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.