 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 To be or not to be speech…all the while, realizing that I actually didn’t hate it as much as I claimed to. By senior year, we were covering The Tempest 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 The Tempest 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, The Tempest 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.

            And now I was seeing The Tempest 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.

            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.

            I was touching the stage. We were almost dead center and Michelle and I were touching the stage, 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 Merlin, 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 beautiful.

            For those who are not familiar with The Tempest, you’ll have to excuse me as I gush a little bit about this performance. This is the Globe’s official description:

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, The Tempest is Shakespeare’s late great masterpiece of forgiveness, generosity and enlightenment.

For those who are 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 are 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 The Tempest in which everything you had studied and every conclusion you had drawn by yourself while pouring over your textbook late at night was performed exactly how you pictured it.

            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 is 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.

Stefano, Caliban, and Trinculo

Miranda, Prospero, and Ferdinand

Ariel and Prospero

Ariel

The King and Lords

Ariel

            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 was 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, “Do you love me, master, no?” was so devastatingly sweet and sad and desperate that the entire theatre was silent, aside from a few sighs of sympathy.

            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.

            As The Tempest 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.

            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 live 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 not 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. 


© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.

La Dolce Vita in Sicilia

            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 Postcards from Bologna, you’ll just have to stretch your imagination a bit and pretend it says Postcards about Bologna, seeing as now, I am no longer in my red and orange-hued city.

            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 La Dolce Vita. A lot of people hear about La Dolce Vita 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.

            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 Piazza IX Agosto 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 cliché, “This is la dolce vita!” And it really, really was.

            We also explored the crumbling Greek amphitheatre—built in the 3^rd 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 the most dramatically situated Greek theatre in the world. And there are no other words to describe it other than stunning. 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. La Dolce Vita indeed.

            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 funivia—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 lido, 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 clear. 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 Cosmo, and slept. It was wonderful.

            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” arancini. 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 arancini 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 melanzane: mozzarella, tomatoes and eggplant; or sugo: ragu’ sauce, mozzarella and peas; or spinaci: 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.

            We also discovered cannoli. 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 Bill. Clinton. and it was delicious. We also found a famous granita 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.

            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 arancini. 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). 

            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.

            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.  

© Copyright Danielle DeSimone. 2013.