(there are many more posts I have to publish that will chronologically come before this one, but its a short one so I wanted to post it). Today is April 22. That means there are officially 7 days until the end of this program. I don't really want to talk about what that means or how that feels. Instead, I want to talk about Florence Appreciation Week. This is something Jilli and I came up with during a run along the Arno on Monday. Looking out at the skyline we had come to call our own, we made a pact to savor every second of our time in a city that had heaped nothing but generosity and beauty on us. And it was going to start that night. After dinner, Gabby and I made our familiar trek to the steps of the Duomo, where we collected Jilli and Danielle, and then from there, headed on to link up with Haley and Amanda at their Oltrarno apartment. Bottles of wine were bought along the way and we wound our way up the steep incline to Piazzale Michelangelo, the hundreds of lights of Florence twinkling behind us.
Reaching the top, we fawned over the view, as always, and found ourselves a bench to claim. The next two and some odd hours was endless conversation, probably to the great disturbance of the subdued Italians around us. Finally, at 1am, when most everyone had cleared out, we decided to wind back down the incline, took a quick pit stop at the apartment, and then parted ways to go back home.
Today dawned day 2, which unfortunately involved school, but as soon as we were free, Danielle, Jilli, and I walked to San Lorenzo to have lunch in heaven. Aka this largely open-air restaurant that offers "make your own salads" : choose your 8 ingredients and pay 5 euro. We were handed the happiest bowls of salad and we demolished them in a fitting manner. In case you were wondering (and I know you were) my 8 ingredients were: arugula, cucumber, onion, sundried tomatoes, pesto sauce, brie cheese, and walnuts. Bliss. After salad, Danielle went her separate way and Jilli and I commenced our mission to complete a recently determined goal. We found our location, marched in bravely, and after a series of half English/half Italian exchanges, skipped out with adrenaline highs and new ear piercings. Now how's that for a spontaneous afternoon. Still buzzing from our moment-seizing, we took a long walk to pick up Jilli's newly healed laptop, explored and exclaimed over a new part of the city, and then said our goodbyes and headed home for dinner.
Stay tuned for day 3....
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
On an evening in Roma...
I've been apologizing a lot lately for my sensibilities; mainly to myself, because they don't seem to fit into the paradigm of the social change agent / tireless activist that I've elevated to a position of having significant influence in my life. I want to "fit" this paradigm, but I also know I exist very much outside it. I crave beauty, softness. I need substantial time in which to be quiet, to be lost in thought. I maintain a possibly "childish" desire to believe the world is a beautiful place, leading me to often block out precisely the issues I claim to want to ameliorate. There is a place for my sensibilities in these struggles, I do believe that. I just haven't figured it out yet. I say all this because I am aware of the fact that a lot of my posts about my travels have been treatises on beauty; hyperbolic waterfalls of feeling, and symphonic swells of romanticism. And I feel a certain conflict in penning these words, because they're not "helping" anyone. They're not advancing any causes. But they are my truth and I can't apologize for that.
As luck would have it, I took a brief hiatus from writing this post to watch 3 episodes of New Girl, thereby making me extra sentimental (it's the Nick/Jess thing. It really gets to me).
So here goes Rome:
After the partial fiasco that was London, Jilli and I (we're now hard and fast travelling companions, for better or the eventual worse than comes from lack of planning) were completely and utterly relieved to have a trip that was planned for us. Rome was an all-school trip, meaning it was "free" (subsidized by the sizeable trip fee we had to pay) and was open to all students on the SUF program. We both have a strong aversion to moving in packs but agreed it was worth the sacrifice. Friday morning, the 21st, we met at the Florence train station, stood in a very large bunch for a while, blocking the entrance to the train station pharmacy to the great chagrin of, well, everyone, and finally boarded our train bound for Rome. It was a gloriously sunny morning and the country side hurrying past the train window showed off in the early glow. We arrived just after our slotted arrival time, and felt the change in the air as we stepped off: we were in Rome. I had every vision of the Lizzie McGuire movie shamelessly rolling through my head. This trip to Rome was, in a way, a symbol for all I had imagined Italy would be. I forgot to process how big the moment was and suddenly felt myself thrust into an experience I felt needed retroactive preparation for. But ready or not, I felt myself gaping at the bus window as the grandeur of the most formidable city in the world came into view. Rome's skyline is like none other: instead of skyscrapers, there are palaces and columned monuments, recessed on statuesque hills, giving you the sensation that the gods themselves are watching over the metropolis below. If my language seems a little overly hyperbolic, it's because I was unapologetically blown away on first sight.
With our own "Ms. Ungermyer-esque" tour guide, we did our preliminary sightseeing by bus, on the way to the Vatican. The Tiber did not impress me anymore than the Arno would anyone else, but I envied it for the fact that it got to meander through Rome, like a local with no place in particular to be. We drove along its shores until we passed over into the papal realm and came upon St. Peter's square, vibrating with light as the late-morning sun fixed itself overhead. The bus disgorged and we were on our way. We were equipped with our dinky little headsets, for the guided tour: a fact about which I decided to be fully nonjudgemental of, for once in my life. I couldn't very well give myself a tour of the Vatican Museums and I knew that. So I wore my ear piece and clip-on monitor with pride and as much dignity as I could muster, given their neon green hu, and what proceeded was, naturally, endlessly beautiful and fascinating. St. Peter's Basilica was, for me, the high point, though of course standing beneath the vaulted Sistine Chapel ceiling was nothing less than extraordinary. Having been successfully drenched in as much Renaissance art as possible, we were sent out onto the streets of the Vatican for a lunch break. Gabby, Jilli, and I crossed the Tiber and promptly found a nondescript corner restaurant, its biggest selling point being the sunshine dousing tables and chairs out on the sidewalk. Lunch was gnocchi for the two other ladies and a pizza for me (all pizzas are personal in this country...). Full stomachs and vitamin D turned us lethargic and it took all we had in us to wrench ourselves from the chairs and make our way back across the river. But the promise of gelato made us sprint the last half mile, hoping to snag a confection and still make our curfew. Unfortunately, gelato had to wait, as we were promptly herded back on the buses to head to the hotel.
Checking 50 some-odd college students into a hotel is no easy task and it was hard to be patient when there was still sun in the sky. But we made it through and to our room which, of course, we got way too excited about. We might have made a One Direction music video in our over-enthusiastic delirium....at which point we decided to re-group and re-pursue the gelato option before dinner. Returning to our room in Roman twilight, our next decision was that a nap was in order. We planned our dinner choice before bedding down, thanks to the eternal foresight of Gabby, and then proceeded to knock out for a solid hour. Waking up, we shook off sleep and popped open our bottle of wine (the only way to get ready). After a long conversational digression, we were tumbling out the front door of the hotel once again. We had a long walk ahead of us to Campo de'Fiori but there is absolutely nothing more enchanting than strolling through Rome at night, as we came to find out. The whole world seemed to be sparkling. It was almost disappointing to eventually reach our destination...or it would have been, had our destination not been so singularly entrancing in itself. Campo de'Fiori is known as the heart of nightlife in Rome and, true to form, the square was draped with groups of young people (including many, many men in kilts, but more about that later). We ran into two friends from our program, who clearly had gotten the memo that this was the place to be, and so we all decided to sit down together for dinner. Our outdoor table gave us the distinct pleasure of observing the crowds, the lights, the rose vendors sticking bouquets in every face...the wine continued to flow and here's where the kilts return. Two men sitting at the table next to ours were part of the kilt clan, so we called them over, demanding they tell us why the city of Rome was currently flooded with tartan. Turns out, there was a big rugby game concerning the Scots and the Romans, and so the Scots came out in full force. Also turns out, this tidbit was only the tip of the iceberg of conversation to come. The two pulled up chairs, made themselves comfortable, and proceeded to lace us with questions about why Americans have such good teeth and whether we agree with a bipartisan government, among other strange things. Aided by the raport of those two clowns, our dinner lasted a properly Italian amount of time, after which point the night beyond the table was tugging us too strongly to sit any longer.
If only we had known that the Scotsmen were only the beginning of the cast of characters we would meet that night....the cohort that followed included a slew of slightly predatory older men, a group of pre-teens/teens claiming to be the Italian One Direction (with Italian Justin Beiber as the ringleader, of course) who broke out into a rendition of What Makes You Beautiful in perfect 5-part harmony (with JB singing Boyfriend in the background, obviously), Italians who love to play beer pong, and finally, Italians who wanted to drive us all around the city to "go dance" with them. That night felt like 6 nights rolled into one. Come the morning, it was painfully difficult to fathom how we were going to make it through the most daunting itinerary of Roman sightseeing known to man...
....but we did. Because having friends suffering with you is the only way to make it through. So we forged ahead through the Colosseum, the Forum, Michelangelo's piazza, the Spanish steps, the Pantheon, the Trevi Fountain and finally, the Borghese. And every single destination was formidable in one million ways. I really don't even have words for the splendor but Rome is magic. Every image is printed indelibly on my heart and, if the Trevi keeps its promise, I will be back
As luck would have it, I took a brief hiatus from writing this post to watch 3 episodes of New Girl, thereby making me extra sentimental (it's the Nick/Jess thing. It really gets to me).
So here goes Rome:
After the partial fiasco that was London, Jilli and I (we're now hard and fast travelling companions, for better or the eventual worse than comes from lack of planning) were completely and utterly relieved to have a trip that was planned for us. Rome was an all-school trip, meaning it was "free" (subsidized by the sizeable trip fee we had to pay) and was open to all students on the SUF program. We both have a strong aversion to moving in packs but agreed it was worth the sacrifice. Friday morning, the 21st, we met at the Florence train station, stood in a very large bunch for a while, blocking the entrance to the train station pharmacy to the great chagrin of, well, everyone, and finally boarded our train bound for Rome. It was a gloriously sunny morning and the country side hurrying past the train window showed off in the early glow. We arrived just after our slotted arrival time, and felt the change in the air as we stepped off: we were in Rome. I had every vision of the Lizzie McGuire movie shamelessly rolling through my head. This trip to Rome was, in a way, a symbol for all I had imagined Italy would be. I forgot to process how big the moment was and suddenly felt myself thrust into an experience I felt needed retroactive preparation for. But ready or not, I felt myself gaping at the bus window as the grandeur of the most formidable city in the world came into view. Rome's skyline is like none other: instead of skyscrapers, there are palaces and columned monuments, recessed on statuesque hills, giving you the sensation that the gods themselves are watching over the metropolis below. If my language seems a little overly hyperbolic, it's because I was unapologetically blown away on first sight.
With our own "Ms. Ungermyer-esque" tour guide, we did our preliminary sightseeing by bus, on the way to the Vatican. The Tiber did not impress me anymore than the Arno would anyone else, but I envied it for the fact that it got to meander through Rome, like a local with no place in particular to be. We drove along its shores until we passed over into the papal realm and came upon St. Peter's square, vibrating with light as the late-morning sun fixed itself overhead. The bus disgorged and we were on our way. We were equipped with our dinky little headsets, for the guided tour: a fact about which I decided to be fully nonjudgemental of, for once in my life. I couldn't very well give myself a tour of the Vatican Museums and I knew that. So I wore my ear piece and clip-on monitor with pride and as much dignity as I could muster, given their neon green hu, and what proceeded was, naturally, endlessly beautiful and fascinating. St. Peter's Basilica was, for me, the high point, though of course standing beneath the vaulted Sistine Chapel ceiling was nothing less than extraordinary. Having been successfully drenched in as much Renaissance art as possible, we were sent out onto the streets of the Vatican for a lunch break. Gabby, Jilli, and I crossed the Tiber and promptly found a nondescript corner restaurant, its biggest selling point being the sunshine dousing tables and chairs out on the sidewalk. Lunch was gnocchi for the two other ladies and a pizza for me (all pizzas are personal in this country...). Full stomachs and vitamin D turned us lethargic and it took all we had in us to wrench ourselves from the chairs and make our way back across the river. But the promise of gelato made us sprint the last half mile, hoping to snag a confection and still make our curfew. Unfortunately, gelato had to wait, as we were promptly herded back on the buses to head to the hotel.
Checking 50 some-odd college students into a hotel is no easy task and it was hard to be patient when there was still sun in the sky. But we made it through and to our room which, of course, we got way too excited about. We might have made a One Direction music video in our over-enthusiastic delirium....at which point we decided to re-group and re-pursue the gelato option before dinner. Returning to our room in Roman twilight, our next decision was that a nap was in order. We planned our dinner choice before bedding down, thanks to the eternal foresight of Gabby, and then proceeded to knock out for a solid hour. Waking up, we shook off sleep and popped open our bottle of wine (the only way to get ready). After a long conversational digression, we were tumbling out the front door of the hotel once again. We had a long walk ahead of us to Campo de'Fiori but there is absolutely nothing more enchanting than strolling through Rome at night, as we came to find out. The whole world seemed to be sparkling. It was almost disappointing to eventually reach our destination...or it would have been, had our destination not been so singularly entrancing in itself. Campo de'Fiori is known as the heart of nightlife in Rome and, true to form, the square was draped with groups of young people (including many, many men in kilts, but more about that later). We ran into two friends from our program, who clearly had gotten the memo that this was the place to be, and so we all decided to sit down together for dinner. Our outdoor table gave us the distinct pleasure of observing the crowds, the lights, the rose vendors sticking bouquets in every face...the wine continued to flow and here's where the kilts return. Two men sitting at the table next to ours were part of the kilt clan, so we called them over, demanding they tell us why the city of Rome was currently flooded with tartan. Turns out, there was a big rugby game concerning the Scots and the Romans, and so the Scots came out in full force. Also turns out, this tidbit was only the tip of the iceberg of conversation to come. The two pulled up chairs, made themselves comfortable, and proceeded to lace us with questions about why Americans have such good teeth and whether we agree with a bipartisan government, among other strange things. Aided by the raport of those two clowns, our dinner lasted a properly Italian amount of time, after which point the night beyond the table was tugging us too strongly to sit any longer.
If only we had known that the Scotsmen were only the beginning of the cast of characters we would meet that night....the cohort that followed included a slew of slightly predatory older men, a group of pre-teens/teens claiming to be the Italian One Direction (with Italian Justin Beiber as the ringleader, of course) who broke out into a rendition of What Makes You Beautiful in perfect 5-part harmony (with JB singing Boyfriend in the background, obviously), Italians who love to play beer pong, and finally, Italians who wanted to drive us all around the city to "go dance" with them. That night felt like 6 nights rolled into one. Come the morning, it was painfully difficult to fathom how we were going to make it through the most daunting itinerary of Roman sightseeing known to man...
....but we did. Because having friends suffering with you is the only way to make it through. So we forged ahead through the Colosseum, the Forum, Michelangelo's piazza, the Spanish steps, the Pantheon, the Trevi Fountain and finally, the Borghese. And every single destination was formidable in one million ways. I really don't even have words for the splendor but Rome is magic. Every image is printed indelibly on my heart and, if the Trevi keeps its promise, I will be back
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
Feeling like a tree, with all this sap
One month. In one month's time, this program will officially come to an end. I will have "studied abroad" - the box will have a check. Luckily and necessarily, I will remain in Europe until May 19th, eagerly awaiting the arrival of my mom and Grandma on the 9th. But most of my journeys will be behind me, and I will be preparing to board a flight home. And until this very moment, I wasn't sentimental. Until this very moment, I was consumed: consumed with figuring out plans for dinner, plans for this summer, plans for next semester...plans, plans, plans. I was consumed with my own emotion: am I processing all of this? Why am I not in a state of complete happiness and fulfillment at all times? Am I benefiting from being abroad? Why do things feel so routine, if I'm in another country? And then I saw Italy, my experience, my processing, through the eyes of a beloved.
Having Jessica here for a week engaged my whole heart. I was joining my worlds, in the sweetest, most unobtrusive way possible. I got to wander the streets holding her hand, got to stand beside her as we gazed up at the Duomo, got to watch her eat her first gelato (and her second...and her third...), and most touching, I got to witness her fall irrevocably in love with the two people I have been calling "mamma" and "papa" for the past 3 months. Italy reintroduced itself to me when it imprinted itself on Jess's soul. And even now, with her back home safely in our hometown, I am looking over her stunning pictures and finding myself short of breath, my airways blocked by a swelling heart. While I was busy trying to find meaning in every stone building and cyprus tree, Italy was enchanting me. And not with the fanfare and uninterrupted bliss that I expected, but with quiet, humble patience. In this moment, I am feeling my Italy course through me and it is expansive, it is vibrant, it is loving. I don't have to worry anymore because I know what I am coming away with. And it is enough to fill every inch of me.
Having Jessica here for a week engaged my whole heart. I was joining my worlds, in the sweetest, most unobtrusive way possible. I got to wander the streets holding her hand, got to stand beside her as we gazed up at the Duomo, got to watch her eat her first gelato (and her second...and her third...), and most touching, I got to witness her fall irrevocably in love with the two people I have been calling "mamma" and "papa" for the past 3 months. Italy reintroduced itself to me when it imprinted itself on Jess's soul. And even now, with her back home safely in our hometown, I am looking over her stunning pictures and finding myself short of breath, my airways blocked by a swelling heart. While I was busy trying to find meaning in every stone building and cyprus tree, Italy was enchanting me. And not with the fanfare and uninterrupted bliss that I expected, but with quiet, humble patience. In this moment, I am feeling my Italy course through me and it is expansive, it is vibrant, it is loving. I don't have to worry anymore because I know what I am coming away with. And it is enough to fill every inch of me.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
A "quick" London recap
It's 5 minutes to midnight and I promised myself I would be asleep by that mystical witching hour...however, I also promised myself I would write something to document London. The bane of prioritizing...
It has officially been over two weeks since my trip, and directly proceeding, I rushed through two more big weekend excursions, so processing took a back seat (as it often does). I think I left off my recounting with a harried and angsty description of booking the flight. So now for the saga.
Thursday afternoon, Jilli and I left to walk to the Florence train station with plenty of time to spare. We were taking a train to Milano Centrale, and a connecting bus to the Malpensa airport, where we would catch our EasyJet flight to London Gatwick. We made it onto our train, got settled, got very silly, and maintained the giggles for the whole ride, during which we marveled, multiple times, at how plush the train was and how proud we were of ourselves for getting on it. Too giddy to even close our eyes for a minute, we pulled into Milano Centrale in seemingly no time. We caught some views of a very drizzly Milan, and arrived just in time to see a bus waiting to make it's trip to the Malpensa airport. Another smooth transition made. Again, we reached the airport with ample time to spare before our flight. We were feeling golden. We were dumped from the mouth of the bus right into the EasyJet terminal where we were to check in, and so we bounced right up to the counter, placing our faces humorously close to a pair of well-made-up eyes and perfectly polished nails. This woman proceeded to squash the air out of our lungs (forgive her; it wasn't her fault). After a short call over to some other department, we were pitiably informed that our tickets were, in fact, for March 14th, not February 14th. The moment that followed was Kodak in the worst way. Jilli and I locked eyes, as our guts fell out through the gaping holes in our chests. Nothing was processing, so we probably made some pathetic and fully unintelligble noises, first to each other, and then in the general direction of the EasyJet employee. With all the understanding I'm sure she could muster, she told us to go over to the customer service desk. And so it began.
I can guarantee we bargained with the customer service window at least eight times. The two of us alternated between crying, sighing, angrily ranting to no one in particular, and marching up to the window, only to walk dejectedly back after we had made our latest case. And all to no avail. The string of emotions we were tugged through that night felt like living through a life cycle in its entirety. There were phone calls to parents, bleary-eyed glances exchanged, wretchedly sympathetic looks thrown our way, by people passing on their way to flights they had correctly booked...all the ingredients for a miserable night in the airport. We weighed options: get a hotel in Milan, explore the next day, spend too much money on buying tickets to London for that night, get back on the train back to Florence, arriving late at night, dejected and miserable. After painful deliberation, we decided to fork over our wilted credit cards and get ourselves to London.
The plane ride over was full of turbulence and gave new meaning to the expression "red-eye flight." The two of us sat in near silence, our eyes clouding with sleep, heavy and raw. Touching down in London brought quiet jubilance. As we got in quite late, were about as functional as a pair of newborns, and had no idea where we were going, we were strongly advised by a compassionate employee to spend the night in the airport. Alas, there would be no restful slumbers to alleviate our exhaustion. We found the least foreboding-looking benches in the place and settled ourselves there. From the hours of 12:30am to roughly 6am, we attempted to get some semblance of sleep amidst industrial lighting, never-ending foot traffic, and excessive air-conditioning that pushed us to wear every single article of clothing we brought with us. Around 4am, I craned my neck and looked next to me to see Jilli putting on a full-blown winter hat and gloves. We were strangely thankful when 6am rolled around and it was acceptable to get up and find a bus. However, sometime during the night, we had turned from young girls into walking dead. Everything was too much effort, it was nonverbally agreed upon that there was nothing important enough to say that required breaking the silence we had stumbled deep into, and there was no question that dragging our limp limbs was an acceptable form of walking. We changed and brushed our teeth in the airport bathroom and went downstairs to find our bus.
Sitting outside the terminal in the shockingly still, cold, deep blue dawn air, we tried to absorb the fact that we had made it to London. But nothing was penetrating the system. The yawning, sterile coach bus took us in warmly and we curled up in our respective seats, trying to steal back a few minutes of sleep. I ended up spending most of the ride looking out at the suburbian English landscape, as the morning rustled it from slumbers. There was no grand heralding of the day, as the sun stayed hidden behind mist and drizzle. At least this reassured us that we had made it to the right country. Our bus took us into Victoria, where we stepped off and into this fantastical city: suddenly, we were electrified. The streets were wide, the building facades were elegant, everything looked sparkling clean, and people were rushing by. The British accents made everyone seem important, as we found out during breakfast at a tiny cafe, and, of course, One Direction songs played in our heads from that point forward.
We were soon confronted with the minor snag of not knowing where our hosts for the night lived. It was a connection Jilli had made through her school, but she did not know this young man personally, and neither of us had any experience with the infamous tube...we somehow made our way out to the suburb where he lives. An American student studying at the London School of Economics, he shares an apartment with a rotating number of young Brits. When we arrived, we found Halloween decorations spinning on the ceiling and a bunch of wonderful people who urged us to the couch, covered us in blankets, and brought us Ramen, tea, and chocolate. We thought we had accidentally stumbled into heaven. It was everything we needed. We made conversation for a while, although I faded in and out, wanting nothing more than to close my eyes. Rain battered the window outside, so we tried to plan our day accordingly. We decided on possibly museums, and so we unpeeled ourselves from the couch and went back into the fray.
It had stopped raining by the time we got off the tube in Victoria again, so we made our way to Buckingham Palace, and wandered from there. London was already striking me as such a vivacious city, though with far more elegance and culture than the bustling metropoli of home. We caught glimpses of the London eye and Big Ben as we walked, promising ourselves, of course, that we would go to see them in earnest the next day. We made our way around Victoria for a few hours, doing nothing in particular but seeing a lot and making plans (echoes the way life can be sometimes, huh...). it began to rain again, the kind of rain that made our umbrellas thrash every which way, so we took shelter in first a coffee shop and then a little falafel place for dinner. When the rain subsided - and it eventually did - we got back on the streets, traipsing through pools of rain and streetlamp light. After a time, we returned home on the tube to where our temporary housemates were having a gathering that involved animal costumes, techno, and lots of wine. As much as I wanted to participate, drowsiness was calling me to bed.
Day two, we woke up ready to tackle absolutely everything. We first had to migrate to our next sleeping arrangement, which was a friend of Jilli's mom's cousin. As the description suggests, neither of us had ever met this woman before. Her and her family turned out to be the most lovely people imaginable, and Jilli and I still speak about them as if they are our closest friends. We were taken to a completely charming (sorry to be so cliche...) house in the suburbs, full of light and colorful furniture, given coffee and cake, and introduced to the father and son, both of whom could not have been more warm, funny, and loveable. Jilli and I kept exchanging incredulous looks, while resisting the urge to eat the whole cake. Our "new dad" wrote us out a list of places to go and a map of how to get there, while our wonderful host mother made us lunches to take with us. I will never fully understand why or how these beautifully special things happen to me, or anyone for that matter, or what makes certain people so generous, but we could not have been more grateful or downright elated. This was directly encouraged by the sunshine that greeted us when we stepped back outside. We got on the tube bound for Westminster and our day had begun. Now for the whirlwind: the Houses of Parliament, the National Gallery, the London Eye, Big Ben, the Westminster Abbey, Borough Market, the London Bridge, the Tower Bridge, Covent Garden and finally Camden. We even managed to put some (lots of) food in our mouths, have laughing fits on several bridges, look for One Direction around every corner, and meet up with my two friends from school at their apartment. I felt like I was in a pamphlet for the World Fair. Everything felt huge, exciting, important - like what I imagine some people must feel going to NYC for the first time. I never expected to feel so fondly for London (I always imagined myself to be more predisposed to Old World Europe), but the culture was amazing.
It was silly but fitting that we ended our Saturday night with Italian food. We just can't stay away. And coming back to Florence, that's exactly how it felt. I will refrain from employing the cheesiest sentiments, but there really is nothing like home sweet home.
** General disclaimer on the above events: through the lens of my previously discussed struggle to find meaning, truth, and honesty in my travels, I realize acutely that such "travel blunders" as the ones described should not be taken lightly, and I don't take them lightly. Another person - probably even myself, in another situation - would not have been able to get out of that scenario because of a lack of resources, or any one of a whole host of obstacles. I am putting a lot of effort into learning what I need to learn here, and I understand the reprecussions and the context that accompany this particular kind of learning.
The plane ride over was full of turbulence and gave new meaning to the expression "red-eye flight." The two of us sat in near silence, our eyes clouding with sleep, heavy and raw. Touching down in London brought quiet jubilance. As we got in quite late, were about as functional as a pair of newborns, and had no idea where we were going, we were strongly advised by a compassionate employee to spend the night in the airport. Alas, there would be no restful slumbers to alleviate our exhaustion. We found the least foreboding-looking benches in the place and settled ourselves there. From the hours of 12:30am to roughly 6am, we attempted to get some semblance of sleep amidst industrial lighting, never-ending foot traffic, and excessive air-conditioning that pushed us to wear every single article of clothing we brought with us. Around 4am, I craned my neck and looked next to me to see Jilli putting on a full-blown winter hat and gloves. We were strangely thankful when 6am rolled around and it was acceptable to get up and find a bus. However, sometime during the night, we had turned from young girls into walking dead. Everything was too much effort, it was nonverbally agreed upon that there was nothing important enough to say that required breaking the silence we had stumbled deep into, and there was no question that dragging our limp limbs was an acceptable form of walking. We changed and brushed our teeth in the airport bathroom and went downstairs to find our bus.
Sitting outside the terminal in the shockingly still, cold, deep blue dawn air, we tried to absorb the fact that we had made it to London. But nothing was penetrating the system. The yawning, sterile coach bus took us in warmly and we curled up in our respective seats, trying to steal back a few minutes of sleep. I ended up spending most of the ride looking out at the suburbian English landscape, as the morning rustled it from slumbers. There was no grand heralding of the day, as the sun stayed hidden behind mist and drizzle. At least this reassured us that we had made it to the right country. Our bus took us into Victoria, where we stepped off and into this fantastical city: suddenly, we were electrified. The streets were wide, the building facades were elegant, everything looked sparkling clean, and people were rushing by. The British accents made everyone seem important, as we found out during breakfast at a tiny cafe, and, of course, One Direction songs played in our heads from that point forward.
We were soon confronted with the minor snag of not knowing where our hosts for the night lived. It was a connection Jilli had made through her school, but she did not know this young man personally, and neither of us had any experience with the infamous tube...we somehow made our way out to the suburb where he lives. An American student studying at the London School of Economics, he shares an apartment with a rotating number of young Brits. When we arrived, we found Halloween decorations spinning on the ceiling and a bunch of wonderful people who urged us to the couch, covered us in blankets, and brought us Ramen, tea, and chocolate. We thought we had accidentally stumbled into heaven. It was everything we needed. We made conversation for a while, although I faded in and out, wanting nothing more than to close my eyes. Rain battered the window outside, so we tried to plan our day accordingly. We decided on possibly museums, and so we unpeeled ourselves from the couch and went back into the fray.
It had stopped raining by the time we got off the tube in Victoria again, so we made our way to Buckingham Palace, and wandered from there. London was already striking me as such a vivacious city, though with far more elegance and culture than the bustling metropoli of home. We caught glimpses of the London eye and Big Ben as we walked, promising ourselves, of course, that we would go to see them in earnest the next day. We made our way around Victoria for a few hours, doing nothing in particular but seeing a lot and making plans (echoes the way life can be sometimes, huh...). it began to rain again, the kind of rain that made our umbrellas thrash every which way, so we took shelter in first a coffee shop and then a little falafel place for dinner. When the rain subsided - and it eventually did - we got back on the streets, traipsing through pools of rain and streetlamp light. After a time, we returned home on the tube to where our temporary housemates were having a gathering that involved animal costumes, techno, and lots of wine. As much as I wanted to participate, drowsiness was calling me to bed.
Day two, we woke up ready to tackle absolutely everything. We first had to migrate to our next sleeping arrangement, which was a friend of Jilli's mom's cousin. As the description suggests, neither of us had ever met this woman before. Her and her family turned out to be the most lovely people imaginable, and Jilli and I still speak about them as if they are our closest friends. We were taken to a completely charming (sorry to be so cliche...) house in the suburbs, full of light and colorful furniture, given coffee and cake, and introduced to the father and son, both of whom could not have been more warm, funny, and loveable. Jilli and I kept exchanging incredulous looks, while resisting the urge to eat the whole cake. Our "new dad" wrote us out a list of places to go and a map of how to get there, while our wonderful host mother made us lunches to take with us. I will never fully understand why or how these beautifully special things happen to me, or anyone for that matter, or what makes certain people so generous, but we could not have been more grateful or downright elated. This was directly encouraged by the sunshine that greeted us when we stepped back outside. We got on the tube bound for Westminster and our day had begun. Now for the whirlwind: the Houses of Parliament, the National Gallery, the London Eye, Big Ben, the Westminster Abbey, Borough Market, the London Bridge, the Tower Bridge, Covent Garden and finally Camden. We even managed to put some (lots of) food in our mouths, have laughing fits on several bridges, look for One Direction around every corner, and meet up with my two friends from school at their apartment. I felt like I was in a pamphlet for the World Fair. Everything felt huge, exciting, important - like what I imagine some people must feel going to NYC for the first time. I never expected to feel so fondly for London (I always imagined myself to be more predisposed to Old World Europe), but the culture was amazing.
It was silly but fitting that we ended our Saturday night with Italian food. We just can't stay away. And coming back to Florence, that's exactly how it felt. I will refrain from employing the cheesiest sentiments, but there really is nothing like home sweet home.
** General disclaimer on the above events: through the lens of my previously discussed struggle to find meaning, truth, and honesty in my travels, I realize acutely that such "travel blunders" as the ones described should not be taken lightly, and I don't take them lightly. Another person - probably even myself, in another situation - would not have been able to get out of that scenario because of a lack of resources, or any one of a whole host of obstacles. I am putting a lot of effort into learning what I need to learn here, and I understand the reprecussions and the context that accompany this particular kind of learning.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
peripatetic daydreams
There will be unrealized dreams of Europe.
There will be views unseen,
Light shows and dancing evenings missed,
Though they once dazzled your sleeping mind.
Villas, porches, gondolas left unoccupied
Sweetness in summer air and
Twinkling patio dew-drop seascapes
Will fall away into nothing but mist-air, and dust.
Fickle, symphonic passions of the heart
May evade you; may evade you ten dozen times.
Let your funny faded orbs watch them drip away
And on the morning that you close the door,
Seize it all;
Add the rest to your garden of unturned stones.
There will be views unseen,
Light shows and dancing evenings missed,
Though they once dazzled your sleeping mind.
Villas, porches, gondolas left unoccupied
Sweetness in summer air and
Twinkling patio dew-drop seascapes
Will fall away into nothing but mist-air, and dust.
Fickle, symphonic passions of the heart
May evade you; may evade you ten dozen times.
Let your funny faded orbs watch them drip away
And on the morning that you close the door,
Seize it all;
Add the rest to your garden of unturned stones.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Having to run when you want to stroll
The Italians have a term for it: fare una passeggiata. And it refers to that beautiful, languid trip down the street, or around the piazza, or through the park: when your feet stick to and pull off the pavement, every step felt in your arches, the world passing in perfect time. The scene changes ever so slowly, like the turning of an ancient crank, and celestial bodies hover the way they're meant to, in ideal suspension.
There's a time and place for the frenetic, but the aftermath - the winding down - is always jarring. I have just come off of two spectacular trips to major cities that have inspired entire canons of art, literature, music, film since their inception. Cities that have loomed large on my imaginative horizon since before I could ever conceive of visiting them. And despite all my efforts to relish every moment in them, they have since passed through my existence, leaving their sparkling contrails. Never the less spectacular for having been brief. But it is the splashdown back into familiar waters that invariably shakes me. Waking up in my bed again, having breakfast at home, going on facebook, doing homework...the droplets of an adventure evaporating rapidly from my skin. I'm left wondering where it all went and if I could have better preserved it, all the while turning one eye to the days ahead, and all that has to and will be done. This is a common theme in my life, this tension of paces, but one that has been magnified by concentrated travel. Of course, I am infinitely appreciative - to the point of incredulity and cognitive dissonance - of having such a "struggle" to contend with. I just wonder if I will be forever tumbling from one experience to the next...
The two cities in discussion are London and Rome, both of which captured my heart and mind in such drastically different ways. I will work to find words to describe them.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Is eating, praying, and loving enough?
Let's start in the cafe. Everything worth talking about happens in cafes. The trip we booked to London was something of an accident. Some phantom red-boxed message kept poppping up, telling us we had entered incorrect card information. And then it would disappear. Ok, I thought to myself, maybe this would give us an extra couple of hours - a whole day, even - to remedy the complete lack of planning we had done. No such luck. We were going to London at the end of the week.
I'm trying to figure out what I'm here to learn. I know it's something, probably a lot of things. And I want to be sure I'm learning them. I'm privileged in my ability to study abroad, I know that, so my learning becomes a necessity, rather than a luxury. I am obligated to unpack my privilege in some form or another. Or at least that's what my cyclical anxieties about being in another country seem to be telling me. Booking tickets to London on a whim conjured particularly uncomfortable feelings about what my purpose here really is.
There has been a vast amount of surface level learning that I've done already. For starters, I've learned that one's tendency to generalize swells enormously when confronted with this level of sensory input. As a result, a lot of my processing has necessarily happened in the form of "Italians do this" or "Italians do that."
For example:
Italians never seem to be in a particular rush to get anywhere. Being in a city, of course, the pace is faster than that of surrounding towns. But the "stroll,"as I've taken to calling it, is alive and well. Food really is as important as you would imagine it to be. Food is love. A significant amount of thought goes into finding, preparing, eating, and enjoying food, every single day. Dieting is not a "cool thing to try" because "why not?" Dieting happens when your health is at risk. Otherwise, proscuitto is not worth giving up. However, high-quality olive oil is one of the best things you can do for your body. And it's everywhere here. Take our usage of ketchup or ranch and times that by a couple hundred and you arrive at the role of olive oil.
When out on the street, no one wants to hear your conversations or how funny you thought that joke was. That level of interaction is almost intimate and for that reason, is reserved for the home.
No one here seems to be a sub-par driver. If you operate a motor vehicle, you are a professional motorist. Side streets are meant for speeding down, sidewalks are made for parking on, and stopping on a dime for pedestrians - bolder, even, than the drivers - is a hard and fast requirement. There is almost no emphasis on being "obedient" when it comes to rules of the road. Italians are generally hardheaded and self-righteous.
Which sort of echoes the whole prevailing principle of tough, removed, but generous love. I've found that most Italians forego the whole performance of amicable politeness, because it's a waste of time and feels just as fake as it is. But you entirely get the sense that if you were in trouble, the average person on the street would drop everything to help you. Possibly a romanticized view but I stick to my guns about the "no time for nonsense." It's definitely endemic.
There are hundreds of other little idiosyncracies that, when taken together, create a palpable sense of culture. But there are bigger things too. There's the dangerously high youth unemployment rate, country-wide, the general dissatisfaction with government and the paultry measures taken to ameliorate glaring economic issues, the various ethnic groups that are in the country illegally, and a sense, depending on who you talk to, that Italians lack the drive to pull the country out of such a state.
I don't necessarily think I'm here to perform a scathing socio-economic critique, or to run workshops on how to pull a country out of a political quagmire. But I'm definitely here to learn.
I want to embody my experience in ways that make sense to me and in ways that could possibly make sense to the world. I need to have a lens of understanding: art, writing, poetry, music...something. Some way of making sense of all of it. I just haven't figured out what that medium is. In the meantime, I'll be putting as much effort as possible into being aware, present, and treading lightly as I go.
I'm trying to figure out what I'm here to learn. I know it's something, probably a lot of things. And I want to be sure I'm learning them. I'm privileged in my ability to study abroad, I know that, so my learning becomes a necessity, rather than a luxury. I am obligated to unpack my privilege in some form or another. Or at least that's what my cyclical anxieties about being in another country seem to be telling me. Booking tickets to London on a whim conjured particularly uncomfortable feelings about what my purpose here really is.
There has been a vast amount of surface level learning that I've done already. For starters, I've learned that one's tendency to generalize swells enormously when confronted with this level of sensory input. As a result, a lot of my processing has necessarily happened in the form of "Italians do this" or "Italians do that."
For example:
Italians never seem to be in a particular rush to get anywhere. Being in a city, of course, the pace is faster than that of surrounding towns. But the "stroll,"as I've taken to calling it, is alive and well. Food really is as important as you would imagine it to be. Food is love. A significant amount of thought goes into finding, preparing, eating, and enjoying food, every single day. Dieting is not a "cool thing to try" because "why not?" Dieting happens when your health is at risk. Otherwise, proscuitto is not worth giving up. However, high-quality olive oil is one of the best things you can do for your body. And it's everywhere here. Take our usage of ketchup or ranch and times that by a couple hundred and you arrive at the role of olive oil.
When out on the street, no one wants to hear your conversations or how funny you thought that joke was. That level of interaction is almost intimate and for that reason, is reserved for the home.
No one here seems to be a sub-par driver. If you operate a motor vehicle, you are a professional motorist. Side streets are meant for speeding down, sidewalks are made for parking on, and stopping on a dime for pedestrians - bolder, even, than the drivers - is a hard and fast requirement. There is almost no emphasis on being "obedient" when it comes to rules of the road. Italians are generally hardheaded and self-righteous.
Which sort of echoes the whole prevailing principle of tough, removed, but generous love. I've found that most Italians forego the whole performance of amicable politeness, because it's a waste of time and feels just as fake as it is. But you entirely get the sense that if you were in trouble, the average person on the street would drop everything to help you. Possibly a romanticized view but I stick to my guns about the "no time for nonsense." It's definitely endemic.
There are hundreds of other little idiosyncracies that, when taken together, create a palpable sense of culture. But there are bigger things too. There's the dangerously high youth unemployment rate, country-wide, the general dissatisfaction with government and the paultry measures taken to ameliorate glaring economic issues, the various ethnic groups that are in the country illegally, and a sense, depending on who you talk to, that Italians lack the drive to pull the country out of such a state.
I don't necessarily think I'm here to perform a scathing socio-economic critique, or to run workshops on how to pull a country out of a political quagmire. But I'm definitely here to learn.
I want to embody my experience in ways that make sense to me and in ways that could possibly make sense to the world. I need to have a lens of understanding: art, writing, poetry, music...something. Some way of making sense of all of it. I just haven't figured out what that medium is. In the meantime, I'll be putting as much effort as possible into being aware, present, and treading lightly as I go.
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