Darkroom Developments

I just turned off the lights in my room. My train to Cinque Terre leaves before 8 tomorrow morning and I should go to sleep, but the light of this screen still shines bright. Otherwise, it's a dark room.

Today in my museum studies class our lecture was about collections and exhibitions of photographs. The discussion after the lecture explored the earliest notions of photography as an artistic medium and not just a technical skill for documentary purposes. We read an article, that I wish I could attribute to a particular person, but suffice it to say, that someone else said that you could give five photographers the same subject, the same equipment, the same external conditions, and the same vantage point (physically speaking) and you end up with five different pictures.

I am an amateur photographer at best, and a resistant one at that [see "Uno"]. Today Limbo sent me a picture of himself that a colleague had taken. He is somewhere along the Tidal Basin in front of the (very early blooming) cherry blossoms. He's holding his new digital camera. I think it's an excellent portrait and I responded with a note of congratulations to the photographer. In fact one of Limbo's favorite photographic subjects is other photographers, so in this case, the lens was turned on him. The image also served to remind me of a thought that I had this morning during class--that is the creative process of developing a photo. Minus the skill of composing a shot, making the necessary technical adjustments (which are mostly automatic at this point--Limbo's new camera even has an auto-refractor to correct your vision so you do not need to wear eyeglasses while you photograph), the most important element is the processing, the development of a negative (source) image. With the expeditious expansion of digital photography, the "darkroom time" has been converted into time in front of a bright screen like this one where a photographer can "photoshop" (selling?/buying?/both?) their images, sometimes manipulating them so far that he/she creates an entirely new image with no reminiscence of the original shot. Sometimes I am terrified of the internet and all this digital imaging and try to rebel against it, (e.g.: removing Limbo's 1960s seafoam green Olivetti typewriter from its case and bringing it into my bedroom or buying a polaroid camera this fall after the company announced they would no longer make instant film) all this technology (or at least the anxiety it produces) isn't as novel as I'd like to suggest. I can imagine how the Daguerrotype slashed through the 19th century's black hood that covered with both protective and obscuring functions. There's a shoebox in my wardrobe and I could poke a hole in it and light a candle and I could make a camera obscura (I can also listen to Nico & The Faction's album Camera Obscura, it could be an appropriate soundtrack). I could experiment with my shoebox and expand the aperture. I think I did something like this once in my moving-wall elementary school. Right now I could also go to digital image library and look up more 19th century photographs of ancient architecture, that is, as long as my hosts don't switch off the internet on their way to bed, assuming this dark room means I am asleep.

[In response to "Uno" here is a "Due"-- My postcard image anxiety can be eased now that I have come around to see and say that my point-and-shoot shots of an architectural landmark speak to my particular moment in the reflection.] My own photographic attempts are humble efforts to find some images which correspond with my experience. I still refuse to sneak prohibited pictures of paintings in museums (the digital libraries are sufficient and actually superior for these purposes) and to take a picture of a statue is to remove from it its distinct dimension...eh although I suppose this argument could also be applied to architecture, so I have found my own contradiction. Yet, especially after seeing Michelangelo's glorious David at the Academia this week, I think he is a prime example that sculptures must be seen in person, and of course their tangibility is incredibly seductive once you stand in their presence. All I wanted to do was feel the veins of his hands. But of course, now he belongs to the whole world (that can afford the price of admission) and so none of us can touch him lest we use him like an eraser.

If by any chance you have made it through this post or if you have just scrolled down to see how much longer it could possibly go on, then you will find the below image. As I wrote this, I was distracted by the imperative accompaniment, that is, what photographic image of mine might dovetail with this text. A bit discouraged at first, and getting tired as the wine buzz from dinner wears off, I suddenly remembered a series of photographs I took from the terrace of the Museo degli Uffizi the week before last. At the time I declared them "my favorite I've taken in Florence" and then I promptly forgot about them until now. From the terrace, you stand in the shadow of the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, and there is also an excellent view of the Duomo. It was a sunny day and I noticed an iron gate in front of the window that looks in on the museum's small studio for art restoration. This is what I saw in that reflection. I did not enhance or modify this image in any way, and even if I had I don't have the Photoshop software, so it would have been with my computer's self-assertive "iPhoto" adjustments. I'll leave it to you to privilege text over image or image over text. Or, perhaps you can mediate between the two. As for me, maybe I'll take many photographs tomorrow. Point and shoot.

To Double the Output

As I begin this post, only 42 minutes of the month of March remain. I would have two hours, except we (collective, international) decide to change the numbers on the clocks to buy more sunlight for spring days. Perhaps this is a good purchase, despite it's deception. My Italian telefonino, which is also my alarm clock, does not determine the time by satellite but instead required a manual reset this past Saturday night/Sunday morning (which blurred together in malted conversation). Maybe this blog requires a manual reset as well. Instead of opening a new post and putting fingertips to the keyboard, I was expecting some internal sensor to catch signals and react appropriately. I just kept ticking. In fact, I didn't even tick, I just subtly moved through these March days like a digital clock which silently transforms and marks the time by turning a line on or off now and then.

I really do want to write here and elsewhere. I want to be able to describe elements of this experience. There's no one way to say "what the problem was" and why I didn't write here this past month. The consolation is that my various notebooks and logs have not been as neglected as this blog. In fact they are full of jots that may or not be expanded. It is yet to be determined whether these impressions and ideas are ingredients. Perhaps as they sit on my desk they are already combining into a dough of sorts that could be formed and baked later in Virginia or Seattle in the next few months, or maybe even one day in Alaska or Paris or another imagined future. Should this dough be salted? Florentine bread is unsalted, but those German pretzels were salted, and so were the pretzels being sold on a bridge in New York City in the one dream I dreamt on the nearly restless night train from Munich to Florence. The door slides open, the curtains are pulled to the side: FAHRKARTEN! No. Wait. Which side of the boarder are we on? Make that BIGLETTI! My ticket has five punches on the bottom from these multilingual ticket-checkers/sleep-enemies.

I keep getting distracted while writing this (29 March minutes left). I've changed the music a few times. Lou Reed just said "This song is called 'Rock & Roll' it's about someone whose life was saved by rock and roll." Well dear Janey, she turned her radio to just the right station and she started dancing to that "fine, fine music." I listened to Velvet Underground this weekend as well. On a Sunday morning train. I ate a cheese sandwich on a sunflower seed roll and "Sunday Morning" played in perfect synchronistic mood and motion.

Sixteen minutes to go, and I don't know that I've said anything that might appease the people who say they have been hoping to hear something from me here. This March deadline is of course completely arbitrary, but it seems to matter (time should be saved even if the daylight is gone for now). Now that I think about it, I've noticed before the blog's clock is off, so the time attached to this post probably won't correspond with the actual time. I want some discipline in my life post-"interdisciplinary study of Western civilization in chronological and thematic sequence." I do miss those days and those people too. Rooms numbered 321 and 323. Mornings that started at ten. Walks to class in the kind of rain that does not require an umbrella. It rained today in Florence, so I didn't wear my new jacket. It rained today in Florence, so I couldn't open the window, lest the rain or a draft might come through. What's the difference between a wind and a breeze, between a breeze and a draft, between a draft and a drift? Ten minutes is not enough to say, but maybe one day I'll be the kind of woman who knows the difference.

There could be more soon. April's showers might fall here through an accidentally open window. The dough could become another sunflower seed roll. The time could be reset by arbitrary declarations or involuntary radio singals, and maybe that lost hour could be the hour of my disciplined composition, unless of course, that ticket-checker turns the knob tonight and catches me dreamily off-guard, only to toss me out onto the damp train platform where I will scribble in my notebook once again. Three to spare.

Gaudí and Graffiti

I knew very little about Barcelona before I arrived. For the most part, this was a purposeful decision geared towards spontaneity and discovery. Before Barcelona we had been in Paris (more on this later, I just feel like starting from the end of the trip) and our itinerary there had been necessarily more structured. My minimal research meant I knew that the "sandcastle church" existed, but I couldn't tell you Gaudí was the architect responsible, or anything about his aesthetic.

I knew about the Sagrada Familia and Park Güell because a friend had said something to the effect of, " I don't know what Gaudí was on, but it's like Neverland up there, you gotta go." Hannah and Alice convinced me to go inside Sagrada Familia (I thought the 11 Euro admission was a little steep) and it was the best thing I could have done for my appreciation of Gaudí's work. First, after visiting countless cathedrals and churches on this trip, being in the temple while it's still under construction provided an insight into the time and effort involved. And then there is the money. All along the project has been privately funded. Once I found out my entrance fee was a contribution to the continued construction I was even more pleased A & H convinced me.

When I first walked through Sagrada Familia, I recognized that the architecture was unique, and somehow geometric and naturalistic at the same time, but it wasn't until I walked through the small "Gaudi and Nature" exhibit in a corridor adjacent to the nave that I finally figured out that Gaudí was "on" nature. The exhibit showed side-by-side images of Gaudí's points of inspiration, for example: honeycombs (bees are the architects of nature), leaves and cones from coniferous trees, or single-celled organisms. The fantastical is organic. Setting is relevant to the creation.

The day before we left Barcelona, Hannah and Alice were not feeling particularly well, so while they rested, I went for a walk in the park near our hostel. I had no desired destination and wandered around the rocky paths and stoney steps I came across. After seeing Gaudí's designs, I decided this walk could have a Gaudían spirit and I would look for inspiration in the details of natural design. At one point I snuck through an open gate and was drawn towards a bush covered in tiny yellow flowers (Barcelona is already in bloom, springing ahead of the rest of us). When I got closer, I noticed the bush had unusual foliage--electric green and spiral in shape. There were some brown ones too that, but they still clung to the branch. They looked like earrings I might wear and found them rather beautiful as well. My camera's battery had died the previous day, but Alice had lent me her camera so I could show what I had done while she and Hannah were resting. I took a few photographs of the bush (to my favorite Floridian: I know how you hate photos of flowers, I hope you can forgive this if you are reading) and turned around with a sense of satisfaction having discovered a Gaudí-worthy detail.

But then, a few feet ahead, there it was: a rock, spray painted with a symbol that looked just like the chlorophyll-less spirals. The hooligan was an artist.

I walked back through the cracked gate, and down a different path than I had gone up. On my left I felt a radiating green coming from the stoney wall along the path. A graffiti creature of the same green as the spirals stared back at me. Even his shape was reminiscent.

So that was my walk. I could never and would never argue that the graffiti artists snuck through the gate or noticed the spirals, the creative influence is beyond a definable, direct connection, but as Gaudí said: "The great book, always open and which we should make an effort to read, is that of Nature."

From the Other Side

My heart sets in the West.

It is such a glorious day in Florence. The wind is chilly and the sun is warm. I am sitting on my bed writing this with the window open.

Yesterday I went to mass at San Miniato al Monte, the church where the the photo at the top of this blog was taken. The mass was held in the church's crypt and it was absolutely freezing down there. Between the temperature and the Gregorian chants I shivered and shivered.

I walked outside and I saw her again. This time the gate to the cemetery was closed and she was watching sun fall away letting lilac slide into peach and then cascade across the horizon like a coral collar. I asked that sun to continue to journey toward Carnation, WA. I asked the sun to carry my sacred shivers across the Atlantic Ocean and across the North American continent and to set somewhere in those Washingtonian woods. How can a sphere of heat safely deliver a shiver? I won't pretend to understand the science involved, but she was headed in the right direction and has demonstrated her reliability. The forecast was blessedly cloudless.

Now an echo from last spring is singing to me:
"Well I had a dream I stood beneath an orange sky, with my brother and my sister standing by..."
I do miss my sisters, the three I share genes with, but I have a great sense of company right now though I am alone. You are all standing by. I am standing here, I am standing there, and they sent the sun back to warm my face. I will go leave flames of "the light of the love I have found" around the chapels and cathedrals I pass. I have a pocket full of coins. My search continues...

The Facade of a Solitary Walk

This looks like a solitary walk, but someone must have taken this picture. I am caught on one foot ascending the Fiesolean hills, my climb directed towards a raspberry sunset. I am looking up and out, heedless to the vertical crack, my squiggled path, in the gray pavement. Gray is not ugly in Florence. The Florentine stone of medieval identity is a slate of sorts. The Medici family with their dukes, and popes, and queens of Spain, and young scholars who hid in studiolos, they wanted lions carved of hard gray stone--let the other cities and the churches have the splendid, speckled marble. I form another slanted shadow, to match the one that follows me and that promises to intersect with the present but yet unnoticed horizontal crack (which stayed unnoticed until I saw this photograph). The stone walls have been injected with lamps, but I left Fiesole along with il sole so I can not attest to the light they might produce.

A New Heading

As you can see, I have replaced the borrowed windows with a new image. I took this picture from the steps of Santo Miniato al Monte. This could be a postcard, you say, and you might be correct. I haven't seen a postcard with this exact image yet, but as suggested by a distinguished reader of this blog, I will beware of the infinite variety of possible postcards. My vow was never meant to deny me the benefits of personal photography, it was to prevent me from limiting my vision to a 2 x 2 inch digitized view of the world.

This particular image I felt inspired to carry back down the hill with me. I will claim the shadow on the bush behind the graves in the foreground as a signature. The statue belongs to the grave of a woman whose husband died in 1944. Although you can't see them in my cropped version of the image, at the base of the statue there are four children who grasp the woman's gracefully inviting cloak. While this scene is undoubtedly maternal, from where I stood on the hill yesterday, I saw a young woman, opening herself up to the expanse of the city with humility and calmness. Although I am growing more accustomed to sights, sounds, smells, sensations, tastes, and customs here, this city is still forcefully foreign. I doge Vespas and walk with raised elbows to maneuver through crowded sidewalks. When I walk alone (during daylight hours and on crowded streets--before anyone gets too worried), I am rarely bothered by street venders or other passersby. For the most part my uniform of black boots and a knee-length black, waterproof, hooded coat imitates the majority of Florentine females' wardrobes. On drizzly days, like today, when my hood is up, I have twice been confused for someone who could give detailed directions in Italian.

When I walk with others from my group, I'm no longer the silent, solitary pedestrian, but part of a noisy gaggle of mostly blonde-headed American twenty-something women, and suddenly there is an onset of "hello"s and "how are you"s and "where are you from," or "where are you going"s. Coming from the urban environment of Seattle where human interaction in public is characterized by a particular brand of passivity and subtly, this aggressiveness is outstandingly rattling. In the U.S., I like to smile at strangers, particularly those I sense are in need of one, but here, especially in certain locations, I've seen that a smile can invite an onset of undesired attention. This bit of commentary of course reinforces cultural stereotypes, of both young American women abroad and Italian men on the street, but the reality is sometimes stereotypes call out to you from bridges and piazzas.

So, where can I go from here? To the individual, of course. When I went to the lecture at the British Institute earlier this week, a young man with the beard of a grad student walked up to the chair next to me and gestured to make sure I wasn't saving it. I smiled and opened my palm over the seat to indicate its availability. We did not speak to one another throughout the lecture but as I got up to leave, through an identifiable but completely understandable Italian accent he said, "I thank you for your smile, they are rare and expensive in this city." As I walked back to my homestay, I was pleased with my well-spent smile, and was reminded the singular instance can be more potent than a litter of catcalls.

Close-ups

The door is Sienese. Its combination of flowers and spikes evoke the intimidating beauty of Italian people and places.
The tart is an example of things that arrive on my writing desk when I return to my room after classes. That one, although tempting, I left wrapped and drank my tea minus dolce.
The bench I photographed in Venice because I liked its color. When I took the shot, I didn't know that in just a matter of moments I would walk across its plank to board a gondola.
The chair is the place of composition, it's where I sit right now, but am soon to abandon to go out into the Florentine night in search of sustenance and memorable moments.

Toddlers with Superior Vocabularies

This afternoon after my marvelous trip to the Palazzo Pitti--commentary to follow-- a large group of students in my program took the bus up to nearby Fiesole. It was the best 1.20 euro I think I have spent so far, (besides on the fruit, especially my beloved arancia rosso, "red oranges"). We watched a spectacular sunset and went for long, hilly walks. I drank too much vino at dinner, so I decided to call it an early night after we took the bus back to Firenze. After scaling the stairs, scale, a much easier task after a few weeks of training, I discovered my host family was entertaining company including three young children, all less than five years old. They are cute and have blond curly hair, "like little angels," as my host commented. Anyway, the angelic children tried to speak to me, but given my wine buzz and my language deficiencies, which have been particularly frustrating today, I just smiled, said "ciao" numerous times, and thought of my own towheaded niece and nephew.

There is so much to say about this journey so far and I hope I can start articulating some of it, here and elsewhere. Tour guides and professors keep using the word "impressive" and I hope they are right. I hope I am being imprinted, embossed, or [in the inclusive sense] sculpted by all this.

The bambini are crying now. They don't want to leave but they must. It is bedtime and they will go back to sleep in their cribs and participate in necessary angelic duties. I will go to sleep as well and wake up to another unbelievably blessed day in this marvelous and impressive place.

Promising Posts

I have gotten a little behind with this blog, as I have been quite busy participating in activities to be written about, but I will catch up soon. I tend to organize potential writings with tentative titles, so here are some future posts coming to screens near you in the near future:
-A View of Venezia
-Bologna: An Enjoyable Bust
-Hannah & Alice (per request by Hannah & Alice)
-Closeups

I will also promise images, although this is difficult because I tend to write posts in between classes on school computers so I don't have access to my photo library, but I will work on this. Now I am off to a lecture at the British Institute! More tomorrow...

W. and VuVuVu

One night after dinner, I was invited to watch a movie with my host family. I didn't have homework, or any intention of going out in the drizzle, across the river, to a sleezy danceclub, so I was happy to sit on the couch and watch the TV screen which is about the size of my laptop's monitor with my Italian hosts. On Rai Due (one of the government owned stations) they were showing Oliver Stone's W. Before the movie started, an Italian journalist did an interview with Stone, although his questions were better classified as monologues during which Oliver Stone made bored and/or pained faces. I had not seen the movie in the U.S. but was surprised it was already on television here since it only came out in the fall. My Italian is progressing, but I think any humor contained was lost in the translation and re-translation that occured. I got more out of the family's facial expressions as indicators of humor.

We watch the news most nights before or after dinner. The first three stations are government opperations, the next three "MediaNet" channels are owned by the Prime Minister, the unpopular (at least with my hosts) Berlusconi. Every time something related to the U.S. comes on, I am encouraged to watch, and then they ask me comprehension questions. I have learned to read the news online, in English, before dinner to prepare myself. I do make some effort to read the Repubblica everyday. Speaking of online, this reminds me of a relatively unimportant bit of information I have learned--the Italian alphabet does not include "w" so when you try to recount a web adress, you begin with "VuVuVu."

As for inauguration night,a group of us went out to an establishment most certainly geared towards American students, but it has the largest big screens and the cheapest beer. There were a few Italians there besides the employees, but mostly hundreds of American students packed into this crowded pub to watch a blundered oath and an inspiring speech. With my knee-length black coat and black leather boots I do my best not to scream AMERICAN on Florentine sidewalks, I try to speak Italian when I am ordering food or asking for directions, but inside that bar, I realized I cannot deny my allegiance to American ideals. My national identity reinforced by the contrast.

A Swirl of Seagulls

[I wrote this post last week, but the internet prevented me from posting, so here it is, a few days late.]
As an Italian language student at the British Institute of Florence, I have access to the British Institute's Library and Cultural Center. The library is located right along the river. Avantieri, I decided to try to find the library and do some studying there before my afternoon classes. I found the address and noticed the plaque with "British Institute: Biblioteca," but did not ring the bell since the heavy metal door was left ajar. I climbed to the second floor, walked over a "skybridge" through the courtyard and then found a long hallway of very old looking books behind glass panels. I continued through to a bright and open room with canary yellow armchairs. The back wall was lined with picture windows, carefully framing the beautiful view of the Arno. I will bring my camera with me when I return, soon, and take pictures of this scene. At the round reception desk was a white-haired man wearing glasses with black plastic frames that were too big and therefore just right for his face. He smiled at me which was nice because even though I knew I was allowed in the building, I still felt like a bit of a trespasser. In one of the yellow chairs a man in maroon corduroy pants hid his face behind a black and white curtain, a copy of the Repubblica newspaper. I walked towards the sunny windows and looked out over the river and the other side of the city. Standing at that window, I felt a sense of belonging in this foreign city. I was inside, looking out. I had snuck through an open door and found a secret hiding place.

I continued to explore and found a room filled with dictionaries. My fingers pranced across the fabric and gold-threaded spines. I found a few English language books and an Italian etymological dictionary and found a small desk to sit at. I read the first five cantos in Dante's Inferno, first in Italian for rhyme and mood and then in English for confirmation of comprehension, and then did my Italian grammar exercises for the day. After completing my assignments, I moved on to An Exaltation of Larks, written by James Lipton, yes the guy from "Inside the Actor's Studio." It's a compleation of "terms of venery," the most common being school of fish, pride of lions, ect. They come from the book of St. Albans. I copied a long list into my notebook for future use, but more importantly this type of classification encouraged a new type of thinking.

After this visit, I no longer feel my time can be wasted here in Florence. Sure there are libraries elsewhere--but these thoughts can only be written right here, right now, on this blog, because I found that library, and that room, that shelf, and that book. I'm no clairvoyant,but I think something is coming, some line of thinking or writing that can only be cultivated here in Tuscany.

I walked out of the library and faced the Arno and the procession of bridges. Under Ponte Santa Trinita I imaged*, named, and watched a swirl of seagulls.

*This is not a typo, although this blog contains many typos, which I hope you can read through as proofreading is perhaps one way I could waste time here in Florence.

Dogshit Imprints and Pink Fuzzy Slippers

There is dogshit everywhere on these stony sidewalks: some still in fresh mounds and heaps, some flattened with the imprint of a shoe sole, some ground deep into crevasses between one stone and another, some just a faint brown tint to a particular patch, and some, I'm sure, must be stuck to the bottom of my boots. People walk around in shoes that cost more than my airfare to get here and they walk through dogshit. Because even if that sole imprint does not belong to my shoe, that foot took another step after that filthy and disheartening one, and one after that, and so on, leaving remants on the places one might assume are safe. To my readers with gentiler ears and eyes, I apologize for this crudeness, but such is the nature of the urban place--urbanity produces waste. For readers who have been the foot in that unfortunate shoe, I am sorry for your sole.

As for the pink fuzzy slippers, my host handed them to me the day I arrived. " You can wear these around the house always, there are so many dogs outside." As Alessandro, the director of my program, often says in his lovely sing-song way, "Such are the dichotomies of Europe."

Pino e il panino

The Arno was quite green yesterday. The river is flanked by verdant, grassy banks. Yesterday's sunlight reflected onto the water a celedon tinge when the day before yesterday ("avantieri" in Italian) it had been more of a blue-gray-green. I walked along the river (Lungarno) on my way to and from Salameria Verdi, a deli/sandwich shop highly recommended by my friend Mary/Maria who studied abroad last year. I invited a classmate, Hannah, to come along, and we found the shop without too much trouble. We walked in and observed the customs until Pino, the owner directed his attention towards me. I ordered in Italian and he nodded as he grabbed a large piece of foccacia. From my order he quickly determined my nationality and said, "tomorrow is a big day!" When I told him I was a friend of Mary's he smiled and told me he would make me the best sandwich I had ever had, and he held true to this promise. On the sliced foccacia he spread a layer of ricotta on one side, and with my approval a spicy red pepper spread on the other. Then he layered on a few slices of turkey and a pile of spinach sauteed in olive oil and some unidentified but delicious spices. He popped the sandwich in a small oven for a few minutes while I paid (only 3 €, a bargin!). As I started to walk towards the small tables in the adjacent wine cellar he called out to me that I had to try the sandwich and make sure I liked it. Needless to say, my bite was one of approval and promised to return. Once we were finished, the word "gelato" was mentioned--a suggestion I am still completely vulnerable to. Hannah had read about a place nearby, Gelateria di Neri, and inside we found probably my favorite gelato I have had thus far--mango. On our walk back to school we devised a plan to start a 'Vino e Gelato' blog to record and share our consumption, so beware of that potential publication. It was a wonderful afternoon. We concluded it is impossible to be sad while eating gelato. And the river was still green on the walk back.

Alarmless Sleep

I have a cold. It started to develop on Friday in the form of a sore throat. Saturday I was up early to catch the bus to Siena and I woke up with nasal congestion and a bit of a headache. The bus did not help this situation, but the fresh Siena air and a purposeful desire to enjoy the place and ignore the cold symptoms were medicine enough.  When I got back to my homestay, we were offered tea which I gratefully accepted. After a cup of lemon tea I was quite tired and decided to go to sleep. Some of my classmates had plans to go out to dinner later in the evening and I had declared myself a "maybe" to "probably not." When I fell asleep around 6 pm, I had a distinct feeling that if I did not set an alarm I would not wake up until morning. So I did not set an alarm, and I didn't wake up until 9 am this morning. This was an incredible amount of sleep. And perhaps I was gently woken up by the bells from Santo Spirito--an alarm of sorts. 

 Today when I emerged from my room about an hour later after a short but warm shower I felt much better.  My hosts were already at work preparing dinner (their oldest son, his wife, their four-month old daughter, and dog are visiting today). Signore looked up from his stuffed roast and said "She lives."  This made me smile as it reminds me of similar things that are said when I emerge from the basement at home.  Although I was not and still am not particularly hungry, I still sat and ate a piece of apple bread (which Signora made sure to tell me was unsalted--I need to figure out this whole salted/unsalted bread thing) some more lemon tea, and, on orders from the dottore, a magical italian orange. 

The son and his family have arrived. The baby has the cry of an older child, or perhaps she is crying in Italian and that is what sounds unfamiliar.  The dog also seems to understand some Italian phrases that I don't, which is a bit insulting but not surprising. I have mixed feelings about this cold. My only outing so far has been a quick trip to the nearby Sunday market with Signora , but I think I would rather have a quiet Sunday that feels like a bit of a waste of a day than continue to feel lousy.  Yet, I am actually thankful for this little cold, as it has reminded me to get some rest and to take care of myself. 

Now it is raining and the wind blew my shutters shut. The trickle of rain and grey-blue light are providing perfect napping conditions, so I will take the hint. 

Mystic Wisdom

Yesterday the group took a day-trip to Siena and I saw St. Catherine's head and one of her fingers.  When I stood in front of the relics, a few things struck me: the limited nature of my pilgrimage, the dismemberment of the sacred, and the hunger of (and for) mystics.

First, there was my journey. I suppose I could technically declare Virginia the origin, or maybe even in Seattle if I wanted to add a few thousand miles, but really my trip to Siena consisted of the hour and a quarter bus-ride from Firenze and perhaps a quarter-mile walk from the bus-stop to San Domenico.  Siena's walls, while still imposing, did nothing to prohibit me from entering into the city. We met our tour guide immediately outside San Domenico and wandered right in. Some of my classmates continued their conversations.  There were no other groups inside. We walked immediately to the relics. "Why is her head so little?," "Is that her real skin?," "Can we go closer?," and "Which finger is that?," my classmates asked. [Answers: people were smaller in the middle ages; no, it's wax; no, and it used to be in that other reliquary and you're closer than that; ?] Meanwhile, I mentally retreated to a basement classroom in the Fine Arts building at Seattle U.  During our medieval art history course we read about pilgrimages and studied relics and reliquaries.  Pilgrimages were physically exhausting. The length of the journey perhaps increases one's appreciation of these holy objects. This felt too easy to just prance in and "take in the holiness" for a few brief moments.  

As for the dismemberment of the sacred, the relics of St. Caterina are the literal proof-in-point. Her body was torn apart in a political compromise.  Because of her important work to bring the papacy back to Rome, the Vatican wanted to keep her remains, but Siena contended she should be in the place of her birth, where she saw her visions, where she received the stigmata. So, chop chop! Crude, yes. But as a participant, as one who has now viewed the relics of St. Catherine in Siena, I see how important relics are to a city, both in spiritual identity, and for political and economic reasons. They are part of the draw of the city--what drew pilgrims and now pulls tourists. Yet, when I stood there, I wasn't so much horrified that St. Catherine's was decapitated or dis-digit-ed, but the way we just passed through, like we were window shopping. How classmates stood in the expansive basilica complaining they couldn't use their cameras inside.  Behind a thick layer of glass, are the objects safe from this treatment? Can they handle the pokes and prods of tourists? How hallowed is Catherine's hollowed head? 

When she died, Catherine was described as skeletal. She had not eaten anything but the daily bread, a small host, and some water for the last seven years of her life.  While I was not particularly hungry yesterday, nor am I today as I am fighting off a bit of a cold, I know that even when I get a little bit hungry, my stomach interrupts my brain and requests some attention. Fasting is supposed to make you hungry for something else besides food. As for the hunger "for" mystics, I have decided this is too much for right now, but I will have something to say at some point which has something to do with this urge being imposed on false idols. 

To be in a heightened spiritual/mental state I think you must be in a somewhat uncomfortable  physical state (hunger, tiredness, extreme temperature, bodily pain or injury). This is not a new concept or insight, but it's relevant to this trip.  This is not to say that tourists, like myself and my classmates yesterday, will get more out of a visit to a Cathedral or other holy site if they are hungry. In fact, the opposite is probably true--the growls of the stomach and the mouth will probably detract from the experience.  I suppose what I am trying to get at is the idea that if I am annoyed with my classmates, or annoyed with my runny nose, these are just distractions from the experience, but there is some un-comfortable physical state that produces a feeling of mental or spiritual insatiability.  I wonder how often, if ever, in these touristy situations a particularly fitting mood arises, where one can feel properly open and receptive. Could I actively pursue this mood or should I be grateful if just once it comes to me?

This is not to say I didn't enjoy my visit to Siena.  As it is so close, perhaps I will return in the next few months, in a smaller group and undoubtedly in a different mood.  My favorite part of the day was when during our free time to explore I went back to the Duomo. I observed the facade (and other visitors) for at least half an hour and then went and stood in the unfinished portion of the Duomo, the outlining walls of a massive expansion, only imagined never completed. I have no way of knowing what the imagined interior space would have become, but instead, I stood there, my own imagination swelling in the openness, in the unfinishedness of the place. It reminds me a bit of how I feel when I look at the two-toned stone of the Washington monument.  What some see has an aesthetic failure I appreciate as our greatest testament to slavery, to civil war, and the preservation of the union.  What I felt there under the roofless, would-be cathedral was a real sense of spirit--of human ambition to create something beautiful and majestic. To imagine something so grand you know it can never be completed in your lifetime, but you still start to build up the first walls, hoping others will absorb your passion and continue your work, the work of realizing the imagined, or in my case, imagining the imagined. 

On Purchasing Italian Fruit

Two days into my trip, and I have already developed an obsession: oranges. 

These oranges aren't exactly orange though. They have a reddish tinge to them. They are smaller than a navel orange but larger than a clementine/satsuma. They are not blood oranges, but certain striations in the pulp seem to suggest that small slivers of blood orange snuck their way past the thick rind. Perhaps this accounts for the unique flavor. 

After dinner, my host family always places a basket of fruit on the table. I have eaten one the past three nights. 

Today I had a break between classes, so I went in search of a magical Sicilian orange. One of my classmates and I found a small market but none of the oranges looked like the ones from the fruit basket. I decided I would have an apple instead.  Another customer was sorting through some pears. She was wearing a plastic glove. I thought this was strange until I noticed there was a pile of gloves next to the fruit display. I put one on too, and selected my apple.  I walked up to the register, placed the apple on the counter and the cashier picked it up and then handed it back to me. I furrowed my brow, squinted my eyes-- hoping this was the international expression for "I'm confused." She pointed back to the cart where the gloves were and said what soon figured out was a command to weigh the fruit-- pesate! At this same moment a young man walked through the sliding glass door, snatched my apple, walked the few steps over to the scale, weighed the fruit and returned with a small receipt detailing its weight and price. I paid and walked out a little flustered. I rinsed the apple with some mineral water--the only bottled water I have seen here so far--and went on my way; a simple, but important lesson learned. 

After dinner, fruit arrived on the table, and I got my orange for the day. My Italian hosts skillfully peel their fruit with a sharp knife. They swirl and swirl the blade around the circumference until a perfect ringlet of rind/skin appears. I will work on developing this talent. 

The Official Stair Count

Ninety.

To the terrace with the panoramic views? Twelve more.

I also learned, just this evening, there is a light switch at the bottom of the stairs. This makes my future climbs safer but perhaps less exciting.

It's All Greek to Me, Except for Some Italian

A hybrid taxi cab dropped me off at the red door. I found the correct gold button. The door buzzed, released its lock, and I managed to yank all my bags through the door. I heard what sounded like a person bounding down many stairs very quickly. A few seconds later, this theory was confirmed when a member of my host family, a very tall (at least 6'2--not "of small to medium stature") boy with curly dark hair leap down the last flight of stairs. He introduced himself and grabbed two of my bags. He warned, "there are a lot of stairs." I thought this meant maybe 3 stories, 30-40 stairs total. I kid you not, there are at least 100 stairs (I'll count tomorrow) to get to my host family's flat. While this initial ascent was quite difficult with 50 lbs of luggage on my already sore shoulders, the climb is well worth it. When we reached the top, he let me know his parents were still at work, but showed me to my room (which is adorable! and merits its own post--with pictures--in the next few days). On the way to my room he introduced me to his Greek teacher, and while I was unpacking my bags I eavesdropped on his lesson, trying to at least distinguish Italian I might recognize from the even more foreign language.  A few minutes later, the other American student arrived. She was in excellent spirits considering her luggage had not arrived with her person.  We chatted about our travel and got to know each other a bit until our host returned from work. She gave us a tour of the flat and explained some logistical details (in a mix of English and Italian, heavy on the English to convey the more important items). I am surprised how comfortable I am speaking Italian. Extended pauses are required for me to string together thoughts of more than 5 words, but I am pleased with my efforts tonight in communicating. Keep in mind this family was exceedingly warm and welcoming, and forgiving of my shortfalls in Italian grammar and vocabulary. Her husband arrived a few minutes after her and around 8 pm we all enjoyed a delicious dinner. Potato ravioli with tomato and basil (that she grows in her windowsill that enjoys a view of Santo Spirito) sauce for the first course, then sauteed bell peppers, bread, cheese, and smoked ham for the second course, and oranges and pears for dessert. And a bottle of chianti. 

I'll follow up in future posts about flights, airports, baggage, American students everywhere, first impressions of the city, my room, the unbelievable panoramic views from the terrace, and the Official Stair Count soon, but for tonight, my head must go to bed. 

UNO

"I think that travel comes from some deep urge to see the world, like the urge that brings up a worm in an Irish bog to see the moon when it is full." -Lord Dunsany

I happened upon this quote the other day when I was seeking reassuring or inspiring voices to quell some of my pre-travel anxiety. I am heading to Italy not Ireland, this is a blog not a bog, and the moon was full last night not this evening. Despite all these discrepancies, I can still relate to the worm who must follow an urge, the lunar lure, to come out from a hiding place and see the world in new light.  In a few days I will meet the famous Tuscan Sun, as well as the Tuscan Moon.  I have been rather worm-like during my winter break, sleeping late each morning in my bog (a basement bedroom), and being a bit of a book-worm in late night hours. In Florence, I vow to get up with the sun--metaphorically since I've heard the winter climate is actually quite cloudy--and enjoy more hours of the day during my Italian sojourn.

Speaking of vows, I have another. A quote by G.K. Chesterton (yes UH '08 friends, the author of The Dumb Ox, the book about Thomas Aquinas that Fr. Reichmann assigned us). He says, " The traveler sees what (s)he sees. The tourist sees what (s)he has come to see." I've provided Chesterton with the posthumous privilege of gender-inclusive language, which he might not appreciate, but sorry dude, it's my post-modern prerogative.  The point of all this is I want to be a traveler not a tourist. I want to see through eyes attentive to the periphery.  I vow not to take photos of any thing or place I could find on a postcard. When I return I want to be able to close my eyes and smell the Duomo, hear the Arno, and taste the air from Fiesole. These are hopes not expectations. 

My bags are packed but not zipped, my belly is full of my mom's pumpkin pie, and my eyes are starting to droop. I should go to sleep. If I didn't get the chance to say a personal farewell, please forgive me, the past week was a slightly frenzied preparation for my departure for Firenze. I look forward to seeing you in May, if not sooner, when I will be a new worm.

*For the more visual among you, I will also try to post pictures if my internet connections will allow such activity. Until I find some Florentine images of my own, I borrow these windows with filigreed shutters from a Flikr page of windows and doors around the world.