i worry constantly. is this going to make the child neurotic too? probably. i won't rest until i know he or she is safe. at this early stage, though i am still getting used to no aperitivo after work, no sharing fantastic bottles of wine over romantic dinners in strange and new cities with my love, no staying out late, and no more being irresponsible; i am getting used to the idea that i am going to be someone's mom. i want to teach him/her everything there is to know. i want him to be curious about the world and go out and conquer it and save it. i want her to be the strongest woman she can be and never back down from a challenge. and most of all i want to hug her and kiss her and make her feel safe when she is scared. i want him to know that no one else on earth loves him like his mom and dad love him.
in the meantime i worry. we have accepted the doctor's offer to be guinea pigs in a project making a video of the growth and development of a child inside the woman. i am ecstatic. this means i get to see the baby even more often and learn things about him or her that perhaps any other mothers might never know. papa' approaches the situation with trepidation. his love for me perhaps has allowed him to accept this adventure that perhaps he might have shyed away from.
let's keep our finger crossed and get some food. i am starving.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
a new day a new life
with every new day we are offered new opportunities and new ways to live life, to appreciate it, to enjoy it. on oct 17th, after a roller coaster 24 hours of fighting and loving, i took a pregnancy test. as i saw the second pink line come into view, my life flashed before my eyes. this, is what i had wanted since i met him- the biological need to re-create had gotten the best of us- but it scared the hell out of me.
since that night, life has been filled with joy, fear, happiness, anger, tears and love. i wanted it to happen but could/can hardly believe it is happening. kind of like when something else major and life changing and positive happens and kicks you up a notch into a world you always imagined but only in the present reality find yourself in.
when i look back, my adult life has been one risk after
since that night, life has been filled with joy, fear, happiness, anger, tears and love. i wanted it to happen but could/can hardly believe it is happening. kind of like when something else major and life changing and positive happens and kicks you up a notch into a world you always imagined but only in the present reality find yourself in.
when i look back, my adult life has been one risk after
Friday, February 27, 2009
rediscovering my adopted city
its corny and unoriginal, my experience, but it is nonetheless important.
four years. four years can seem like and eternity or a millisecond in which the eye blinks 100 times. my life has changed immensely but some things still remain true.
i work with people who are new to this city, every four months they come, stay, live, and then leave. my cynical, sarcastic side was at first less impressed with this turn-style phenomenon, but in the last two weeks I have rediscovered my city through their eyes. they are wowed every single second by it, but will leave it soon and continue their lives in another land and look back on this place as a magical one.
four years. four years can seem like and eternity or a millisecond in which the eye blinks 100 times. my life has changed immensely but some things still remain true.
i work with people who are new to this city, every four months they come, stay, live, and then leave. my cynical, sarcastic side was at first less impressed with this turn-style phenomenon, but in the last two weeks I have rediscovered my city through their eyes. they are wowed every single second by it, but will leave it soon and continue their lives in another land and look back on this place as a magical one.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
things you just don't see in the united states
ok so i just got back from a quick run to the panino and frullati shop for lunch where the guy behind the bar flirted-slash-was nice to me for the first time- i have been going to this sandwich shop intermittently for the last year and a half and the guys who make the smoothies are always super gruff. so, i get my sandwich and my smoothie only after waiting a short while and having five more pushy people get their smoothies before me.
the thing is, on this normal day where i skip out for fifteen minute lunch, on my way to the sandwich shop i saw something which to me has become incredibly common but simultaneously disturbing. i saw a guy sitting on skateboard padding around with a pair of shoes on his hands and a crumpled paper cup in his hand. why you ask? the answer is personal. i was born with what are called 'club feet', who knows what they are actually called, but I was born like these 'gypsies' (otherwise known to civilized people as 'Rom') riding around on skateboards. my feet were turned in and my heels basically did non exist. Without the operations as a small child, I would have never walked, let alone run, dance, or skip.
the thing is, on this normal day where i skip out for fifteen minute lunch, on my way to the sandwich shop i saw something which to me has become incredibly common but simultaneously disturbing. i saw a guy sitting on skateboard padding around with a pair of shoes on his hands and a crumpled paper cup in his hand. why you ask? the answer is personal. i was born with what are called 'club feet', who knows what they are actually called, but I was born like these 'gypsies' (otherwise known to civilized people as 'Rom') riding around on skateboards. my feet were turned in and my heels basically did non exist. Without the operations as a small child, I would have never walked, let alone run, dance, or skip.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Democrats Abroad
Feb 11 2008
I watch from afar the race to the whitehouse. Sometimes, thankfully so and most others longing to be involved somehow. I have a b grade degree and a b average in political science, but I can still think. Anyway, I am here in Rome and happy 'as a bug in a rug', although i don't know however that meant to describe something happy, couldn't a bug be killed that way, hiding in a rug? boh. in any case , i have a love hate relationship with american politics and the american media machine for the moment. without the media i wouldn't get to see anything that is going on but at the same time, i am tired of seeing hillary clinton's face and hearing about mccain's dirty campaign dealings. i want more barack. can we have a barack news network only?
22 may 2008
if you haven't read either of barack's (yes we are on a first name basis) books go buy them, borrow them from a friend, download them illegally- whatever you have to do and find out why this man should be president. he really should.
in italy there is racism and xenophobia. to some extent the nationalist, albeit fascist, leanings of italians have not yet begun to fade, since the departure of mussolini. Although it sometimes offends my American senses, I understand it perfectly. This is Italy, the country of Italians, and it should continue to be so, otherwise what is the purpose of existing as Italy. This is not to say 'no-immigrants allowed' but, a country should preserve itself- be a realist, but not a hater. I am an immigrant, a voluntary immigrant at that. I do not belong here, but nevertheless I am here. I do not want to change Italy. I don't want American stuff, American stores, American pop culture or anything else to undermine the Italian-ness of Italy, otherwise I could have just stayed in America and ate pasta everynight. This suggests to me an idea about my own country- but America is built on diversity. Not a free-wheeling do whatever the f you want diversity but one that says, 'hey come to this country, be yourself, but adopt this idea of treating everyone with respect, obeying our laws, working hard and succeeding.' Nowhere else in the world to immigrants have the right to protest but in America. This is major, but shouldn't be taken advantage of. I can't complain to the Italian government about anything about my life, because frankly I shouldn't be here and it shouldn't change for me because I want it to. I don't deny anyone a better life if they want it and are willing to work and color inside the lines for it, but I don't expect a free lunch either.
i don't know what this all means; this stuff pouring out of my head. i just know that i want everyone to have health insurance in America. That being able to live a healthy life shouldn't be a business that pharmaceutical and insurance companies get rich on- that's just sick. People should be given opportunities but should also be held responsible. i want to pay my taxes and i want to be honest. I want all kids to have a good education. I want everyone to have at least the opportunity to go to college (Italian public universities are free by the way). And I want everyone, no matter the color of their skin, the lilt of their accent, the amount of money they make a year, to be treated with equal respect and dignity. We are all different, let's revel in it, let's learn from it.
I watch from afar the race to the whitehouse. Sometimes, thankfully so and most others longing to be involved somehow. I have a b grade degree and a b average in political science, but I can still think. Anyway, I am here in Rome and happy 'as a bug in a rug', although i don't know however that meant to describe something happy, couldn't a bug be killed that way, hiding in a rug? boh. in any case , i have a love hate relationship with american politics and the american media machine for the moment. without the media i wouldn't get to see anything that is going on but at the same time, i am tired of seeing hillary clinton's face and hearing about mccain's dirty campaign dealings. i want more barack. can we have a barack news network only?
22 may 2008
if you haven't read either of barack's (yes we are on a first name basis) books go buy them, borrow them from a friend, download them illegally- whatever you have to do and find out why this man should be president. he really should.
in italy there is racism and xenophobia. to some extent the nationalist, albeit fascist, leanings of italians have not yet begun to fade, since the departure of mussolini. Although it sometimes offends my American senses, I understand it perfectly. This is Italy, the country of Italians, and it should continue to be so, otherwise what is the purpose of existing as Italy. This is not to say 'no-immigrants allowed' but, a country should preserve itself- be a realist, but not a hater. I am an immigrant, a voluntary immigrant at that. I do not belong here, but nevertheless I am here. I do not want to change Italy. I don't want American stuff, American stores, American pop culture or anything else to undermine the Italian-ness of Italy, otherwise I could have just stayed in America and ate pasta everynight. This suggests to me an idea about my own country- but America is built on diversity. Not a free-wheeling do whatever the f you want diversity but one that says, 'hey come to this country, be yourself, but adopt this idea of treating everyone with respect, obeying our laws, working hard and succeeding.' Nowhere else in the world to immigrants have the right to protest but in America. This is major, but shouldn't be taken advantage of. I can't complain to the Italian government about anything about my life, because frankly I shouldn't be here and it shouldn't change for me because I want it to. I don't deny anyone a better life if they want it and are willing to work and color inside the lines for it, but I don't expect a free lunch either.
i don't know what this all means; this stuff pouring out of my head. i just know that i want everyone to have health insurance in America. That being able to live a healthy life shouldn't be a business that pharmaceutical and insurance companies get rich on- that's just sick. People should be given opportunities but should also be held responsible. i want to pay my taxes and i want to be honest. I want all kids to have a good education. I want everyone to have at least the opportunity to go to college (Italian public universities are free by the way). And I want everyone, no matter the color of their skin, the lilt of their accent, the amount of money they make a year, to be treated with equal respect and dignity. We are all different, let's revel in it, let's learn from it.
Monday, October 08, 2007
7 Ottobre 2007
Il giorno in cui una nuova vita รจ cominciata. I miei genitori non sono d'accordo ma non me lo diranno mai. Ho paura, ma con lui sento sicura, serena.
The first day of the rest of my life with the man that i love and adore passed with out much fanfare. i got in the car and said, ' well i guess i won't be sleeping there anymore.' he turned to me with a smile and the sparkly eyes that i live for and said, 'really? wow. ok. we'll have to celebrate.'
The first day of the rest of my life with the man that i love and adore passed with out much fanfare. i got in the car and said, ' well i guess i won't be sleeping there anymore.' he turned to me with a smile and the sparkly eyes that i live for and said, 'really? wow. ok. we'll have to celebrate.'
Saturday, May 19, 2007
i miss you
this is no longer something crazy and ridiculous that i have 'gone off and done.' yes it's bloody hard here and sometimes i feel like just giving up, but then i remember that i am in one of the oldest cities in the world, i have my own office, and i love someone. not necessarily in that order of course. :p this is my life and not some crazy whim.
i wrote to a friend earlier this week in desperation telling her that i felt that i had lost part of myself. life has changed immensely, but almost without me knowing. how much i miss my friends and the comfort of their companionship, their silly jokes, and hearing about their lives dawned on me this week. true, it's not fair to a place like rome or a life like mine to say 'i give up. this is just too hard.' but sometimes i feel like saying it. maybe not necessarily doing it though. this life is my life now , my reality and although some may not agree, i am stuck with it. no more running away from the hard stuff. plus, anytime things get too hard, i have an amazing man to push me to keep going, to remind me how i got to where i am, and to make me laugh. laughter is important.
his professional life is getting more complicated as the days go by, and i am doing a job that i never imagined myself in. in any case, it's time for me to remember me. i have given myself this past year to us and almost nothing else. i don't see anything wrong in this, because there is no sense in only loving someone half-heartedly. now, though, i have to learn how to be a person and love him and be there for him at the same time. all of this in a country where i am still learning the language and can count my friends with three fingers. there is no one to blame here but myself, and in fact i can't even knowingly do that. i have found in him everything i need in someone else, so why should i not give every ounce of myself to him?
so yes. now i will write an article for my best friend's new magazine, i will send my resume to my brother in hopes of starting translation work, and i will write, finally, to the subtitling company to see if they have any openings for translators. it's time. i'm putting on my shoes, let's go.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Second year, third january
here i am finally writing again. it seems impossible, unthinkable, but yes i am still here. if it is possible to be in love with a place, rome is the place. last wednesday, january 3rd i celebrated a tiny anniversary that only i can celebrate. two years in rome. yes i have been home in these two years but, nevertheless rome has been the place where i hang my hat for the past two amazing, glorious, tumultuous years. yet rome is still more beautiful and old and crazy than it was the first time i came here in 2002. jesus almost 5 years ago.
i wanted to write about what happened in 2006 and how my life has changed tremendously, because of the presence of one person, but i recently confirmed a suspicion i've had about myself for many years: i am selfish. being selfish and insensitive, even without meaning or knowing that you are, puts you at risk of losing important people. so how can i write about what happened to me this year without sounding or being selfish? boh. i haven't figured it out yet. but being someone who has never been a resolution-maker, i know i will find it difficult to make myself become less selfish. but i will do it dammit!
in any case i can at least say that i spent a very special new year's in ljubljana (the capital of slovenia), christmas in milan, and many many amazing days and weeks in rome in 2006. i wrote in july when i 'graduated' from grad school and had just started an internship at the world food programme. i felt fortunate and lucky. but as of today, i feel even more blessed. i have just started a job working at the penn state study abroad office in rome. the job came to me through a series of serendipitous coincidences and the help of someone very important, nevertheless i am here. of course there is a three month trial period, 65% of my day is conducted in italian, and the job itself would be a challenge in english, but i am so excited about it. it is the most i could have hoped for, and if i succeed at it, it means that i will be here for a little while longer. so, i am praying.
so i have succeeded in talking about myself yet again, and thinking about myself yet again. so, in the interest of more selfless way of life, please let me know how you are doing especially if we haven't spoken in a long time. i really really want to know. if i can't stop being selfish, maybe i can convince others to join me in selfishness!
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
the first person on earth
i am the first person on earth to be smitten. or so it seems. everything i say, everything he says, is hilarious. everything we do together is the most fun, exciting, meaningful thing we've ever done in our lives. everything i feel or he feels, has never been felt before by another person and the depths to which we feel these things is more profound than we ever imagined ourselves capable.
ah yes it feels good to be unique. perhaps though just another trick the chemicals in your brain do to you when 'in love.' you are the best thing that has ever happened to this person and they, well, they are the best thing that could have ever happened to you. it feels nice. i never want to know what the opposite of this feels like. but i do not want to be blind or lost in a fog.
wait geez, who am i kidding, of course i want to be lost in the fog!
of course i am the first person on earth!
haha ok enough of this ridiculousness... i just learned how to put pics on my blog...finally. so get ready, soon you will be sick of seeing my face. above is photo taken in san benedetto del tronto/grottamare on the adriatic coast of italy.
Friday, July 21, 2006
A closing of some sorts
here i am, after many many months. it is friday july 21st, i have just put my mother on a train to Fiumicino Airport after a week here with me in Rome to celebrate my graduation from graduate school (although i do have two more papers to write before my degree is conferred). but since school is over and i am a fortunate girl, i find myself this morning in the world food program ( a un organization for those of you who don't know it) starting an internship passed down to me by a very dear friend. at this point,the only way i could be more fortunate is if i were making enough euro to survive on my own. i love my family and my friends and miss them like crazy but i am not ready to go back to the states. life is just different here, all the social rules are different and people are different, and it suits me for the moment. sure it's the summer and it's hot as hell here and the trains don't run on time, but if that is the worst part about life here, i'm in a good spot.
the closing i'm speaking of is my education. yes i do have two incompletes to write. one on the eastern european experience acceeding to the EU and the other on the 1994 zapatista revolution. if anyone knows any good books on these subjects, be sure to let me know. i'm struggling here. in any case, before i decide to go back to school yet again for an mba, i'm going to take a good long time off. for one, to pay my bills and two, a little free time. i loved doing this master's for about half the time, but got burned out very quickly. my advice to anyone looking to go back to school after having worked a few years...beware. don't blow all your energy at the beginning and don't get 'senioritis' at the end otherwise you'll be in trouble...
that's all for now...
i hope you've all seen the grad pics, if not send me an email and i'll gladly forward the link.
the closing i'm speaking of is my education. yes i do have two incompletes to write. one on the eastern european experience acceeding to the EU and the other on the 1994 zapatista revolution. if anyone knows any good books on these subjects, be sure to let me know. i'm struggling here. in any case, before i decide to go back to school yet again for an mba, i'm going to take a good long time off. for one, to pay my bills and two, a little free time. i loved doing this master's for about half the time, but got burned out very quickly. my advice to anyone looking to go back to school after having worked a few years...beware. don't blow all your energy at the beginning and don't get 'senioritis' at the end otherwise you'll be in trouble...
that's all for now...
i hope you've all seen the grad pics, if not send me an email and i'll gladly forward the link.
Monday, February 20, 2006
To: The People in My Life....
Here goes: People come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime. When you know which one it is, you will know what to do for that person. When someone is in your life for a REASON, it is usually to meet a need you have expressed. They have come to assist you through a difficulty, to provide you with guidance and support, to aid you physically, emotionally or spiritually. They may seem like a God send and they are.They are there for the reason you need them to be. Then, without any wrong doing on your part or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end. Sometimes they die. Sometimes they walk away. Sometimes they act up and force you to take a stand. What we must realize is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled, their work is done.
The prayer you sent up has been answered and now it is time to move on. Some people come into your life for a SEASON, because your turn has come to share, grow or learn. They bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh. They may teach you something you have never done. They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy. Believe it, it is real. But only for a season.
LIFETIME relationships teach you lifetime lessons, things you must build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation.Your job is to accept the lesson, love the person and put what you have learned to use in all other relationships and areas of your life. It is said that love is blind but friendship is clairvoyant. Thank you for being a part of my life, whether you were a reason, a season or a lifetime..
The prayer you sent up has been answered and now it is time to move on. Some people come into your life for a SEASON, because your turn has come to share, grow or learn. They bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh. They may teach you something you have never done. They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy. Believe it, it is real. But only for a season.
LIFETIME relationships teach you lifetime lessons, things you must build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation.Your job is to accept the lesson, love the person and put what you have learned to use in all other relationships and areas of your life. It is said that love is blind but friendship is clairvoyant. Thank you for being a part of my life, whether you were a reason, a season or a lifetime..
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
When Friends Leave
I've been in Rome for a little over a year now and have met many many people and have made many many friends. Some friends I'm sure I'll keep for many years to come and some not. One of the hardest things to get used to in this dream life in Rome, is the leaving of friends. Maybe you spend three or six months getting to know someone, and then one day they have disappeared from your everyday reality.
Helen, I only knew for four months before she returned to the land of reality. We met at orientatoin last January and it had just so happened that I had known her sister in a class at Hunter College in New York. We were fast friends and not only did we come to depend on each other as if we had known each other much longer than four months, but we also had great times together. We are totally unalike, I grew up in suburban LA and she in Queens. Helen comes from Phillipino roots rich in the tradition of family and Romanian background rought with Cold War mystery. Compared to her my life is a tragic straight line, from one point to the next. In any case, although I am terrible at keeping in touch we still manage to talk every few weeks. I miss her and wish her the best.
Next to leave, about ten months after I met him, was Matt. One of the savviest individuals I've met in a longtime, Matt is the bearer of more useless knowledge than I could have imagined existed. It was always a running joke with us, who has more Trivial Pursuit knowledge? In addition to Matt's intelligence, there is also his heart. He always amazed me with his way of making someone laugh when they didn't want to or didn't think they could. He knew how to look at situations analytically and his spin on things was always either helpful or so totally ridiculous, you forgot you had a problem...
Then there are L and K. I have to mention them together because they are total polar opposites, or as my academic hero would say 'they are diametrically opposed.' K a sensitive, lost in the clouds, positive thinker and L a realist with very few soft spots for anything were ying and yang. I think what drew them together was their common history. K an only child, grew up in privilege in Hong Kong and at the early age of 13 left her family and country for Britain. She attended a boarding school, complete with etiquette courses that still puzzle me today: introductions should always be carried out by introducing the woman to the man, not vice versa. After boarding school, K traveled even further from her roots and ended up in Connecticut for undergrad. After a few years of being a Manhattan wage-slave she came to Rome to do an MBA. L too was born into, what I would label as privilege, the only child of a well-off Croatian couple during the Cold War. Growing up, she was constantly at the top of her class and during the Balkan wars of the 90's developed a political sense not shared by many of her countrymen. One summer she traveled to Rome and met a fabulous Italian whom she believed she was in love with. By the next year she had enrolled in my program here in Rome and thought her future was cemented complete with Italian boyfriend and American master's degree. After a certain amount of time however, he managed to break her heart. All the sensitivity and idealism about romance left her heart. I don't believe she's been the same since. L is a pragmatist and sees postivity only when it's outside of herself (she refuses to recognize, at times, all the wonderful things about her own person). For this I know that we were always meant to be friends. K on the other hand is a dreamer and an emotional analyzer, and for this I know that we were also meant to be friends. It may be strange that these two women, so completely opposite could share a profound friendship, but what is more strange is that I identified with both of them and at some points in our friendship, bridged the gap between the two: a little realism and a little dreaminess always seemed to be the right balance. Very recently, both L and K completed their two and three year journeys in Rome. I was fortunate to know them each for a year and share some unique times with them, that I would have not otherwise experienced.
This school, this city, and my experience here has changed completely with the departures of these four friends. I'm glad though that our paths crossed for even the shortest of periods. I am a changed person because of their presences in my life.
Helen, I only knew for four months before she returned to the land of reality. We met at orientatoin last January and it had just so happened that I had known her sister in a class at Hunter College in New York. We were fast friends and not only did we come to depend on each other as if we had known each other much longer than four months, but we also had great times together. We are totally unalike, I grew up in suburban LA and she in Queens. Helen comes from Phillipino roots rich in the tradition of family and Romanian background rought with Cold War mystery. Compared to her my life is a tragic straight line, from one point to the next. In any case, although I am terrible at keeping in touch we still manage to talk every few weeks. I miss her and wish her the best.
Next to leave, about ten months after I met him, was Matt. One of the savviest individuals I've met in a longtime, Matt is the bearer of more useless knowledge than I could have imagined existed. It was always a running joke with us, who has more Trivial Pursuit knowledge? In addition to Matt's intelligence, there is also his heart. He always amazed me with his way of making someone laugh when they didn't want to or didn't think they could. He knew how to look at situations analytically and his spin on things was always either helpful or so totally ridiculous, you forgot you had a problem...
Then there are L and K. I have to mention them together because they are total polar opposites, or as my academic hero would say 'they are diametrically opposed.' K a sensitive, lost in the clouds, positive thinker and L a realist with very few soft spots for anything were ying and yang. I think what drew them together was their common history. K an only child, grew up in privilege in Hong Kong and at the early age of 13 left her family and country for Britain. She attended a boarding school, complete with etiquette courses that still puzzle me today: introductions should always be carried out by introducing the woman to the man, not vice versa. After boarding school, K traveled even further from her roots and ended up in Connecticut for undergrad. After a few years of being a Manhattan wage-slave she came to Rome to do an MBA. L too was born into, what I would label as privilege, the only child of a well-off Croatian couple during the Cold War. Growing up, she was constantly at the top of her class and during the Balkan wars of the 90's developed a political sense not shared by many of her countrymen. One summer she traveled to Rome and met a fabulous Italian whom she believed she was in love with. By the next year she had enrolled in my program here in Rome and thought her future was cemented complete with Italian boyfriend and American master's degree. After a certain amount of time however, he managed to break her heart. All the sensitivity and idealism about romance left her heart. I don't believe she's been the same since. L is a pragmatist and sees postivity only when it's outside of herself (she refuses to recognize, at times, all the wonderful things about her own person). For this I know that we were always meant to be friends. K on the other hand is a dreamer and an emotional analyzer, and for this I know that we were also meant to be friends. It may be strange that these two women, so completely opposite could share a profound friendship, but what is more strange is that I identified with both of them and at some points in our friendship, bridged the gap between the two: a little realism and a little dreaminess always seemed to be the right balance. Very recently, both L and K completed their two and three year journeys in Rome. I was fortunate to know them each for a year and share some unique times with them, that I would have not otherwise experienced.
This school, this city, and my experience here has changed completely with the departures of these four friends. I'm glad though that our paths crossed for even the shortest of periods. I am a changed person because of their presences in my life.
Monday, January 16, 2006
One Year Anniversary
My return to Rome on January 4 2006 marked exactly one year (give or take a few trips outside the country) in Italy. After suffering through a wicked bout of jet lag I got my ass out of bed to get on a train with my friend Katherine. I hadn’t slept since 3:30 that morning but I managed to get myself to Termini at 8:00 a.m. to buy tickets and get breakfast. I waited for Katherine in our usual spot: McDonald’s. Yes, Americans die hard; but what can I say, it’s right in front of the departures schedule board. Convenience. I stood there looking around at all the people that were there so early on a Saturday morning, noticing the changes that had taken over since the last time I had been there. New advertisements, maybe a little less graffiti (graffiti probably has an Italian derivative), and the giant McDonald’s that stood before me. It no longer sported the giant obnoxious sign on its exterior ‘AMERICAN BREAKFAST’ as if calling to every Anglophone that passed through the station like a mother calls her children to the dinner table. No, McDonald’s had actually become, dare I say more tasteful since my last train trip, how ever long ago it had been. Katherine and I got our tickets and decided an Egg McMuffin was in order, since we had woken up so early, of course. Not only had MickyD’s exterior become more classy but it’s interior had as well: the white and brown color scheme along with ultra modern tables and chairs made us wonder if we hadn’t actually stepped into Ikea headquarters or a restaurant in Tokyo. In any case, snaps to Rome and McDo (as the Italians call it) for shaping up a little bit. Now if they could just get the menu on the same level.
Since Katherine and I seem to both be a part of the ‘do everything at the last minute’ generation, we were forced into buying first class tickets to Ravenna. Tough. The train ride was uneventful except for the typical European fascination with Asians. I admire Katherine for not ripping people’s heads off for their ignorance. It must be quite a site to witness a blonde girl speak Italian but a Chinese girl? Wow. Worthy of a double-take at least. When we finally made peace with the staring, middle-aged couple sitting next to us, the ride slipped into silence and the sun rose over central Italy’s rolling hills.
In Ferrara we had six minutes to change trains for our train to Ravenna. Six. Thank god Ferrara is a small town and thus does not require a large train station. Again we made a scene, the monstrously tall blonde girl and the Chinese girl running awkwardly through the train station with overnight bags in tow. We made it, laughing as we sat down in the nearly empty regional train. More stares. The train departed and the lonely country stations of Emilia-Romagna punctuated the hour and half ride to Ravenna.
I read in my outdated Let’s Go Italy that Ferrara was famous for its bikes, just as Rome is for its motorini, and Venice for its canals; we couldn’t have known that went for many other cities in Emilia- Romagna. Katherine confirmed that Parma and Modena were bike cities and when we got off the train in Ravenna, seeing a bike rental slash luggage storage establishment made me all the more excited. My bike hero, Cameron McClure, has stirred in me bike-envy that started in New York, grew in Berlin, and was heartily confirmed in Ravenna. Italians ride bikes. I’m staying here forever. Instead of hundreds of motorini lined up along the streets of Ravenna, there were orderly bike racks, and women in their fifties wearing fur coats, riding bikes with baskets full of the day’s grocery shopping. Magnificent.
But we didn’t come to Ravenna for the bikes or the ego boost one gets when cat-called on the street by fifteen year-old boys, we came for the mosaics that allegedly are the closest one can get to Byzantium in Europe. Mind you, from the pictures you may not believe such a statement but, remember that taking pictures in 95% of the historical sites is forbidden. So when you think mosaics, you think lots of gold and Turkish and Middle Eastern imagery, add Christianity in and you get incredible depictions of Bible scenes that come to life in a manner not possible in frescoes.
So, we saw the five sights on our list to see, took a few pictures that won't do the mosaics justice, ate a fantastic lunch in an empty restaurant, and just generally had a good time. Katherine will be missed. I don't have any other friends who enjoy exploring the less touristy treasures of Italy the way Katherine does, nor the differnt modes of living outside of Rome nor the absolute awe-inspiring art that this country is full of. At around six o'clock we made our way back to the train station and were on our way to Bologna to visit Katherine's old friend Donatella for dinner and a tour around the city.
If I could live anywhere in Italy besides Rome, it would be Bologna. It is completely different with it's northern sensibilities, accents, and architecture, but I find that it has the same sense of vitality that Rome has, something is always going on. The porticoes and arcades and medevil architecture is completely apart from the even older Roman architecture of Rome, yet there is a mystical, unknown fantastic history in Bologna that is equally inviting. We arrived in Bologna Centrale around 7:30 and agreed to meet Donatella and her friends around nine at a restaurant of their choosing. Katherine and I, being the punctual, anal americans that we are, arrived at nine and were seated a table to wait for the other women. Donatella, Elisabetta, and Elena arrived about twenty minutes later, introductions were made, and the wine began to flow.
The restaurant was decorated in the style of a italian mamma's country kitchen, complete with 1950's appliances, red checkered tableclothes, and other various parphernalia to make you feel as if you had stepped into your nonna's kitchen. The women were equally impressive. Having never met unmarried Italian women in their 30's before I was inspired and delighted to hear these women's stories. One was a lawyer, who lived in the newest highrise in town with her boyfriend, spoke very good English, and never finished my Italian sentences for me in conversation. The other two were architects, who had at one time worked in a firm together, but over time had each developed her own reputation and thus branched out on her own. Since I am slow to talk in big groups in general, I am even slower in another language. I got caught up listening to these women talking to Katherine, that I forgot to talk myself. At once everyone's eyes were on me, waiting for an answer to a question and when I finally spoke the three bolognese looked at me sttrangely. The lawyer said, 'You know, you sort of have a...roman accent.' I replied as if I had never heard this comment before, and thanked her for her kindeness, but said that there was still much for me to learn. The night went on, we drank more wine, told more outrageous stories, and I began to speak. I was getting more and more comfortable until I felt one of the architects staring at me. We all turned our attention to her and she began to giggle, 'I can't believe that accent!' she said between snorts. Everyone laughed, including me. The Northern-Bolognese accent is so different from the Roman accent, that one word can indicate your origins. The fact that I had anything other than American accent, was astounding to these women. The conversation kept on, and everytime I opened my mouth, she laughed. By the end of the dinner, out faces hurt we had laughed so much.
When we finally left the restaurant three hours after arriving, the architectural contingent carted us around the neighborhood showing Katherine and I the hidden canals of Bologna and five hundred year-old restored palazzos. Then we got into the car to see San Paolo on the hill, the highest point in the city, home to some of the richest families in Italy. It was an amazing night, and it definitely could not have turned out so well without Katherine or her friends. It was nothing less than magical- the wine and the idea of me being the youngest out of the group, learning things from these smart, successful women, made the night fantastic. Sitting in the back of the tiny car, winding down the hill and seeing all of Bologna down below us...there was only one thing missing- a squillo to loved one, a text message wishing he was there with me, or just someone waiting somewhere in the world to hear from me...yes the wine had definitely gotten the better of me.
The girls dropped us out our hotel around three in the morning and made us promise to meet them for brunch the next morning. We were exhausted. I was happy to be back, in Italy.
The next day was filled with churches, centuries old art and architecture, freezing cold air, brunch with Betta, and finally a train ride back to Rome. Betta took us to places we woud have not thought to go, for good food and coffee, architectural triumphs and Bolognese history. Bologna's World War II history is much more prominent than that of Rome. Tributes to the Italians who lost their lives in the war (on all sides), are all over the city, obvious reminders of the senseless damage war causes to the lives of men. Since Bologna is home to one of the oldest universities in the world, accademia oozes out of every crack and corner of the city. Young communists are pinning up propaganda all over the college neighborhoods of the city, and having fun with their friends at the same time. It was like Santa Barbara, only with a heart , a mind, a history, and cause (so I guess more like the best university towns in America where accademia is the dominant culture, and not materialism or debauchery for debauchery's sake) Finally, it came time to say goodbye to Betta. I wanted to thank her properly, in my native tongue, for spending the day with us, leading us straniere around the city, but instead in my broken Italian, it came out only half as good. I hope she understood.
Katherine and I made the long walk down Via della Independenza back toward the train station, sighing all the way. Katherine, because she'd be leaving Italy in a few weeks to start life yet again in New York, and I, because I had fallen in love with a city in less than 24 hours, and the romantic lives of her friends. Hopefully I'll go back again soon.
Since Katherine and I seem to both be a part of the ‘do everything at the last minute’ generation, we were forced into buying first class tickets to Ravenna. Tough. The train ride was uneventful except for the typical European fascination with Asians. I admire Katherine for not ripping people’s heads off for their ignorance. It must be quite a site to witness a blonde girl speak Italian but a Chinese girl? Wow. Worthy of a double-take at least. When we finally made peace with the staring, middle-aged couple sitting next to us, the ride slipped into silence and the sun rose over central Italy’s rolling hills.
In Ferrara we had six minutes to change trains for our train to Ravenna. Six. Thank god Ferrara is a small town and thus does not require a large train station. Again we made a scene, the monstrously tall blonde girl and the Chinese girl running awkwardly through the train station with overnight bags in tow. We made it, laughing as we sat down in the nearly empty regional train. More stares. The train departed and the lonely country stations of Emilia-Romagna punctuated the hour and half ride to Ravenna.
I read in my outdated Let’s Go Italy that Ferrara was famous for its bikes, just as Rome is for its motorini, and Venice for its canals; we couldn’t have known that went for many other cities in Emilia- Romagna. Katherine confirmed that Parma and Modena were bike cities and when we got off the train in Ravenna, seeing a bike rental slash luggage storage establishment made me all the more excited. My bike hero, Cameron McClure, has stirred in me bike-envy that started in New York, grew in Berlin, and was heartily confirmed in Ravenna. Italians ride bikes. I’m staying here forever. Instead of hundreds of motorini lined up along the streets of Ravenna, there were orderly bike racks, and women in their fifties wearing fur coats, riding bikes with baskets full of the day’s grocery shopping. Magnificent.
But we didn’t come to Ravenna for the bikes or the ego boost one gets when cat-called on the street by fifteen year-old boys, we came for the mosaics that allegedly are the closest one can get to Byzantium in Europe. Mind you, from the pictures you may not believe such a statement but, remember that taking pictures in 95% of the historical sites is forbidden. So when you think mosaics, you think lots of gold and Turkish and Middle Eastern imagery, add Christianity in and you get incredible depictions of Bible scenes that come to life in a manner not possible in frescoes.
So, we saw the five sights on our list to see, took a few pictures that won't do the mosaics justice, ate a fantastic lunch in an empty restaurant, and just generally had a good time. Katherine will be missed. I don't have any other friends who enjoy exploring the less touristy treasures of Italy the way Katherine does, nor the differnt modes of living outside of Rome nor the absolute awe-inspiring art that this country is full of. At around six o'clock we made our way back to the train station and were on our way to Bologna to visit Katherine's old friend Donatella for dinner and a tour around the city.
If I could live anywhere in Italy besides Rome, it would be Bologna. It is completely different with it's northern sensibilities, accents, and architecture, but I find that it has the same sense of vitality that Rome has, something is always going on. The porticoes and arcades and medevil architecture is completely apart from the even older Roman architecture of Rome, yet there is a mystical, unknown fantastic history in Bologna that is equally inviting. We arrived in Bologna Centrale around 7:30 and agreed to meet Donatella and her friends around nine at a restaurant of their choosing. Katherine and I, being the punctual, anal americans that we are, arrived at nine and were seated a table to wait for the other women. Donatella, Elisabetta, and Elena arrived about twenty minutes later, introductions were made, and the wine began to flow.
The restaurant was decorated in the style of a italian mamma's country kitchen, complete with 1950's appliances, red checkered tableclothes, and other various parphernalia to make you feel as if you had stepped into your nonna's kitchen. The women were equally impressive. Having never met unmarried Italian women in their 30's before I was inspired and delighted to hear these women's stories. One was a lawyer, who lived in the newest highrise in town with her boyfriend, spoke very good English, and never finished my Italian sentences for me in conversation. The other two were architects, who had at one time worked in a firm together, but over time had each developed her own reputation and thus branched out on her own. Since I am slow to talk in big groups in general, I am even slower in another language. I got caught up listening to these women talking to Katherine, that I forgot to talk myself. At once everyone's eyes were on me, waiting for an answer to a question and when I finally spoke the three bolognese looked at me sttrangely. The lawyer said, 'You know, you sort of have a...roman accent.' I replied as if I had never heard this comment before, and thanked her for her kindeness, but said that there was still much for me to learn. The night went on, we drank more wine, told more outrageous stories, and I began to speak. I was getting more and more comfortable until I felt one of the architects staring at me. We all turned our attention to her and she began to giggle, 'I can't believe that accent!' she said between snorts. Everyone laughed, including me. The Northern-Bolognese accent is so different from the Roman accent, that one word can indicate your origins. The fact that I had anything other than American accent, was astounding to these women. The conversation kept on, and everytime I opened my mouth, she laughed. By the end of the dinner, out faces hurt we had laughed so much.
When we finally left the restaurant three hours after arriving, the architectural contingent carted us around the neighborhood showing Katherine and I the hidden canals of Bologna and five hundred year-old restored palazzos. Then we got into the car to see San Paolo on the hill, the highest point in the city, home to some of the richest families in Italy. It was an amazing night, and it definitely could not have turned out so well without Katherine or her friends. It was nothing less than magical- the wine and the idea of me being the youngest out of the group, learning things from these smart, successful women, made the night fantastic. Sitting in the back of the tiny car, winding down the hill and seeing all of Bologna down below us...there was only one thing missing- a squillo to loved one, a text message wishing he was there with me, or just someone waiting somewhere in the world to hear from me...yes the wine had definitely gotten the better of me.
The girls dropped us out our hotel around three in the morning and made us promise to meet them for brunch the next morning. We were exhausted. I was happy to be back, in Italy.
The next day was filled with churches, centuries old art and architecture, freezing cold air, brunch with Betta, and finally a train ride back to Rome. Betta took us to places we woud have not thought to go, for good food and coffee, architectural triumphs and Bolognese history. Bologna's World War II history is much more prominent than that of Rome. Tributes to the Italians who lost their lives in the war (on all sides), are all over the city, obvious reminders of the senseless damage war causes to the lives of men. Since Bologna is home to one of the oldest universities in the world, accademia oozes out of every crack and corner of the city. Young communists are pinning up propaganda all over the college neighborhoods of the city, and having fun with their friends at the same time. It was like Santa Barbara, only with a heart , a mind, a history, and cause (so I guess more like the best university towns in America where accademia is the dominant culture, and not materialism or debauchery for debauchery's sake) Finally, it came time to say goodbye to Betta. I wanted to thank her properly, in my native tongue, for spending the day with us, leading us straniere around the city, but instead in my broken Italian, it came out only half as good. I hope she understood.
Katherine and I made the long walk down Via della Independenza back toward the train station, sighing all the way. Katherine, because she'd be leaving Italy in a few weeks to start life yet again in New York, and I, because I had fallen in love with a city in less than 24 hours, and the romantic lives of her friends. Hopefully I'll go back again soon.
Thursday, December 29, 2005
A Graham Thanksgiving in Vienna
The end of November brought an extraordinarily lovely time. It was cold in Rome, the holiday season had just begun, and my big brother, Kevin, came to visit. Though I was busy with school and work, Kevin and I had a bit of time to walk around Rome, see the sites and take some pictures. Of course, Rome is extraordinary in itself, but the real fun was Thanksgiving weekend when Kevin and I got on the smallest commercial airplane I'd ever been on to fly to Vienna.
The plane had about ten rows, two seats on the right side and one seat on the left side. We weren't sitting on the plane five minutes before a flight attendant alerted us that Kev and I had to move to the back of the plane to balance out its weight, 'to keep the wings steady' as I understood in Italian. We moved to the back of the plane and two hours later we landed in Vienna. Since Austria was the second German-speaking country I had visited in three months, I had an idea of how helpless I was about to feel speaking no German. Fortunately, Kevin's few years of high school German, helped us survive. Vienna was cold and gray on our arrival and by the time we reached our hotel it was snowing.
We decided not to fall into the trap that most Californians usually do when the whether is not sunshine-y and warm: stay home. It was two o'clock in the afternoon and we set out for food and the Schonbrunn palace. We walked a distance and decided to stop in at an weinerschnitzel house, for our first schnitzel. Kevin's elementary German came in handy as he ordered schnitzel from an Egyptian guy who owned the place. We drank beer, ate schnitzel, and chatted up the proprietor who got a real kick out giving us German lessons. We left the place having learned how to properly ask for the check, in Austrian German.
With our tummies warm and long walk ahead of us, Kev and I went out into the cold in search of the palace. In the snow, this part of Vienna looked like New England, and we stopped to take pictures. Before long we saw the castle in the distance, a giant late Renaissance compound in the queen's favorite color 'springtime-yellow', as it was translated in English. We arrived at the palace to find a large Christmas tree surrounded by Christmas craft market in the courtyard. We trekked around the castle to its backside, where in the spring and summer we imagined great fields of rolling grass and manicured gardens, yet now everywhere we looked was white with snow. By four o'clock the sun had set and the cold night forced us back down the giant hill in the back of the palace and back to the Christmas market in front courtyard. There we drank hot wine and ate potatoes and vegetables, with other tourists and Austrians alike. It was the beginning of a Thanksgiving not to forget.
We spent the following day walking around downtown Vienna, visiting shops, gardens, national monuments, and taking time out for more Christmas Markets, that were set up in many parts of the city: we ate curry wurst! We froze while waiting for a tram; which was our opportunity for a warm dry spot to sit as watched the city go by: city hall, old roman ruins, and the Danube floated by as we took advantage of the heating system in the tram. When we finally returned to our hotel on the other side of the city, we discussed our options for the next day, Saturday. There was still much to see in Vienna, yet with our California attitudes about distance and time, Bratislava, although in another country, seemed the more exciting option.
Saturday. We arrived at the train station around nine am, well in advance of our train, even though I had messed up the directions for getting there. We picked up some 'wasser' for what we thought was going to be an hour long train ride and boarded the train. The train was divided into six person compartments. Our extreme earliness gave us the advantage of choosing where to sit, so we picked two window seats and settled in. By the time the train left the station there was a Spanish woman about my age, clearly back-packing through the area, a Slovakian man about 30, and an older Slovakian couple perhaps returning home after visiting relatives in Vienna. The train started through a woody snowy area as it left Vienna, and the view outside got only more desolate and foreboding the further we got outside of the city. There was no talking in our compartment. Kevin and I with our English paranoia (me, more so than him) kept our wide-eyed touristy comments to ourselves. The Spaniard didn't speak probably because of the question of which language to speak or not to speak. But the old couple, perhaps because they were going home had carte blanche to discuss (between long intervals of silence) the goings of the day, what would be cooked for dinner, and the foreigners with whom they were sharing the compartment.
An hour passed an we reached the last stop in Austria. At the next stop, about fifteen minutes on, Slovakian immigration officials boarded the train. I fear authority. I imagined, in the time it took for the officer to look at my passport and stamp it, a terrible scenario of mistaken identity or cultural offenses unknowingly made by Kevin and I. The officer of course gave us a strange look, but he soon passed to the next compartment and we were safe. I put my passport away immediately, Kevin could not avoid the temptation to look at the Slovakian stamp and brandished it as a trophy.
After forty-five more minutes, the train pulled into the Bratislava train station. It was bitterly cold, there was snow on the ground, and there were train-station types doing the day's business about the station. We first had to change Euro to Kroner. Of course not speaking any Slovenska or having a guidebook to guard us, we got jipped on the exchange rate, but hey we were in bloody Slovakia. Home of the Velvet Divorce and Alexander Dubcek. With Kroner in hand we stepped out of the station still giddy with disbelief and figured out that we had nowhere to go and if we did, we didn't know how to get there, nor could we ask someone for help. Then it happened. Kevin spotted a sign for a Chinese restaurant. Perfect. We giggled. We didn't speak Slovenska but there was always Chinese!
We entered the restaurant and sat down. Chinese pop music played in the background and paintings of the Yangzte River Valley abounded. There had to be a Chinese speaker here to give us a few tips on the city. We wondered where the hell we were. A Slovakian waitress approached us and spoke in broken German. We didn't have enough German for this. Kevin asked in German whether or not she spoke Chinese, or if there was anyone around who did. She appeared confused, gave us menus and walked away. We giggled and contemplated leaving. Between the Italian, Spanish, Chinese, English, and broken German we had between us- we couldn't talk to the waitress. Kevin's next idea was to write a question on a napkin in Chinese and get the waitress to give it to someone in the kitchen.
The waitress returned with tea and Kevin handed her the napkin. In her broken German, we understood, 'I am not Chinese.' We sheepishly grinned, she walked away, and there was yet more giggling. Finally we ordered a dish of kung pao chicken and white rice, although I don't know how we did it. Kevin and I shared the kung pao (one of the best I've ever had) and quickly ran out of rice. Kev went to ask for more rice, and asking for it in Chinese, we thought definitely someone would take notice of us. He came back to the table without having impressed anyone. The giant, red-headed white guy speaking Chinese in a Slovakian-Chinese restaurant didn't impress the proprietor, he had merely answered in the affirmative and our waitress returned with a new bowl of rice. We finished eating, feeling sort of dejected and triumphant at the same time and decided to set out into the cold, eastern european drabness...
I started this blog on Dec 29 2005 and have yet to finish it almost two months later...yes, I'm lazy, pigra, perezosa, whatever you want to call it. I think someday I'll finish it, just not today...You'll just have to imagine Kev and I tromping through the snow in Bratislava drinking hot wine and freezing to death...cheers.
The plane had about ten rows, two seats on the right side and one seat on the left side. We weren't sitting on the plane five minutes before a flight attendant alerted us that Kev and I had to move to the back of the plane to balance out its weight, 'to keep the wings steady' as I understood in Italian. We moved to the back of the plane and two hours later we landed in Vienna. Since Austria was the second German-speaking country I had visited in three months, I had an idea of how helpless I was about to feel speaking no German. Fortunately, Kevin's few years of high school German, helped us survive. Vienna was cold and gray on our arrival and by the time we reached our hotel it was snowing.
We decided not to fall into the trap that most Californians usually do when the whether is not sunshine-y and warm: stay home. It was two o'clock in the afternoon and we set out for food and the Schonbrunn palace. We walked a distance and decided to stop in at an weinerschnitzel house, for our first schnitzel. Kevin's elementary German came in handy as he ordered schnitzel from an Egyptian guy who owned the place. We drank beer, ate schnitzel, and chatted up the proprietor who got a real kick out giving us German lessons. We left the place having learned how to properly ask for the check, in Austrian German.
With our tummies warm and long walk ahead of us, Kev and I went out into the cold in search of the palace. In the snow, this part of Vienna looked like New England, and we stopped to take pictures. Before long we saw the castle in the distance, a giant late Renaissance compound in the queen's favorite color 'springtime-yellow', as it was translated in English. We arrived at the palace to find a large Christmas tree surrounded by Christmas craft market in the courtyard. We trekked around the castle to its backside, where in the spring and summer we imagined great fields of rolling grass and manicured gardens, yet now everywhere we looked was white with snow. By four o'clock the sun had set and the cold night forced us back down the giant hill in the back of the palace and back to the Christmas market in front courtyard. There we drank hot wine and ate potatoes and vegetables, with other tourists and Austrians alike. It was the beginning of a Thanksgiving not to forget.
We spent the following day walking around downtown Vienna, visiting shops, gardens, national monuments, and taking time out for more Christmas Markets, that were set up in many parts of the city: we ate curry wurst! We froze while waiting for a tram; which was our opportunity for a warm dry spot to sit as watched the city go by: city hall, old roman ruins, and the Danube floated by as we took advantage of the heating system in the tram. When we finally returned to our hotel on the other side of the city, we discussed our options for the next day, Saturday. There was still much to see in Vienna, yet with our California attitudes about distance and time, Bratislava, although in another country, seemed the more exciting option.
Saturday. We arrived at the train station around nine am, well in advance of our train, even though I had messed up the directions for getting there. We picked up some 'wasser' for what we thought was going to be an hour long train ride and boarded the train. The train was divided into six person compartments. Our extreme earliness gave us the advantage of choosing where to sit, so we picked two window seats and settled in. By the time the train left the station there was a Spanish woman about my age, clearly back-packing through the area, a Slovakian man about 30, and an older Slovakian couple perhaps returning home after visiting relatives in Vienna. The train started through a woody snowy area as it left Vienna, and the view outside got only more desolate and foreboding the further we got outside of the city. There was no talking in our compartment. Kevin and I with our English paranoia (me, more so than him) kept our wide-eyed touristy comments to ourselves. The Spaniard didn't speak probably because of the question of which language to speak or not to speak. But the old couple, perhaps because they were going home had carte blanche to discuss (between long intervals of silence) the goings of the day, what would be cooked for dinner, and the foreigners with whom they were sharing the compartment.
An hour passed an we reached the last stop in Austria. At the next stop, about fifteen minutes on, Slovakian immigration officials boarded the train. I fear authority. I imagined, in the time it took for the officer to look at my passport and stamp it, a terrible scenario of mistaken identity or cultural offenses unknowingly made by Kevin and I. The officer of course gave us a strange look, but he soon passed to the next compartment and we were safe. I put my passport away immediately, Kevin could not avoid the temptation to look at the Slovakian stamp and brandished it as a trophy.
After forty-five more minutes, the train pulled into the Bratislava train station. It was bitterly cold, there was snow on the ground, and there were train-station types doing the day's business about the station. We first had to change Euro to Kroner. Of course not speaking any Slovenska or having a guidebook to guard us, we got jipped on the exchange rate, but hey we were in bloody Slovakia. Home of the Velvet Divorce and Alexander Dubcek. With Kroner in hand we stepped out of the station still giddy with disbelief and figured out that we had nowhere to go and if we did, we didn't know how to get there, nor could we ask someone for help. Then it happened. Kevin spotted a sign for a Chinese restaurant. Perfect. We giggled. We didn't speak Slovenska but there was always Chinese!
We entered the restaurant and sat down. Chinese pop music played in the background and paintings of the Yangzte River Valley abounded. There had to be a Chinese speaker here to give us a few tips on the city. We wondered where the hell we were. A Slovakian waitress approached us and spoke in broken German. We didn't have enough German for this. Kevin asked in German whether or not she spoke Chinese, or if there was anyone around who did. She appeared confused, gave us menus and walked away. We giggled and contemplated leaving. Between the Italian, Spanish, Chinese, English, and broken German we had between us- we couldn't talk to the waitress. Kevin's next idea was to write a question on a napkin in Chinese and get the waitress to give it to someone in the kitchen.
The waitress returned with tea and Kevin handed her the napkin. In her broken German, we understood, 'I am not Chinese.' We sheepishly grinned, she walked away, and there was yet more giggling. Finally we ordered a dish of kung pao chicken and white rice, although I don't know how we did it. Kevin and I shared the kung pao (one of the best I've ever had) and quickly ran out of rice. Kev went to ask for more rice, and asking for it in Chinese, we thought definitely someone would take notice of us. He came back to the table without having impressed anyone. The giant, red-headed white guy speaking Chinese in a Slovakian-Chinese restaurant didn't impress the proprietor, he had merely answered in the affirmative and our waitress returned with a new bowl of rice. We finished eating, feeling sort of dejected and triumphant at the same time and decided to set out into the cold, eastern european drabness...
I started this blog on Dec 29 2005 and have yet to finish it almost two months later...yes, I'm lazy, pigra, perezosa, whatever you want to call it. I think someday I'll finish it, just not today...You'll just have to imagine Kev and I tromping through the snow in Bratislava drinking hot wine and freezing to death...cheers.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Bikes and Walls
Berlin is not a city I ever thought I'd go but, I can't imagine not having seen what I saw. Yes yes it has been ages since my last blog, but this past quarter was an absolute nightmare...perhaps its a portent of things to come (i'm taking two course in the next quarter and working) but that's not what I'm writing about now.
Berlin. For the bike-lovers I am proud to know, Berlin is heaven. The majority of the city is flat, though there are some hills, and the Tiergarten provides for a fabulous pseudo-ride- in the wilderness in the middle of the city. Isabella and I stayed in an up-and-coming neighborhood, Freidrichshain, still evidently on the east side of the wall, but home to artists, students, and gentrifying yuppies. Everyone rode bikes in Freidrichshain. Some fancy expensive ones, some old rickety things that just got their riders from one place to another. Freidrichshain was quaint and sometimes oddly empty yet Isabella and I found ourselves at home in it, being surrounded by 'kids' our age, living completely different lives than we have ever known.
Beyond our beloved hostel furnished almost entirely by Ikea, there was much to do and see. The most impressionable part of the trip, for me, was the new Holocaust memorial just opposite the beautiful greenry of Tiergarten. The memorial consists of hundreds of columns of stone of differing heights, that create an effect much like waves in the ocean. It is a somber place, yet oddly comforting. We took pictures among the labyrinthe of columns, sometimes finding ourselves feeling a little too light about the memorial. If not for the terrible history attached to the memorial, it might be a place where children are aloud to play tag and hide-and-go-seek, among the waves of granite. Yet history and man have not gained enough distance to think about such things bittersweetly. The memorial in Berlin and many others in the world, will only remind us of the horrible things of which man is capable.
On a lighter note, we were able to see an entirely new section of the ciy, just down the street from the memorial, Potsdamer Platz. New sky-scraping office buildings and many new embassy buildings, each desinged in the style of its country. The scandinavian embassies were among the most beautiful and tasteful of them all. Interestingly enough, a new American embassy was being built while we visited Berlin. Located between the Holocaust memorial and the Brandenburg Gate(away from all ove the other embassies), it will be a testament to the ostentatious egoism so many Europeans are turned off to today.
A barely noticeable line, on the streets and sometimes on the sidewalks, trails from the Bundestag all the way through Potsdamer Platz. Just two cobble stones wide, this line is an ever-present reminder of what once was: a giant wall separating Germans and symbolically East from West for nearly forty years. The splendor of those early fall days in which Isabella and I visited Berlin, seems centuries away from the pain and suffering of World War II and the Cold War, yet the world will not forget.
Berlin. For the bike-lovers I am proud to know, Berlin is heaven. The majority of the city is flat, though there are some hills, and the Tiergarten provides for a fabulous pseudo-ride- in the wilderness in the middle of the city. Isabella and I stayed in an up-and-coming neighborhood, Freidrichshain, still evidently on the east side of the wall, but home to artists, students, and gentrifying yuppies. Everyone rode bikes in Freidrichshain. Some fancy expensive ones, some old rickety things that just got their riders from one place to another. Freidrichshain was quaint and sometimes oddly empty yet Isabella and I found ourselves at home in it, being surrounded by 'kids' our age, living completely different lives than we have ever known.
Beyond our beloved hostel furnished almost entirely by Ikea, there was much to do and see. The most impressionable part of the trip, for me, was the new Holocaust memorial just opposite the beautiful greenry of Tiergarten. The memorial consists of hundreds of columns of stone of differing heights, that create an effect much like waves in the ocean. It is a somber place, yet oddly comforting. We took pictures among the labyrinthe of columns, sometimes finding ourselves feeling a little too light about the memorial. If not for the terrible history attached to the memorial, it might be a place where children are aloud to play tag and hide-and-go-seek, among the waves of granite. Yet history and man have not gained enough distance to think about such things bittersweetly. The memorial in Berlin and many others in the world, will only remind us of the horrible things of which man is capable.
On a lighter note, we were able to see an entirely new section of the ciy, just down the street from the memorial, Potsdamer Platz. New sky-scraping office buildings and many new embassy buildings, each desinged in the style of its country. The scandinavian embassies were among the most beautiful and tasteful of them all. Interestingly enough, a new American embassy was being built while we visited Berlin. Located between the Holocaust memorial and the Brandenburg Gate(away from all ove the other embassies), it will be a testament to the ostentatious egoism so many Europeans are turned off to today.
A barely noticeable line, on the streets and sometimes on the sidewalks, trails from the Bundestag all the way through Potsdamer Platz. Just two cobble stones wide, this line is an ever-present reminder of what once was: a giant wall separating Germans and symbolically East from West for nearly forty years. The splendor of those early fall days in which Isabella and I visited Berlin, seems centuries away from the pain and suffering of World War II and the Cold War, yet the world will not forget.
Monday, August 29, 2005
My Second Italian Police Report
Maybe I like masochism a little more than I know, or I just have no shame anymore, but I promised that I'd write about the ultimate roman baptism, when enough time had passed for it to be funny. Funnt and not too embarassing to admit. I think it might be funny now, but the memory of it still stings a bit when I think about all that I lost and all the money I've pumped into the world economy since then (to recoup my losses of course) because somebody coveted my all-time favorite brown leather bag from TopShop.
Thursday August 11th...After dinner and drinks with a 'friend' we took a stroll in the waining light of the Roman summer evening to the steps of the Chiesa Santa Maria Maggiore, one of four churches in Rome which is actually Vatican property and thus part of Vatican City. Ah the holiest of lands. We sat ourselves down on the steps of the church, the piazza was salt and peppered with people, and clouds were moving in to give us a little sprinkle. Now imagine, if you will, the Napolitano and I doing what people do after dinner and drinks...discussing world politics, religion, and the state of the Italian economy, of course all in Italian. After a few minutes passed I noticed my trusty, carry-everything bag a few inches from my person and moved it closer to me. Our conversation contiued. Another ten or fifteen minutes went by and the rain, while in movies is romantic, was starting to get a little annoying. We decided it was time to go. I turned to my right, and it was gone. I stood up, not believing what I wasn't seeing and started to get visibly agitated. The Napolitano of course had no clue what was going on. He asked if I had left my bag at the restaurant...of course I hadn't. We both looked around the piazza in bewilderment. When he didn't immediately jump in and be the heroic man that I needed (yes we still need the white horse and the armor and all that), I started directing. I ordered him to go around the right side of the church, I would go on the left and we'd meet on the other side. I went to the left looking in corners of buildings, down alleys, in trash cans, in dumpsters, nothing. I gave some people some very nasty looks, as if the culprit had stayed around to watch my horror unfold. I reached the other side of the church where there were many more lovers discussing politics and religion on the steps. The Napolitano met me. By now, I was getting upset. Holding back tears like every woman should, the Napolitano tried to console me. At first I was glad for it, but then when trying not to cry and being inspected for tonsilitis simultaneously became a chore, I wanted to do anything to be alone.
We returned to our side of the church and stood around the piazza for a while longer, asking people if they had seen anything, of course they hadn't. I decided it was time to figure out what my next move should be. My roommate was out of town for two days, many of my friends were traveling around Europe or the States, and my one friend in town whom I had lunch with earlier that day had had plans to go to the ballet this evening. I had no where to go, no money to go anywhere. As the reality of the situation became clearer, I could feel hysteria growing inside me. The Napolitano and I headed toward the train station where he was to take a train back to his army base and I, well who knows what I was to do. I suppose I shouldn't criticize him for his efforts but the crowning glory of his chivalry turned me completely off, if one could be in the state of being turned on in a situation like that to begin with. I decided to return to Emily's house, my friend whom I'd been with earlier. I informed the Napolitano of my plan, to which he scrawled his phone number on a piece of paper (an act completely alien to those of us who only ever use cellphones for such transactions as giving phone numbers: i had to carefully make sure that the tiny piece of paper didn't get lost in my pockets or fall out somewhere on the bus), gave me six euros, and sent me on my way.
Now here's the only time in a woman's life when 'no means yes.' I didn't actually get the chance to say no however. Mr. Napolitano asked where I was going and what bus I would take to get there. I told him. There was no offer of, 'Can I walk you across the piazza to the bus?' or 'Can I accompany you to your friend's house?' As much as I thought I wanted to be alone, a walk to the proper bus-stop or a ride on the bus to Emily's with a man- security blanket would have been nice. I learned something about my own frailty that day. For however strong and independent I may be, nothing beats the embrace of another human being in bad times, or in good. But there was not to be a comforting bus ride, because the Napolitano turned around and walked away just as soon as I started toward the bus.
I reached the bus and since Piazza Cinquecento, at Termini, is the capolinea for about 50 buslines I had the pleasure of sitting on the bus for about 15 minutes before actually went anywhere. Those fifteen minutes and the entire bus ride to Emily's house consisted solely of me trying not to make a scene of myself on the bus. I arrived at Emily's hoping and praying that she and her boyfriend Simone would be at home. Since it had rained earlier I had an idea that their plan to go to the ballet hadn't panned out: it was an outdoor showing of swan lake and I'm sure the swans didn't really want to be dancing in a lake. I approached the citofono of Emily and Simone's building, saying Hail Marys and Our Fathers, pressed the button and waited. Silence. Shit. Visions of sleeping at the train station shot through my brain, stinging. Then a voice, loud, jovial, and possibly intoxicated: 'Valerio?' It was Simone. There is something unmistakenly comforting about him. Like a big brother almost.
Simone was suprised to hear my voice, maybe a little disappointed that I wasn't his buddy arriving to do guy things with him, but he buzzed me up. I got into the elevator and four floors alone in a tiny box was enough to start the tears flowing again. The elevator stopped and I opened the doors, Emily was already standing in the doorway of their apartment. Tears streaming down my face, I explained that I couldn't think of anywhere else to go.
Emily was great. She was like a Mommy that I had run home to after getting beat up on the playground. A Mommy that gave me a beer, internet access to cancel my bank and credit cards, and then watched a movie with me until it was time to go to bed.
After writing all of this, it occurs to me that this is the diary of a poor spoiled rich girl (by western standards of course) whose never known real hardship in her life. Although in any case its pretty damn scary to have everything that connects you to your own reality taken away without notice. I definitely have had to rethink my dependence on material things, not to mention electronics.
There is much more to the story: the heroics of Simone, the incredible hospitality of Emily, my parents' unwaivering support and love, and the epilogue to the story of the Napolitano (it's quite short actually), but I'll save that for conversation over a fat plate of spaghetti carbonara and a glass (or four) of red wine.
Thursday August 11th...After dinner and drinks with a 'friend' we took a stroll in the waining light of the Roman summer evening to the steps of the Chiesa Santa Maria Maggiore, one of four churches in Rome which is actually Vatican property and thus part of Vatican City. Ah the holiest of lands. We sat ourselves down on the steps of the church, the piazza was salt and peppered with people, and clouds were moving in to give us a little sprinkle. Now imagine, if you will, the Napolitano and I doing what people do after dinner and drinks...discussing world politics, religion, and the state of the Italian economy, of course all in Italian. After a few minutes passed I noticed my trusty, carry-everything bag a few inches from my person and moved it closer to me. Our conversation contiued. Another ten or fifteen minutes went by and the rain, while in movies is romantic, was starting to get a little annoying. We decided it was time to go. I turned to my right, and it was gone. I stood up, not believing what I wasn't seeing and started to get visibly agitated. The Napolitano of course had no clue what was going on. He asked if I had left my bag at the restaurant...of course I hadn't. We both looked around the piazza in bewilderment. When he didn't immediately jump in and be the heroic man that I needed (yes we still need the white horse and the armor and all that), I started directing. I ordered him to go around the right side of the church, I would go on the left and we'd meet on the other side. I went to the left looking in corners of buildings, down alleys, in trash cans, in dumpsters, nothing. I gave some people some very nasty looks, as if the culprit had stayed around to watch my horror unfold. I reached the other side of the church where there were many more lovers discussing politics and religion on the steps. The Napolitano met me. By now, I was getting upset. Holding back tears like every woman should, the Napolitano tried to console me. At first I was glad for it, but then when trying not to cry and being inspected for tonsilitis simultaneously became a chore, I wanted to do anything to be alone.
We returned to our side of the church and stood around the piazza for a while longer, asking people if they had seen anything, of course they hadn't. I decided it was time to figure out what my next move should be. My roommate was out of town for two days, many of my friends were traveling around Europe or the States, and my one friend in town whom I had lunch with earlier that day had had plans to go to the ballet this evening. I had no where to go, no money to go anywhere. As the reality of the situation became clearer, I could feel hysteria growing inside me. The Napolitano and I headed toward the train station where he was to take a train back to his army base and I, well who knows what I was to do. I suppose I shouldn't criticize him for his efforts but the crowning glory of his chivalry turned me completely off, if one could be in the state of being turned on in a situation like that to begin with. I decided to return to Emily's house, my friend whom I'd been with earlier. I informed the Napolitano of my plan, to which he scrawled his phone number on a piece of paper (an act completely alien to those of us who only ever use cellphones for such transactions as giving phone numbers: i had to carefully make sure that the tiny piece of paper didn't get lost in my pockets or fall out somewhere on the bus), gave me six euros, and sent me on my way.
Now here's the only time in a woman's life when 'no means yes.' I didn't actually get the chance to say no however. Mr. Napolitano asked where I was going and what bus I would take to get there. I told him. There was no offer of, 'Can I walk you across the piazza to the bus?' or 'Can I accompany you to your friend's house?' As much as I thought I wanted to be alone, a walk to the proper bus-stop or a ride on the bus to Emily's with a man- security blanket would have been nice. I learned something about my own frailty that day. For however strong and independent I may be, nothing beats the embrace of another human being in bad times, or in good. But there was not to be a comforting bus ride, because the Napolitano turned around and walked away just as soon as I started toward the bus.
I reached the bus and since Piazza Cinquecento, at Termini, is the capolinea for about 50 buslines I had the pleasure of sitting on the bus for about 15 minutes before actually went anywhere. Those fifteen minutes and the entire bus ride to Emily's house consisted solely of me trying not to make a scene of myself on the bus. I arrived at Emily's hoping and praying that she and her boyfriend Simone would be at home. Since it had rained earlier I had an idea that their plan to go to the ballet hadn't panned out: it was an outdoor showing of swan lake and I'm sure the swans didn't really want to be dancing in a lake. I approached the citofono of Emily and Simone's building, saying Hail Marys and Our Fathers, pressed the button and waited. Silence. Shit. Visions of sleeping at the train station shot through my brain, stinging. Then a voice, loud, jovial, and possibly intoxicated: 'Valerio?' It was Simone. There is something unmistakenly comforting about him. Like a big brother almost.
Simone was suprised to hear my voice, maybe a little disappointed that I wasn't his buddy arriving to do guy things with him, but he buzzed me up. I got into the elevator and four floors alone in a tiny box was enough to start the tears flowing again. The elevator stopped and I opened the doors, Emily was already standing in the doorway of their apartment. Tears streaming down my face, I explained that I couldn't think of anywhere else to go.
Emily was great. She was like a Mommy that I had run home to after getting beat up on the playground. A Mommy that gave me a beer, internet access to cancel my bank and credit cards, and then watched a movie with me until it was time to go to bed.
After writing all of this, it occurs to me that this is the diary of a poor spoiled rich girl (by western standards of course) whose never known real hardship in her life. Although in any case its pretty damn scary to have everything that connects you to your own reality taken away without notice. I definitely have had to rethink my dependence on material things, not to mention electronics.
There is much more to the story: the heroics of Simone, the incredible hospitality of Emily, my parents' unwaivering support and love, and the epilogue to the story of the Napolitano (it's quite short actually), but I'll save that for conversation over a fat plate of spaghetti carbonara and a glass (or four) of red wine.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Italian Mamma
The myth is real. Dragons may not really exist but, if they did in human form, they might be in the form of American Presidents, Communist Party leaders, Nazis, drivers who don't believe in signals, British guys who are too important and wrapped up in themselves to ask for a girl's number, or Italian Mammas. I recently had the pleasure of partaking in a four hour lunch and subsequent two hour nagging session at the home of a friend of mine. He cooked a fantastic amatriciana for three friends and his mother. The first two hours of her visit were pleasant: she lauded is cooking, his girlfriend's pictures, and my italian. It was grand. Maybe it was too much Falanghina in the afternoon, the oppressive Roman heat, or her extensive amount of energy but the nagging began and it didn't stop until my poor friend was forced to kick his mother out of the house for embarassing him in front of guests.
She cleaned his room, went through his drawers, admonished him for the way he lived, cleaned the bathroom. Hinted to him (in Italian of course) that he needed to take more control of his girlfriend (girlfriend does not speak Italian), and told him that although he has been studying for a few years- he'd never know what it was like to be a real student, to receive a diploma, or to have a real job. OUCH.
The myth is real. I love my mother.
She cleaned his room, went through his drawers, admonished him for the way he lived, cleaned the bathroom. Hinted to him (in Italian of course) that he needed to take more control of his girlfriend (girlfriend does not speak Italian), and told him that although he has been studying for a few years- he'd never know what it was like to be a real student, to receive a diploma, or to have a real job. OUCH.
The myth is real. I love my mother.
People
Thinking that you 'know' someone is always a bad notion. To think you know someone limits them and limits your perception of them, thus leaving you confused and bewildered, making you look like an ass when something happens that doesn't fit into your perception. I like to constantly remind myself of the fact that, hey, there are many different iterations of me (one in rome, one in california, one with family, one with friends and so on) of course all based in what is inherently me (the specifics of which i couldn't possibly explain). And so this must be the same for all other individuals... one the most lame sayings in the english language is extremely useful here: Don't make an ASS out of U and ME.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
School's Out For Summer
For better or worse, my first academic year in Rome is over. So of course I must take a moment to analyze and self-assess (or obsess, depending on how well you know me). The first thing that comes to mind is, I must take a trip to Prague. After having spent the last five weeks studying the Czech Republic, the break-up of Czechoslovakia, and Eastern Europe in general. It's definitely one of those world affairs that gets glossed over in the US, unless you really try hard seek out news and information about it. Second, summer clubbing in Rome is absolutely fantastic if you have alot of money. Being able to listen to dope house music and dance until four in the morning, under the stars, on the beach of the mediterranean is bananas. But of course the reality is, if you do it more than twice in a month, you'll go broke. It's kind of like the fantasy island that Pinocchio gets swept away to, where all the boys turn into donkeys after having gorged themselves on the pleasures of life. Thirdly, my new favorite place in Italy is the island of Capri (yet another of the expensive tastes I was brought up to have yet can't afford, hehe). Capri is ridiculously beautiful, the boats that sail around capri are beautiful, the houses on capri are beautiful, and the people on capri are beautiful. As my boat pulled into the harbor at Capri, I seriously expected to hear Robin Leach's voice as if another episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous had begun. Sorrento and Capri are far and away my favorite places in Italy. Of course, I haven't been to that many places yet, but let's just say, so far they are the best. Lastly, I need to make a mention of the bombings in London...siamo tutti londinesi adesso.
The visitors and guests and section:
My friend Helen, from the first semester here in Rome, came back to Italy to visit Isabella and I. Apparently, the streets of Queens just couldn't compare to Sorrento and the Amalfi coast- go figure. I had a lovely dinner with my father's cousin (my first cousin once removed?) last week at one of my favorite restaurants in Rome, La Fraschetta. And finally, I'm starting my countdown to July 21: the day my mother arrives! I think this will be an especially interesting week in my life, given that I haven't seen her since December, Italy is a ver y different world compared to Southern California, and she has never been to Europe. I'm sure we will have a lot of fun. After our week in Rome together, Mom and I are off to good old Tampa to meet up with my pops and brothers. That is something I really can't wait for: crabcakes and beer, pizza and cheap red wine looking over the canals of Newport Richie with my dad and brothers. Yee-ha!
The visitors and guests and section:
My friend Helen, from the first semester here in Rome, came back to Italy to visit Isabella and I. Apparently, the streets of Queens just couldn't compare to Sorrento and the Amalfi coast- go figure. I had a lovely dinner with my father's cousin (my first cousin once removed?) last week at one of my favorite restaurants in Rome, La Fraschetta. And finally, I'm starting my countdown to July 21: the day my mother arrives! I think this will be an especially interesting week in my life, given that I haven't seen her since December, Italy is a ver y different world compared to Southern California, and she has never been to Europe. I'm sure we will have a lot of fun. After our week in Rome together, Mom and I are off to good old Tampa to meet up with my pops and brothers. That is something I really can't wait for: crabcakes and beer, pizza and cheap red wine looking over the canals of Newport Richie with my dad and brothers. Yee-ha!
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
The best night in Rome
Who knew the best night in Rome had nothing to do with Romans or anything Italian? Last Friday was a fieldtrip to Lebanon that took 30 minutes by train. Me, and fourteen other St. John's students (not all American mind you) went to one of the best Middle Eastern restaurants in Rome. Of course 14 foreigners walking through the crappy, very un-touristy neighborhood of Tiburtina was a sight to see, but seeing my girlfriends bellydance to the stylings of Tunisian pop music was quite another. For one night, it felt like all the drama and stress that had built up around us in school was gone. I had never seen all of us so happy and I don't remember a time in the last six months where I smiled so much.
The restuarant was called the Prince of Egypt, although it was run by Lebanese and Syrians and owned by a Tunisian. It was complete with arab music from Tunis and Egypt, bellydancers, hookahs, infused tea, and kebab. The place was oppresively hot from the minute we walked in: an underground establishment with no windows,where people danced or smoked the night away made it feel like a sauna. It was great. Luckily, as most things go in Italy, we found ourselves at the restaurant through the connections of a friend from school from Maghreb. Of course he introduced us all to his friends at the resatuarant and I even translated an Italian conversation between the Tunisian owner and a friend from D.C. who is married to a Tunisian- it was fabulously mixed up with the three of us speaking English, Arabic, and Italian. Yay! After a few glasses of wine I was dragged out onto the dancefloor to join the other women in the restaurant to 'bellydance.' I didn't do half bad considering I had one belly-dancing lesson five years ago in Santa Barbara and I am of the most caucasian origins possible. The great thing about this restaurant and arab party culture in general is that the men and women don't dance together. The women get up and shake their hips while the men examine them from their seats and smoke shisha. Then, the men get up and jump around the entire restuarant holding hands and the women gossip and act disinterested. Fabulous! So unlike the culture I've come to know as a foreigner in this country.
As for other news, I started the second session of summer school and will finish in the middle of July. This session's course is Contemporary Eastern Europe and considering that the United States doesn't really care about Eastern Europe (because there are no tangible benefits like oil or major trade deals to be made) I haven't learned much about the region up to now. But that will all change with this class. Our professor is the new Department Chair of the Government and Politics department at St. John's and from the region, so finally some importance will be given where it is due.
During the first summer session I took a weekend trip to London with friends from school, over the Fourth of July weekend I'll go to Sorrento and Amalfi with friends (assuming I finish all my 'homework' in time : p ) and then I'll finally meet my first-cousin, once removed from Massachusetts when she visits Rome soon after I return from Sorrento. I'm trying to organize a trip to Prague in homage to my Eastern European class, once the session is over, but we'll see how that unfolds...
that's all for now, love to everyone
The restuarant was called the Prince of Egypt, although it was run by Lebanese and Syrians and owned by a Tunisian. It was complete with arab music from Tunis and Egypt, bellydancers, hookahs, infused tea, and kebab. The place was oppresively hot from the minute we walked in: an underground establishment with no windows,where people danced or smoked the night away made it feel like a sauna. It was great. Luckily, as most things go in Italy, we found ourselves at the restaurant through the connections of a friend from school from Maghreb. Of course he introduced us all to his friends at the resatuarant and I even translated an Italian conversation between the Tunisian owner and a friend from D.C. who is married to a Tunisian- it was fabulously mixed up with the three of us speaking English, Arabic, and Italian. Yay! After a few glasses of wine I was dragged out onto the dancefloor to join the other women in the restaurant to 'bellydance.' I didn't do half bad considering I had one belly-dancing lesson five years ago in Santa Barbara and I am of the most caucasian origins possible. The great thing about this restaurant and arab party culture in general is that the men and women don't dance together. The women get up and shake their hips while the men examine them from their seats and smoke shisha. Then, the men get up and jump around the entire restuarant holding hands and the women gossip and act disinterested. Fabulous! So unlike the culture I've come to know as a foreigner in this country.
As for other news, I started the second session of summer school and will finish in the middle of July. This session's course is Contemporary Eastern Europe and considering that the United States doesn't really care about Eastern Europe (because there are no tangible benefits like oil or major trade deals to be made) I haven't learned much about the region up to now. But that will all change with this class. Our professor is the new Department Chair of the Government and Politics department at St. John's and from the region, so finally some importance will be given where it is due.
During the first summer session I took a weekend trip to London with friends from school, over the Fourth of July weekend I'll go to Sorrento and Amalfi with friends (assuming I finish all my 'homework' in time : p ) and then I'll finally meet my first-cousin, once removed from Massachusetts when she visits Rome soon after I return from Sorrento. I'm trying to organize a trip to Prague in homage to my Eastern European class, once the session is over, but we'll see how that unfolds...
that's all for now, love to everyone
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