It is officially a daily torture--more Italy moments in my day-to-day life.

AUGUST 25th brought new additions to my 'Italy is Everywhere' list. They are as follows:

#4 I went to a bookstore. I bought "Eat, Pray, Love." Now I will read about where I'd like to be.

#5 If that weren't enough, the first sentence of the first page says: "I wish Giovanni would kiss me." Did I miss something? I am pretty sure I haven't written my book on my Italian adventures yet...

#6 I am going to Cleveland this weekend so I can enjoy the tastes of Little Italy. Yep. Been out of the country for 2 weeks and I am already running to the heart of Italian immigrant areas to eat proper Italian food. 

#7 I started transcribing the tapes of my conversations with the guy from Cinque Terre for my Honors thesis. All I can think about is him sitting on his black couch in his Jesus pants smoking a joint and doing his laundry at two in the morning. Strange mental image, that is.

Time to go 'Eat' some chocolate, 'Pray' I can stop thinking about Italy for an hour each day, and try to 'Love' being back in the States a little harder. I don't think I've given it much effort yet. Time to get on that.


AUGUST 26.


In King Library, minding my own business, I hear it. That intoxicating language that I could listen to all day. 


An Italian professor and his student are discussing lunch in line ahead of me. It was like hearing the sound of the ocean after a long time away from the beach... Completely soothing and mesmerizing.

Italy is everywhere...

Ok. What is this? Suffocate Kaitlin under the weight of her desire to return to her adopted motherland? Geez. The past 48-hours have been full of Italy--some of it my fault, the rest is courtesy of the world's spiteful behavior. 


#1 I am making my espresso in a Bialetti 2-cup stovetop Moka maker everyday. Ordered directly from Italy. Yep. Thanks, Amazon!


#2 My Art class today focused on Cimabue and Giotto, and the art they created in Florence. An hour of reminiscing at 9:30 a.m.


(And if I have to hear another girl ask, "I mean, like, what EMOTIONS are behind it?" I think I am going to die. If you move the wooden tempura panel, there aren't emotions BEHIND it. Michelangelo's David isn't blocking the view of some intense EMOTION. Art EVOKES emotion, k? Thanks.)


#3 Anthony Bourdain's show "No Reservations" featured Rome yesterday... His description of the flavors of the prosciutto, mozzarella, gelato, caffé had my mouth watering. Not to mention I watched him saunter in front of the Trevi Fountain... Jerk.


That's all for now. I feel much better. Time to listen to some Andrea Bocelli on the way to class while I wear my super cute Italian jewelry. 

Now I know why Italy doesn't use toilet seats.

Mini background story for the following entry:


While I was in Italy, I found it a little strange that they didn't put toilet seats on toilets; you would just sit on the porcelain rim. It wasn't uncomfortable, just a little cold. I inquired about this in Cinque Terre, and Ivo (owner of Bar Centrale) said that it is easier to clean and that "Dudes can't mess it up too bad for the ladies." 


Now then...


Karen purchased the toilet seat from Wal-Mart and bought me dinner to bribe me into doing the most horrible of tasks. When we arrived to Oxford this afternoon, we were thrilled with the way the apartment looked; the renovations in the kitchen were still great, and the new carpet and paint had the place smelling like fresh construction. 


Upon entering the updated bathroom, however, it came to our attention that the moderately white toilet seat we had seen back in June was no longer there. Instead, we were faced with a molded monstrosity of sick-nasty-grossness. There was no cleaning it. The seat had to go. (It was so horrible that we refused to perch on the thing.) For some reason, the entire bath was renovated with the exception of the toilet seat. 


After being wined and dined by Karen (Chipotle and a glass or two of pinot noir), I go forth to conquer the problem. Screwdriver and sparkly, clean seat in hand, I approach the beast. 


"Karen, I think I am going to need another glass of wine after this!" I shout. I hear her stifling laughter from the safety of her bedroom. 


Let's just say that it was apparent that men lived in my apartment before me and that they must have had a huge mental block when it came to taking care of their toilet seat. 


Ten minutes later I was finally finished finessing the old one off (I will save you from the graphic details) and we were in business. 


 A new glass of vino in my hand, I finally understood the brilliance of the porcelain-rim only model Italian public facilities have adopted. 




----          ----            ----               ----

Homeward Bound--Minus the Dogs and the Kitty Cat.

Oh yay. Of all the seats to get, I am next to 'The Baby'. The most dreaded of seat options. The poor parents pass the toddler across the aisle multiple times, trying to pacify the thing. She briefly stops wailing long enough for me to hear the pilot's announcements in Italian; the last time I will hear Italian spoken.


Even more concerning than the child and my emotional state: one of my fellow students is about to miss the flight. If I could, I would send out a search party for "Male, 22 years of age, frat boy extraordinaire, moderately annoying but genuinely kindhearted." But alas, that opportunity has passed, and who would be willing to go look for him at 5 a.m. anyway? Too bad we turned in our program cell phones last night...We could have called...


So here I am with 40 or so of my classmates, one trooper down, miserable that I am about to leave Italian soil, with a baby once again wailing into the side of my head. Oh, and half the group is sleep deprived since they stayed up the entire night (they are bound to be a joy in a few hours when sleep deprivation turns them into beasts).


Thank goodness this is only an hour long flight to Frankfurt.


The engines roar to life as we sit on the runway, positioned for take-off. Now, we're shooting down the runway and the wheels begin to leave the ground...3, 2, 1... My heart lurches. I've left the place of my dreams and already the separation can be felt. Above the landscape I watch as my adopted country and I become ever more separated.


A thick cloud blocks my view of the ground. Tuscany is gone.


I know I will come back. I've lived such an incredible seven weeks here in la terra della mia vita--the land of my life. This is only a temporary separation. Italy's siren song will continue to call to me, and unlike Odysseus, I will listen. My destination is far more appealing than his was: a country of magical hills, rich culture, delicious food, and dynamic people. With a little luck, a lot of planning, and support from my friends and family, Italy will become my new home. Ciao for now, Italy. I'll be seeing you soon.

Stormy Florence, the night of August 14th. 

The fake David, night of August 13th.

After the big dinner party on August 14th. Who would have thought we'd have a slumber party soon to come...

The Sleepover

August 15th, early morning hours.


We've moved two twin beds into Amy and Eliza's room, turning a double room into a quad (technically, we have squished them all together into one huge  lounge area). It is 1 a.m. and we're trying to settle in for a good night's sleep--well, nap is more appropriate. We have to be up at 4 a.m.


Rain beats down on the roof of the Gould as Amy, Eliza, Katie, Kelsey and I begin to tuck in. Alessandro has opted to join us, whipping out his black sleep mask. I am not joking. He gets an entire bed to himself, since #1 he is a male, #2 he doesn't want anyone's boyfriend to get angry, and #3 he is Alessandro therefore we always let him get what he wants because we adore him.

Photo courtesy of Amy N. 

We laugh together about memories from the trip, Alessandro dropping his sarcastic remarks with perfect timing. Katie makes random sounds at the far end of the bed when everything falls quiet, and has us dissolving into laughter again. 


It is a slumber party of the best kind--friends convening and remembering, talking and laughing about anything and everything. A brief break in conversation has Amy saying, "Now you can say you've slept with six American girls in one night, Alessandro!" and we all crack up. 


The best possible ending to the best seven weeks of my life. 

La conclusione: Or, 'Wet & Leather'

August 14th, 2010


The rain from Milan arrived yesterday, filling the streets with cold water and making pedestrian navigation all the more difficult. Dodging puddles, mini lakes, and slippery cobblestones while shopping is even worse.


Jen, Hengli, and I head to the leather market of San Lorenzo. The stalls are all open, not phased by the hideous weather. The smell of newly crafted leather belts, purses, wallets and assorted other goods saturates the damp air. It is pleasant and enticing. I meander from stall to stall, avoiding the vendors that shout, "Ciao, bella!". 


It is peaceful here--most of the tourists aren't willing to brave the rain to buy from street vendors. The sound of the rain falling on tarps sets a steady beat for my walking pace, allowing me to leisurely take it all in. 


I had wanted to see the city one last time in all its summer glory today-- the buildings almost glowing in the Tuscan sunlight, tourists and Florentines jockeying to dominate the sidewalk, the piazzas bursting with life--but these two rainy days have provided me with something different. Umbrella in hand, I walk without a camera, absorbing Florence like a sea sponge, actually taking the time to look and enjoy, instead of document every second. 


This is the intimate goodbye I needed two days ago. Time to really come to terms with reality, accept it, and be thankful and joyful for the experiences I have had. Who would have thought rain could be such a conduit for satisfaction?

Unexpected Goodbye

August 12, 2010

View of Florence from Piazza Michelangelo

This was entirely unexpected, therefore breathing suddenly becomes impossible. All I can focus on is sucking in the next gasp of air, which still fails to satisfy my oxygen needs. 


Danny is leaving in the morning. This will be it. I thought I had three more days...


The fact I will be returning to the United States in 72 hours and saying goodbye to everything Italian hits me hard. Saying goodbye to Danny and Enrico tonight will be the first of many. Perhaps that is why it hurts so much. It's like when glass is shattered--the first hit to the pristine surface makes thousands of cracks, which will eventually crumble away. This was the first hit; a thousand cracks were made, and now all I have to do is wait for the shattering moment of stepping on the plane. 


I do my best to maintain my smile, and act as though everything is o.k. Eliza, Lauren and Danny can sense my tension. A hand reaches under the table and grabs mine--an anchor to keep me in the present. It is time to go to the Red Garter. Interesting how that is where it all began six weeks ago. But tonight I will not drown in my memories and contemplate what will happen down the road. I will stay in the here and now, and enjoy every second I have left, however few they may be.

La pace di domenica (the peace of Sunday)

August 8^th, 2 p.m.

A warm, soft breeze rustles the branches of Hotel Kraft’s rooftop cypress tree. This is the quietest Florence has ever been; the Sunday bells have fallen silent, and the typical weekday sounds of Vespas, cars and bicycle bells are missing. Danny clicks his green lighter, briefly disturbing the peace of this place, and lights his Camel Blue cigarette. The smell of tobacco smoke mingles with the scents of chlorine, sunscreen, and newspaper (all probably originating from the same source—Danny is fresh from the pool, has reapplied his SPF 45, and is reading Corriere della Sera).

The sky is a perfect blue. Not a wisp of cloud in sight. From this sixth floor oasis, I can see all of Florence. The Duomo is a compass, letting me identify other landmarks of the city—San Lorenzo, Piazza della Repubblica, Palazzo Vecchio’s tower. In the distance, Fiesole (Fee-EH-so-lay) keeps watch over the city from its hillside perch.

After a whirlwind tour of Cortona and Montepulciano yesterday, Cinque Terre the day before, and six weeks’ worth of travel and studying, it is a pleasure to have nothing to do, and someone to have nothing to do with. 

On the rooftop at sunset--photo taken by Danny. Thanks!!

  

I have officially been 'Under the Tuscan Sun'

August 7^th, 7:35 p.m.

Riding a train through Tuscany is one of the most visually gratifying experiences someone can have in Italy. Fields of sunflowers, roads lined with cypress trees, and perfectly parallel vineyard vines coat the landscape with a feast of textures and colors not easily found elsewhere. Hills rise from the edges of valley floors, dotted with humble case and sprawling vine and olive oil palazzi.

The sunsets here are spectacular, throwing everything under the golden glow of the sun. It’s as if a gold leaf artist of the Renaissance has dusted the world with his craft. My train speeds along, changing my view faster than I can snap pictures. I finally decide to lean back, relax, and enjoy the ride. This won’t be my last time in Tuscany, so why not set the camera down for two hours and watch the show?

 -----

My trip into Tuscany included Cortona and Montepulciano, which both happen to be the filming locations of some very popular movies. Cortona was the setting for Frances Mayes' book, "Under the Tuscan Sun" and the movie was subsequently filmed there. 

Montepulciano acted as Volterra in the movie "New Moon", the second movie in the "Twilight" series. Both were said to be idyllic hill towns of Tuscany, and less touristy than San Gimignano. Below are a few of the pictures from that trip.

Me overlooking Cortona's hillside.

Bramasole! The real house of Frances Mayes, who wrote "Under the Tuscan Sun".

Breathtaking view of the surrounding area.

Meghan and me in front of the clock tower from 'New Moon' in Montepulciano

Check it out--recognize the door frame? :)

  

Naples: "Va Bene" & Sorrento: "When in the Land of Lemons, eat the lemons."

(I apologize in advance for both the length and multiple 'voices' of this entry. It was written over the course of 2 days, based on notes and memories. I just had to get it all down and post it before I forgot my experiences. Other than that, enjoy! --k)

Written while on the train:

"July 29th--Mount Vesuvius grows ahead as my highspeed Frecciarossa 9523 train races at 287 kilometers per hour (about 175 mph) toward Naples. The sun strikes the side of the volcano, turning it gold and autumn yellow in the fading daylight. What a glorious welcome to Naples."

Outside the train station, one hour later….

Outside the train station, Amy, Eliza, Kelsey, Katie and I are welcomed by a guy whipping out his man parts and peeing on a palm tree. Delightful.

“Girls, don’t sit by that tree over there. Ever,” I say.

I text Danny Salti, to inform him of the warm welcome. He says to wait for the landscape and pizza to make up for the peeing incident.

The five of us maneuver toward the bus station, catching the R2 bus to our hostel. We survive the experience unscathed, and walk the few blocks to our hostel, dodging about 2,043 cars and almost getting hit by numerous Vespas in the process (Rick Steves says walk into traffic and act like you know where you are going. It is the scariest thing ever, but it works. They do eventually stop. Kind of.).

David was working the front desk at the hostel when we arrived. He is super nice, but has a very funky red rash all over his chest, that seems to get worse when he’s flustered. Having five talkative American girls is enough to make him look like he has a bad case of hives.

Since we’re starving, and because Naples invented pizza, we ask David to recommend a place for dinner. Castel Nuovo was a pizzeria around the corner, and the staff was so nice to us. We ordered three margherita pizzas, two flasks of white wine, and a heavenly dessert our waiter called “Chock-o-let Balls”.  Delicious doesn’t even describe it.

When it was time to leave, our adorable waiter (who happened to be about 40, and missing a front tooth), ran to catch up with us so he could give us fidelity cards—15% off the next visit.

Day 2: July 30th 1:30 p.m.

Laying on a rock of the harbor, I take in the Caprisian sun. Boats and yachts pass by or drop anchor.

Speaking of dropping anchor, a little boy decided to drop pants and use the beach as his own toilette while I looked on in horror. His grandmother stood in front of him (as a body barrier, perhaps?) as he proceeded to go the #2 route. In public. Again may I mention on the beach. Public indecency? I’d say yes.

I had been laying on the pebbly beach, happy and content (and moderately disturbed) with my four girlfriends, but then a group of kids started playing football (a.k.a. soccer) and pelted us with rocks every time they kicked the ball. So rude. We therefore cut our losses and migrated to the boulders of the harbor, safely out of reach.

Day 2: Midnight, July 30th

I’ve determined Naples’ catchphrase/motto:

“Take it or leave it, bitches.”

Naples didn’t and doesn’t clean up for its date with tourism. It is a grimy, gritty seaport town with 2,500 years of history, filled with hardy, authentic Italians who don’t seem to care if you like them or their city.

So, it could be hard to like Naples. It is really you against the Vespas, the taxi driver, the man at the ticket office, the little old lady coming right at you expecting you to dive out of her way. But, mixed all together, the city has its appeal. I can’t really tell you what is appealing exactly, but it really is.

Bulleted notes of the Trip:

·      Capri wasn’t too impressive, but definitely left an impression. Reasons: little boy and soccer fiends.

·      The cable car to Capri Town was very cool/beautiful. The view at the top made the €1.10 price worth it.

·      The clothes were divine and completely too expensive. Made me want to find a sugar daddy.

Day 3: July 31st

Eliza and I split from the group to check out Pompeii. We had to wait an hour for the bus to arrive (a typical Italian problem best solved with a little patience and ‘It is what it is’ attitude). While we waited, we met a German couple from Nuremburg and an older French couple from Paris. It was so cool to watch two people from different countries communicating in a second language with each other. It made me realize just how behind on foreign language education America really is.

While on the bus, Eliza and I started discussing Carlo Zei, our film professor. We loved how he has a tendency to say, "Va bene," after we complete discussion or move on to the next point. For some reason, we both started using the phrase for the rest of the day, making us dissolve into a fit of giggles, or smile knowingly at each other (FYI: It has stuck around permanently ever since). 

The ruins of Pompeii were incredible. The streets and sidewalks were paved, and exterior paint and lettering had managed to be preserved over the centuries. Seeing the plaster casts of the Pompeian bodies was humbling; these people woke up one morning and had no idea that the remains of their ordinary lives would become a tourist destination.

Eliza and I made a few wrong turns in the park, and ended up exiting on the far North side, instead of the south. It turned out to be to our benefit, since we ran into the train station we needed to reach. We bought our 1.70 € tickets to Sorrento and went into the coffee bar to grab a beverage. I ordered my now-common espresso, and Eliza had a beautiful cappuccino. We felt so Italian drinking our coffee at the marble bar, watching the barista mix up orders for other patrons.

It was initially our plan to go to Positano soon after arriving to Sorrento. There is no train line to get there, so it is either a bus or ferry. Rick Steves said the view of Positano was worth the 7€ ferry, so we started walking downhill toward the water. When we reached Marina Piccola, we found out there would be no ferries to Positano that day (it was a Saturday, which had us both surprised). Somewhat disappointed, but willing to make the best of it, Eliza and I opted to splurge on lunch, choosing a little restaurant with seating right along the water’s edge. We languished for an hour and a half on a lunch of calamari, shrimp (with heads attached, mind you. Means they are fresh, according to Danny Salti), mixed salad, French fries (cravings must be obeyed), margherita pizza and a half liter of wine between the two of us lifted our spirits. Absolutely wonderful.

We then hiked up about 100 stairs (burn off a bit of lunch’s damage) to reach some of the best gelato and diverse shopping ever. The gelato was from Primavera (mentioned in the Rick Steves’ guidebook, of course!), and we both went with the “limone di Sorrento”—when in the Land of Lemons, eat the lemons.

A jewelry store packed to the ceiling with red coral, cameos, and earrings drew our attention. When Eliza showed interest in a pair of earrings, the owner (a little lady with a hug mole on her chin) finessed Eliza’s earring off and shoved the purchasable turquoise studs into her ear.

“Even if you do not buy them, it makes me happy to have you try them on,” she said in a raspy, chain-smoker-for-thirty-years voice.

As five o’clock approached, Eliza and I went to the public lemon grove. It is tended by a family with a very green thumb, and a little shop in the grove sells limoncello and the organic lemons grown there. We sat down to rest our tired feet, and as we relaxed, we saw a woman come into the grove walking her white rabbit. Yep, it had a leash and everything. I’d never seen anything like it, and I have to say, the little thing was awfully adorable.

Spotting the shop in the distance, we meandered toward it. The woman working the stall greeted us eagerly, and started offering us samples of the products for sale. Eliza and I tried the limoncello. It was insanely strong; both lemony and sappy sweet at the same time. Eliza, who has a soft spot in her heart for all things lemon (Sorrento=perfect place for her), opted to purchase the 5 lemons for 2€. The woman liked us so much, she threw in an extra lemon (attached to a branch, no less).

I haven’t mentioned the views yet, for fear of sounding cliché, but it is just necessary. The views of the Bay of Naples were simply stunning; enough to make me want to come back and spend time lounging by the water. Cinque Terre has a completely different relationship with the water than Sorrento. Though both areas hug sheer cliffs, Sorrento was built in a way that maximized the view horizontally. Cinque Terre is more vertical. I think the pictures below help explain what I am trying to say.

This is Sorrento....

This is Riomaggiore.

Heading back to Naples, we were both completely content and pleased with our day, which was such a good feeling. We had managed to catch a bus, find Pompeii, ride a train, change our Positano plans, navigate Sorrento, and make our way back to Naples without any negative experiences. 

Don't Panic (Assignment 5)

This past weekend I opted to forego the group trip to Croatia so I could go to Naples, Capri, and Sorrento. I knew before leaving that Naples is different from the rest of “mainstream” Italy. According to my Rick Steves guidebook, Naples is the best and worst of Italy: the motherland of pizza, but also the hometown of the mafia. It’s dirty and rough, but also delectably authentic. The Neopolitans are who they are, and they aren’t going to change to appeal to the mass tourist market.

With all the warnings about pickpockets, I felt prepared to avoid the travel nightmare so many ignorant/unwary travelers find themselves in—I just didn’t prepare for the frightening, pursuant nature of the men of Naples. 

On my second evening in Naples, Kelsey, Katie and I decided we wanted to go to a bar to meet people and get out of the hostel for a while. Looking up a place on Google, we determined our route, making sure we would be on well-lit, major thoroughfares. It was dusk as we set out, dressed nicely, but not in a way to attract much attention to ourselves (no heels, no excessively short skirts or dresses, no flashy jewelry).

Walking along a one-way street with the cars heading toward us, we watched the traffic and laughed about our experiences in Capri earlier that day. I was walking in front, and noticed a car pull into a side alley on our side of the street. There were two men in the car, hissing and speaking fast Italian; I assumed they were directing their antics at us. Katie and Kelsey hadn’t noticed, so I told them we should cross the street because the bar would be on that side (I didn’t want to alarm them, if it turned out the men weren’t actually trying to talk to us.).

As we reached the other side of the sidewalk, I kept an eye on the car. Apparently, they were interested in us after all. The white car pulled out, reversed down the one-way street, and pulled up on our side of the street. At this point, I could feel my heart beating faster. Not able to understand the Naples dialect, I turned my head toward the car and said, “Grazie, ma no.” Thanks, but no. Katie and Kelsey, now realizing the creep-factor, look at me, Momma Kaitlin (I'm the eldest and most prepared for everything), for direction.

“Keep walking, don’t look at them,” I said, more confidently than I felt. “They’ll leave if we ignore them. Walk with a purpose.”

Ahead of us was a walkway separated from the street by a large construction barrier. Since the car couldn’t pull up next to us and the one-way street became very narrow at that point, I thought we’d be safe and the men would pull away. Instead, I watched as they maneuvered their car down the street to the exit point of the pedestrian area. They were waiting for us.

Adrenaline coursed into my system quickly, my fight or flight instinct starting to rise up. “Don’t panic, you are a 22-year-old woman. Think clearly and rationally,” I told myself. Katie and Kelsey were beginning to get frightened, and I knew I had to do something to get us out safely. Even if they didn’t mean any harm, the fading light and language barrier were enough to make even the most innocent of men appear menacing.

A side street not visible or accessible to the main road was on my left.

“Kelsey, Katie, come on,” I said, leading them down the side street. Getting out of the men’s view was the most important thing to do, and the next was getting in view of other people.

The urge to run was strong, but I made them walk at a normal pace. It was probably only a minute until I had us back on the main road, but it felt much longer. When we emerged, I exited the alley’s darkness first, looking to the left for signs of the car. Our hostel was just across the street, and I wanted to get there fast. Katie and Kelsey joined me at the edge of the sidewalk, watching traffic whip by us. There was no way we could cross—we’d be the frogs in the videogame Frogger, and we didn’t have extra lives.

Then, our saving grace arrived. A garbage man who was working about thirty yards away walked toward us and into the street. Holding his hands up and talking to the cars, he gestured for them to stop. It was like Moses parting the Red Sea. The three of us—probably looking like nervous deer—scampered behind him, practically running to the safety of the sidewalk.

“Mille grazie,” we shouted over our shoulders.

I turned around briefly, long enough to see him look to be sure we had made it, then retreat back to his truck. We hurried to the hostel door, dialed the entry code and entered the safety of the hostel. 

My entire time in Italy I have felt very safe. My friends and I don’t walk alone anywhere, especially not at night. It could be the two men in the white car were just cat-calling and trying to be flattering. Other Italian men in Florence and Rome have said, “Ciao bella,” to me or yelled at me out of car windows, but something about Naples’ reputation mixed with the persistence of these two men scared me. I learned that I can handle a stressful and potentially dangerous situation rationally. I also learned I am not blind to danger or naïve about my surroundings—I was able to look at all the factors and keep my friends and myself safe. The rest of my time in Naples was exciting and wonderful, and I won’t judge an entire city or nationality on one experience; it's just important to remember, especially as a woman in a country that adores women, to heed the little voice in your head. If it feels uncomfortable, don't keep walking into trouble.