Sometimes I ask: ROM.

            Class went overtime today. It almost went over an hour- but there was no place I’d rather be than listening to Dimitri Argiropoulos. He spoke no English but my eyes were still eagerly fixated on this gap-toothed guest speaker, a professor at the University of Bologna. He had a distinct smirk, and whenever he sported his smirk, I couldn’t help but smile- and at times I don’t think I should have smiled. The situation, what he was speaking of, did not call for a smile. In fact, when he spoke I didn’t need to know what he was saying to feel sadness. Emotions don’t need words.

            Professoresso Vittorrio Buffati translated for Dimitri Argiropoulos after almost every two or three sentences and my eager eyes switched their fixation from one professor to the next. Each spoke a different language, but they spoke the same story- a silenced story. This is the story of the Gypsies. Also known as Rom or Zingari or Sinti For their story to be spoken even in this classroom is a shouting of the story, of the gypsies story, of their life, of their suffering, their prevailing suffering lasting centuries and still horrifically existing and embedded in the world  (especially European word) today.

            I had heard the word “gypsies” before, and when I hear of the word I may think of Jasmine from Aladdin, or my long Indian sequined skirts I used to wear when it was fashionable to do so, and sometimes (most often) I think of the beggars on the street I saw when I fist visited Europe five years ago, they too were gapped toothed but these people were hungry and desperate.

            Never did I think of these people, these people whose history has been shunned from the world and from its very own people. Substitute Gypsies for Jews in the holocaust and the story is the same, - yet not spoken or recognized as much about- and even not at all. As a matter of fact, the gypsies were sent to concentration camps, one being Auschwitz.

            Zingari comes from the word therapy, which refers to the term “to touch.” The Greeks call the Rom the untouchables. (Ironic that the guest speaker is Greek, if it was not hinted enough by his un-anouncable last name, yet he believes these people are indeed people who can “be touched”). The word “to touch” comes from Jesus “touching” the people he cures as he performs his miracles. So I think to myself, are these people hopeless? Are they incurable?

            They want to integrate, but they are strongly denied the chance.

            The Greeks call them this because they think they are useless and thieves. Yet, they bring with them a highly esteemed migration, bringing with them the technology to build any metal tool and also work superiorly with jewels. Yet, this is just another way that the rest of the people can claim dominion over them. The Rom become present day slaves! Slavery still indeed exists this very moment! I call them Roma because this is what they call themselves. Roma means man, not as in gender, but as in “human being.” They are living human beings. This is the way they see themselves and this is the way I will see them too. Forget Jasmine, forget skirts, these are people and I would like to say they are like you and me, but they are not. They have no address, no home. Some parents hide the history of their people because it’s too horrific, too sad. Others depend on their children to beg for them. And when these children beg and someone asks them where they live they reply, “I have no home.” And it is true. They have no home, and when there “homes” are bulldozed they have nowhere to go.

             As I sat, my back against the heater of the lobby, reading articles on the gypsies the Italian students, as they always do, asked me what I was “studiando.” We began to speak of the gypsies, and once I explained to them the word, they knew exactly what I was talking about. Sara told me there was a gypsy family just one minute from school- right near the bridge in their caravan.

            I gasped inside of myself… I knew exactly whom she was talking about. Well, I had no idea about whom she was talking about, I did not know them. But, I had seen them several times the first week I was in Bologna. Their caravan- their home, had pink sheer curtains- and when one of the family members moved I could see their thin shadow move. Their dark shadow against the bright pink curtain- like their dark skin in contrast to the rest of the community who does not want them to be a part of it.

            Their clustered caravan is one caravan of many clustered caravan camps where millions of gypsies live- but do have a permanent address, and therefore cannot get jobs. The Italian Berlusconi even says that is the right of the Italian citizens to feel safe and he is therefore “bulldozing” the gypsy communities.

            The Rom want to integrate but they are not allowed too. Is it to preserve the Italian, European culture? Well, I am here. And I am not a European. I am an American. And I am not here to preserve my culture. I am here to absorb the Italian culture and simultaneously share my American culture.

            If I am here, why can’t they?

Side Notes:

(I ask questions sometimes because I do not know. I do not know, therefore I ask questions. I ask questions even if sometimes I feel I know. But I still ask anyways- sometimes just to bring attention to the question).

(Just like the class went into overtime and I did not mind, in fact I loved it, I love studying almost everything in Italy because the professors make it all so relevant to where I am or where I will be- even if I don’t know it, like my new caravan neighbors—who’s caravan actually just went missing two days ago.)

            

Note page scribbles

One morning the tree tops are white,

the next morning the tree tops are brown,

either way I cannot frown.

_________________________________

I see sequined snowflakes,

It's not snowing,

I've just had six too many caffeine intakes.

Thirsty Soil

January 29, 2011. The date of the “Inaugarazione Camplus Bologna: Anno Accademico 2010-2011.” To the Italians, it was very important and special to commence the new academic year with a celebration of education. This year the college waited for the arrival of the American students, my fellow classmates and me.

            Us Americans were given headset translators in order to understand what was being said- we all looked like we were either at a United Nations conference, or Chinese people in an American museum (or Americans in a Chinese museum).

            At one point in the 2 hour speeches the headsets loudly fuzzed up and all of us jumped out of our seats and tore those things off our heads and ears. From my seat I could see the translator- she looked like a young porcelain doll and her voice sounded just like on too (as if I’ve ever heard a porcelain doll speak). Her voice was quite, yet strong. Her voice was a whisper and she whispered into the microphones. Yet it was her whisper that loudly spoke to all of us Americans, loudly allowed us to silently participate in the celebration. Her mind heard Italian words, yet her voice spoke American words. I was hearing many things, and to no ones surprise I was avidly penning down the things that striked me. In order not to sit you here for two hours as I did, I will share with you my favorite quotes from the afternoon:

            “The world is a book and those who do not travel cannot read all of its pages.”- St. Augustine of Hippo

            “The world is a beautiful book, but of little use to him who cannot read it.”- Carlod Goldoni, an Italian playwright

            Paraphrased: “Get to know the world, but more importantly you must get to know the people.”- Lord Chesterfield

            “The more people you get to know, the more you grow up”- Tonino Bello

            “We are water, the same chemical element, yet we take on different forms.”- speaker

            “Discover many places, yet you don’t need to go to mars.”- speaker

            “Mangiare il pane de tutti paneria.” (eat the bread from all the bakeries of the world)- speaker

           

            I am not the center of the universe, I must see the universe from different perspectives. My head, my heart, and my eyes must open up. And they are opening up. I am now an international student, getting to know more people, growing up, reading the world although I do not speak all of the languages, I am learning. I am water, and I the same. I am water, and I am changing form. I am eating from the bakeries of Italy, sweet cornettos, nutella cornettos, pane dulce, and pasta! I am not afraid.

To resurrect means to discover the heart of life, the core of reality. And I must discover the center of reality, my heart.

            Regardless of political differences (which I have already first handedly and personally encountered these “political differences”) there was a nature before all of this. It is the nature that makes us familiar. This word, familiar” makes me think of the word “family”- this makes us family, it makes us related, it makes us relative to each other- we can all relate to each other in some way. We are all international.

            Another speak that afternoon said that each of us already has a small seed but we need others and fertile ground to grow up. Teachers, parents, friends, and even strangers are this fertile ground. Call me thirsty soil, I want to sprout. I want to grow. I want to blossom.

(Side note: the University of Bologna is the most ancient university of the world! What a place to learn, grow and blossom!)

BRING IT ON! ICE ICE BABY!

January 31, 2011

            I love waking up to snow- and to a million shots of Italian espresso. ‘Tis could not be truer. The espresso warms me while the snow chills me (and to a certain degree numbs me from my fingertips to my toes).

            After a sweet night’s slumber of some five hours I woke and unconsciously slid the unfashionable navy/teal curtain to the side. I slid it back as the sight seemed as always- some green life, our outdoor refrigerated goods and Hilary’s bricked and metal encaged window. I stretched and yawned- Chelsea jumped out of bed and squealed. SNOW! What!?! I peered out the window, this time being more observant, being more awake. ‘Tis could not be truer! Snow sweetly sang from the heavens down to our window! Chelsea and I- without thinking, obviously- ran out in our pajamas and rain boots and out into the snow. It was soft, and I pushed my hands through the snow cloud…and tasted it too (as well as attempting at making a snowball and plummeting it to Chelsea’s behind, but she got me first). We ran to the playground near campus- a playground indeed- for two southern gals who treat snow like an Italian would treat a hot day at the beach in January. (one is more usual than the other)

            We “made” a snowman. More like we made a snow mush and called him a man. He sported my pink gloves, which I could no longer put on because they were wet and frosted. Like my naked hands. And my toes. And my nose. My pink pajama pants were wet as I slid down a snow-covered slide- and turned my butt a shocking pink. We ran back into the lobby and I sat my butt on the heater for fifteen minutes as I trembled- and the Italians trembled in laughter- at me and probably my childish stupidity. They sat in the lobby in t-shirts and watched the snowfall from indoors- I laughed as soon as I got feeling back, and they called me Miami.

….

            From hot to cold in 20 minutes. Icy Hot Baby. This morning was just a test-, which I could not tell you if I passed or failed. The snowman was definitely a fail. A fun fail.

            I was tested once again this afternoon and this time I could tell you I passed- Mark, Chelsea, Gia and I all passed. I put on my Roma jersey (with the warmest cashmere sweater underneath of course), wool socks, gloves, headband warmer, coat, jeans and rain boots. I was ready- so I thought, for the Bologna vs. Roma partido de futbol! Mark, Chelsea and I trotted through the snow all the way to the bus station, where we ran into Domenico and his friend who are on the junior soccer league for Bologna. They nicely, and as best as they could in their English, told us where to get off at the stadium and we went all the way to the stadium with them and then departed as we went to the curbside and they went to the locker room of the players. The second they left, we were lost. It took us about three attempts to find the correct entrance- the curbside where Todd testifies is the “rowdier” section. Snow was still falling and my toes were numbing.

            The second we entered the stadium and found seats- God blessingly under a partial roof- I ran to get some coffee. Something warm. Once back at my seat, I could not feel my toes- but that was partially because the beauty of this stadium distracted me. It was not a beautiful stadium- well to Mark it was probably the most beautiful thing he has seen in all of Italy. Fine, I must say this stadium had a beautiful bell tower. But besides that, the red and blue fans, waving their scarves in the falling snow, singing chants, and popping alarming smoke bombs made the stadium ignite in a beautiful light. I could not believe I was at an Italian soccer game, the snow falling, the players warming up (in snow!) and I was just sitting there, sipping on coffee, tapping my feet to not loose feeling, and taking it all in. Several times I felt like I could not make it, it was way to cold! I couldn’t feel my feet, seriously. I was going to do it, I was going to make it. Woooo! The game started!...and then fifteen minutes later and no goals made later the game was cancelled due to unplayable conditions because of the snow! I’ll still tell you this was the best game I have ever been too! All the Italians sarcastically asked if I had fun and I non-sarcastically replied that I had the time of my life! Because I did.

            …and poor Gia had arrived at the 14^th minute of the game after spending 20 euros on a taxi to get there and slipped on her way to the taxi. Now with the additional friend in tow, we trucked back to the bus station. I danced while waiting for the bus to arrive. I danced with snow- but with the reason being I had to keep my body in motion before I turned into an ice sculpture.

The lobby of the Collegio Alma Mater and the bus rides seem to be the best classrooms. I met an older Italian man named Ricardo who spoke no English and next to him I met a sixteen your old Italian Bologna fan named Carlo who spoke four languages. I learned from the both of them, one I learned by talking to him and the other I learned by observing him. The older man was retired but he used to be a mechanic for tutti- for everything- he reminded me a lot of my grandfather Ito. Retired and enjoying his life, not letting age matter. Carlo was studying languages and he was as brilliant as his grey eyes. He taught me about Malta being another country! A fact I was not aware of but glad to learn- and they speak English there! Carlo also informed me that we could get refunded for our bigliettes (tickets) for the next Bologna game in a couple days. Bring it on! That referring to the futbol teams and the weather- cus now I know to dress warmer! 

Cafe'-nated

          The “Collegio Alma Mater” lobby turned into an indoor soccer field this evening after dinner. A couple nights ago it was a card game room, and a couple nights before that it was the room where Chelsea and I first walked into to be greeted by Hillary to welcome us to Bologna and that same night it was where I first met some of the greatest Italian teachers, my friends (Italian and non Italian), and people. (The “Collegio Alma Mater” lobby will always be a butt warming car seat heater- as many people (mostly Chelsea and I, warm our butts by sitting on the buildings heater tubes.)

            I was the monkey in the 3 on 1 soccer game against Claudio, Marco and one other Italian guy. Thinking I was a girl and at a disadvantage I proved them wrong. Short, fast and furious…Like at the gym too. Tonight the gym turned into a “distcoteca” as Chelsea, Stacey, Lee, and myself were joined by Steffano, Giovanni and Paul and had an ipod war between American music and Italian music. Both had Lady Gaga.

            And I felt like ga-ga-ing as I was waaaaaay over caffeinated today- but, as I will defend myself- it was my compiti’ (homework) to do so.

            I have described Bologna as a treasure, and my being here a treasure hunt. Well, today it was literally true. “Cultural Friday” as the name goes for the so called “schooling” I do here, called for a treasure hunt to a bar, interviewing thee barista, and taking pictures and then walking to another bar and meeting up with the professoressa Lorenza and the other students to be interviewed about our findings and observations.

            My partner Jackie probably regretted her decision (actually she told me she did…jokingly… I think) to be my partner the second we turned down the first street… into the market! I tried on a sequin dress top and poodle skirt and made her take some snapshots! And then told her to get dressed up for her photoshoot. She did not like the idea and disagreed. I tried to get her to take some “scavenger hunt” like pictures, but once again she did not like the idea. We sprinted off to find our assigned caffe’…halfway across the world! But once we arrived it was well worth the glamorous café’ and the mouth watering (more like mouth burning café’)…where we ordered due cappuccino and Jackie orded a rice pudding cake of some sort. We observed an old man spill his coffee…and then made up the rest of our observations…

            Once we traveled halfway across the world again and into the second bar, Lorenza asked us to order in Italian another beverage- once again, due cappuccino with chocolate! Delitzioso! That would be my second cappuccino in the hour...and for breakfast I had 2 espressos. Which were both double’s. so that’s 6 coffee’s in 2 hours. I was speedwalking Bologna. But, Jackie and I discovered some more beautiful, glamorous, some tiny and “antique” as our caffeinated bodies booked Bologna’s borders. And to settle my bodies caffeinated convulsions I fed it a chocolate croissant (cornetto) for lunch. Oh Bologna! I mean Oh Cappucinoes and Cornettoes!

FOOLS GOLD!

Chelsea Audibert’s blog..

Is that 50 euro??

     This study abroad is full of its comical and occasionally dramatic moments.  With 27 American college students out on their own everyday in Italy, there are bound to be…I’ll just call them special memories.  In the last week i FINALLY began all my classes, traveled to Verona, mixed with the Alma Mater studenti, and learned some useful Italian.  The side-splitting occasions though occur at the day’s unsuspected times. 

       Today I was exploring Bologna with some friends. One friend ate the “local delicacy” of Kebab, another savored the vision of narrow Bologna backstreets, and the other delighted in wandering through the immense outdoor market.  This last friend, we’ll call her Carolina Dominguez to protect her identity, was so excited about shopping in the market that there was no way any lack of euro would hold her back. In fact, when Carolina spotted a 50 euro note on the ground, she called dibs. Honestly, who couldn’t use 5o  euro, especially with the wretched exchange rate? Wait, did I say ground? I meant to say it was in the DRAIN! Carolina stuffed her hand as far as she could through the drain cover, but she couldn’t seem to reach the bill. One of the lady vendors offerred her a stick to gain a better reach to the money.  All the while the Italians were craning their necks every which way to see what this pazza was doing. We, her American comrades, only hid amidst a rack of clothes and denied our association. But at last, the 50 emerged from the gunk (I will avoid details). Carolina waved the 5o with definitive satisfaction, but only was it as she held the money in the air that she noticed…it was a fake!!!! The trick bill had been planted by a vendor for his own entertainment purposes. I love Bologna.

End of Chelsea’s blog…

My further blogging on the “situation”

Fool’s Gold:

After shyly being embarrassed a so thought symapthetic man came up to me and said he would give me 50euro if I could guess what hand it was in…and to my despair I guessed…and GOT IT RIGHT!...so I got… you guessed it…another fake 50euro bill. It makes for a great souvenir (and this one is not covered by manure and diseased).

            I once heard a saying that goes, “fooled you once, you’ve been fooled, fool you twice, you’re the fool.” I guess I’m a fool- but not again.

            I thought Chelsea was asleep but ironically she just said, “you know..we (or maybe she said you) should have known that bill was fake because the chances of a bill falling at the right angle, into a slim ditch is almost impossible.” Yeah, now we can think about the scientific reasons as to why I’m a fool.

            I take that back... I am no fool. The exchange rate IS ridiculous. That could almost amount to plane ticket to Malta!

(Side note to Kristin Sanfilipino.: THANKS FOR THE HAND SANITIZER!!!)

La Bella Vita

On actually doing some homework besides l’italiano…

                        “…Thou mayest fashion thyself in whatever shape thou shalt prefer.” Giovanni Picco della Mirandola,

            Mirandola was an ingenious and daring Renaissance philosopher and represents God giving permission to every human being in a way that sharply reflects a departure from the “helpless sense of medieval humanity” into a sense of human beings being able to aspire and create themselves.

            The era before the middle ages, commonly known as the “Dark Ages” was a time when people strictly followed what they knew- and they knew what they knew simply because that’s the way it was. “The way it was” meaning that other people believed things- and so did the rest of them. These people had one collective brain.

            Thank goodness for the discovery of the “Age of Discovery” where each human being was capable of being “each,” an individual human being. A hive of honey bees buzz into one queen bee- where everyone was the queen bee of their own hive, of themselves- their body, mind and soul.

            This “Age of Discovery” as you may have heard it otherwise described as the “rebirth” is the Renaissance- where there was a fantastic realm of possibility to all those who could perceive it..

            And this is my age of discovery as I discover all the fantastic realms of the world- specifically now Europe. I am not saying that the “era” of my life was the dark ages and I am now being reborn into a brighter life. As I think of every period in my life, they have all been bright times, some more illuminated and some more dim… but all nonetheless brilliantly beautiful.

            Just like the people of the Renaissance acknowledged their own capacities as a human being- so I am too. I am capable, even at (I shriek when I say this…) twenty years old, to learn a new language. I am in awe with the language, as I am with the country.

            I must create myself, as an individual. I came here alone to study- to feed my brain and mind and soul (not only with croissants and cappuccino’s)- and to feed my hungering for newness, for new ways to create myself and learn who I am.

            Burchandart once said the Renaissance was “the discovery of the world and of men.” Not only must I discover the world, but I must discover my self as a human (man).

            Saint Francis called the attention to the beauty of the world and all things in it… and as I am “discovering” the world, and myself I am being called to see how both things are beautiful. Bella. Bella vita.

            (Side note: I love on a street called Bella Vista… only after typing “Bella Vita” did I notice the extreme similarity between the two…the world is my home and it is a bella vita.

Giocare!

January 27, 2011

            I study Italian everyday. I read my notebook, I read my textbook every day. But, without opening a book and without reading or taking notes, I have learned just as much or even more. You can sit here and learn as you live- learning from the Italians, learning from Italy. Or you can sit here and live and not learn-You can stick to your American ways. Standing or sitting, it doesn’t matter- you can learn either way. But it depends how you think when you sit or stand. You can be an American but you have to pretend you are an Italian- pretending takes work, but it works. Let yourself struggle with language, let yourself struggle in conversation, let yourself get lost in the language. It will work…            Just like getting around in this cita’ (city). Bologna is a treasure and getting around Bologna is like a treasure hunt. Sure, the streets are not as abundantly beautiful as the blossoming streets of Verona, but there are beautifully bella streets you will find, if you find them- purposefully or without trying too. It is like a treasure hunt. You will smell your way into these hidden streets- follow the rich cheesy odor (perhaps down a real life street called Macorni) and you will enter a little cheese shop, adorned with flowers in the front and salami for sale.

            My dad always told me to ask questions at school, always ask good questions- and he always said any question is a good question. My father was always right. In this school of “life” where I am a student, in class and out of class, I am always asking questions…my favorite question of “yeri” (yesterday) was “for real?”…

            Chelsea, Mark (who’s brain is always on the soccer field) and I went to Banc Carisbo to buy our soccer tickets for the Bologna vs. Roma soccer game this Domenica (Sunday)! Yes, you must purchase your ticket at a bank and have your passport… talk about tight security. To enter the bank you must enter a time machine tube and be deported into the banks building. Chelsea and Mark entered the tubes first and I became scared when the tube would not open for me. I thought I was being left behind to become Italian history…

            …I finally entered and purchased my ticket…for 10 euro! Marks was 20 euro. And this is when I was informed that a “donnas” (woman’s) ticket is half the price of a mans ticket... thus my question of “for real!?” (In English)…the female bank teller laughed and said yes.

            Funny I’m a “Donna” (woman vs. child) because right after purchasing the ticket we walked back to the Piazza Maggiore where I bought a Bologna jersey!! (which took a lot of effort to figure out how to say that in Italian!) I bought the bambino set, (childrens set) which came with a pair of official shorts and a jersey (which is still quite on the large side) but definitely a lot smaller in price compared to one adult jersey. Looks like my little brother Manny’s getting another great gift…after I wear it to the game, and to la mensa (as I did last night to dinner), and to class and to play cards. Giocare! (Let’s Play!)

Conversation confusion keeps continuing my knowledge

January 26, 2011

Ho venti anni. Ho venti ani.

One say’s I am twenty years old and the other says I have twenty “butts.” I learned this quite important distinction down in the recreation room as I was doing my Italian homework with Meri, when Giussepe leaned over to see what I was learning. Hearing this Italian chuckle, I looked over to Meri who then started chuckling as well. After a conversation between my two Italian tutors Meri informed me that I had written “Hello my name is Carolina Dominguez and I have twenty “butts.”

            Ciao, mi nome e’ Carolina Dominguez and I now know the importance of spelling.

            But I do not stand alone. In an attempt to tell Kristin and I of his family, Giorgio who’s always saying “In English you please speak slowly”- he told us his daughter had a son… Giorgio is nineteen years old but looks like he’s seventeen. And his daughter had a son!?! Non e. No way. His sister had a son.  Yes Giorgio, in English you too please speak slowly.

            In speaking and spelling and sound there is a difference even if subtly. In Verona, I accidently asked a lady at the gelateria where her nipples were… I thought I was asking her where the castle was! Thank the almighty Lord there was a local Veronian teenager who quickly cleared things up for the both of us.

            Conversation confusion keeps continuing my knowledge.  

Parable Preacher

January 25, 2011

Parable preacher, one who preaches parables. After concocting this word pair during English class I wrote in my notebook “I am not a parable preacher”- for I say am not learning by the stories people tell me, I am learning by experiencing the life stories I live, the stories I lead as the main character. Yet, although it is my own life and I am the “main character” I learn sometimes by being the audience, an observer into where I stand.

            Like today in the piazza San Maggiore of Bologna, Italia. Our professoressa Elizabetta took us back into what the piazza was like centuries ago. All we had to do was stand in the middle of the square and each time our head turned, so did time.

            We were recreating with our minds and with the knowledge we were gaining and seeing, the Middle Ages and the Renaissance period of Bologna.

            The San Petronio church, whose façade is now in restoration, is constructed with several different materials and stone, I believe at the very bottom it started to be built with marble and then later on when funding ran out, brick was it’s main backbone. Just like the different materials, the entire piazza is imbued with different periods of culture.

            San Petronio is not an extremely remarkable saint to many people- but to the people of Bologna he is one of the most remarkable saints. I did not know who he was, nor did I ever hear of him. Although I do not know his entire history, I know a little bit more about his history and the history of Bologna. To many people Bologna may not be an extremely remarkable place- but to me it is extremely remarkable.

            I learned the council of Trent took place in Bologna- but that is not even the slightest silver lining as to what makes it spectacular. I was feeling absolutely miserable and had to hold myself from crying, from trembling due to the terrible cold. My fingers went numb and I could no longer- as I was- avidly writing almost every piece of information that professoressa Elizabetta was saying… I started off writing with the most ancient piece in the entire plaza- the towers…and I lost track of history, or more well said.. I lost track of writing it all down like a historian- the cold did not allow me to write, it ferociously froze my fingers.            

            The second we entered San Petronio’s church I ran to the votive candles and warmed my face and hands- Bologna’s history will not change or go anywhere and I had to take care of my numb body- because it was numbing my mind. I could only think how cold it was. God bless the people who lit those votive candles, I will pray for you.

            ...I did keep my ears as open as I could and heard…something about the 13^th century feudalism houses being destroyed and buildings were built for the government, there are churches for the municipality and churches for the Bishop- San Petronio is for the municipality…something about the Arengo balcony where the representative of Bologna excited the people where the tower was but it was destroyed too…something about the rich Acursio family who had an immense palace- which to me seemed like a museum- this family’s palace had a tower which was usually a symbol of defense, but this family’s tower symbolized only power…the government bought the palace and was there until just last year! Until 2010!...We also saw the Banci- like bank- with just tables for money exchange as there were different currencies in every town of Italy and a lot of students came to Bologna- like me now in 2011. The pope came to Bologna in 1580 and Bologna was the second, right after Rome, to become part of the Roman Church! The pope thought the square was not a proper representation of the new power…I feel as if I’m just blabbing information I learned to today- a leaking sponge.

            Now I know when I walk the streets attached to the market, as which most are- as Todd explained to me on my first day in Bologna- the city is like a spin wheel, everything spinning from the center. If everything spins from this Piazza- it is all a beautiful and historically prominent place. I now know the street names are representative of what was sold down them centuries ago- Villa Clavatura- keys were sold. Villa Piaschere- fish.

            I’ve been told before that I’m a bird- it was an old lady in the doctors office where I worked this summer. In Verona I was told I was a bird, I forgot the exact name, but nonetheless I was called a bird. I think it was because I was wearing a hairy hat- or maybe because I don’t care to spread my wings and soar to wherever I want to go. I flew to Verona and perched where I wanted too.

            Elizabetta pointed out the frescos in the church. Now I spot them out wherever I go… down the Bologna streets on the walls, in churches, on my eyelids when I close my eyes to sleep. The frescos in the church- people couldn’t read but they knew all about the bible because they could see the stories being played. How beautiful, how brilliant.

            Yet, as I am eagerly learning in my English class (and really enjoying the first authors wild writings BOCCACCIO!) the printing press made literature more attainable and I think about the first book ever published… Huckleberry Fin! My mother read that book to my sisters and I when we were little as a bedtime story. I think about all the books before Huckleberry Fin, pages and pages long, written by hand. I cannot complain if my hands get cramped by the cold, or even from typing.

            I hope my preaching parables, as I realize I am a parable preacher through my printings, are indeed parable preachings.

            (And I do learn by parables… whether the Bible on Sundays or even the parables of my families and friends..As I have “the envelope” my family wrote on under my laptop in between the computer and case, so it is with me as I write my own parables)

true woman: NAFISA

January 24, 2011

            FUTBOL! FUTBOL! FUTBOL! I just played my very first Italian soccer game! Stefano and I versus Chelsea and Antonio! Due (two) games tied one win and one loss! After breakfast they asked us to play and after enjoying my nutella croissant and chocolate ferme, I zipped up my boots and headed down the stairs to the playing field- the rec center foosball table. Stefano and me dominated the first round and chinqu-ed (high-fived) at each score. CHINQUE!

            SCUOLA! SCUOLA! SCUOLA! I am actually that enthusiastic about school, classes, here. As I have already said, I feel like I have a passionate drive, rather than a forced ruling, to learn. One class today and the rest of the day is mine- to continue learning. Social Justice taught by Vittorio Buffati, who will not respond to professor because he is not used to it.

            About an hour into class I dozed out of the window…well, my mind did…

Simple Soul: Andiamo

            The clouds move

            But the blue stays

            The birds fly

            But the trees stay

            My boots walk

            The italian boot stays

            The world changes

            And I do not stay

            Clouds, birds, boots

            Let’s move, let’s fly, let’s walk

            Andiamo

            But do not worry blue, do not worry trees, do not worry italian boot

            I will not forget you

            You move with me

                        You move in me

Brewing Beat

Italian coffee, you beat in me

Beating me beautifully

Beat me beautifully

Heart beat

You are the heart of me

Beautifully

Italy.

I have a passion for English class and Italian class but I have a curious, eager feeling about this social justice class. Although my mind went for a walk, I ran back when our first speaker of the class walked in: NASIFA.

            Nasifa is a beautiful young woman. Slender, with beautiful big pecan eyes and wavy black silk for hair- she has several strands of grey shining hair. She is wise, beautifully wise. She calls herself “lucky” to be here in Italy. She calls herself “a lucky Afghan woman,” those three words- Afghan, lucky, and woman- never supposed to be spoken together as they are never supposed to be related. Not to Nasifa. She is all three.

            She is one of 3 or 4 Afghan woman living in Italy, “a growing minority” according to Vittorio Bufetti. She once again calls herself lucky to be meeting American students. We are the lucky ones, the blessed and privileged ones I begin to think…but, as she continues trying to talk to us while Vittorio serves as a translator, I realized all of us here are blessed.

            She tells how Afghanistan is a sick country, the people are sick, there is war, “the people are living but they are not.” For a woman to go outside her home she must be accompanied by a man and hidden by her burca. A woman could not go outside without a burca completely covering her body- a symbol of culture NOT religion. (The Taliban imposed by force the wearing of the Burca for women).

            Really,” she says, “really lots of difficulties for woman.” The majority of these women are in this situation and for 50 years there has been no progress, just stepping back for the woman. But not for Nafisi.

            She says if a man or husband does not beat his wife “he is not man!” A woman should be perfect- and perfect means doing what her husband, father, brother wants. I don’t understand why she laughed when she said this.

I tell myself at this point, “Nafisi please don’t be sorry about not being able to speak English- you are telling me so much.” Yet, she wants to say more. I wish she knew how much she was telling me, how much she was teaching me, how much she was inspiring me…how much I wanted to tell her how brave she is.

            She escaped to Pakistan with her family when she was 15 years old- 2 parents, 5 sisters, 2 brothers. (I should (for dramatic effect) say 2 parents, 2 brothers and 5 sisters because males come before females- but that is not how Nafisi said it). She studied in Pakistan and never imagined herself being in Italy until she arrived here.. kind of like me, yet not at all. She says she is a second class because male should be first. To me she is royalty- wearing a crown of self-mined gold.

            She cannot believe she has this ability to be in Italy (like me, yet not at all)- now studying chemical engineering, what she really wants to study, although she lost several years of studying when she studied medicine- because her dad mandated her too.

            “Non credevo I am in Italy”- Nasifa.

            In Afghanistan a woman can go nowhere alone. In Italy I cannot either- but atleast we are free. Her father did not approve of her coming to Italy. Mine did. Thank you papi, thank you so much.

            Women are thinking human beings with intellectual capacity, but are not recognized as so in Afghanistan. Here we can all see that Nafisa is beyond brilliant, beyond a regular thinking woman, beyond regular intellectual capacity.

            Her second eldest sister was disobedient- brilliantly disobedient. Nasifa and her, she says, are very similar.  Her sister was strong enough, brave enough, to find her way out of home. She is now married to a doctor and living in London. Her 2 other sisters married young and are now 17 and 20, married to the men of their fathers choice, living in Cabo. The eldest of the sisters saw Nafisas’ drive and told her father that since she could not go away and study- as did the second eldest who was only able to study to become a mathematics school teacher at her father’s demand- she told her father to send Nafisa to study instead,

            90-95% of women are illiterate in Afghanistan. They do not even know what their rights are- and so goes their fathers and husbands to choose the outcomes of their lives. But not Nafisa.

            What made her go, how did she know her rights? She was strong, like her older sister she was disobedient too and did not listen to her father. She wanted to study- but her father demanded she could not for the family would be spoken about if she did something women were not to do. Finally, Nafisa worked her gem and was able to study- only to become a mathematics schoolteacher for children. In secrecy she married a doctor.

            Nafisa speaks to her father, but not like she used too. He tells her that since she is able to work and make money she must send her some. She visits for two months a year. But, it is not the same. Nafisa is not the same. Now, I am not the same.

dulce' dia?

             If I had to match a song with today, or a song lyric, it would be the M.I.A lyrics “lazy days galang galang yeah” but I’d also add right after that line “lazy days galang galang noo.” Today has been a “salt and pepper my mango” (also M.I.A lyric) kind of day. A little shake of salt and pepper on a mango…like a little spice on a calm day. Or more like a sprinkle of paremsiano on my pasta Bolognese…

            Chelsea and I woke up at 2 in the afternoon! Due! Although my psychology professor Royce Simpson taught me that one cannot make up for the loss of sleep, called “sleep debt” I will say that last night’s total of fourteen hours of sleep was a make up for the previous nights 4 hour sleep night and a days worth of walking and soaking in the breathtaking streets of Verona.

            Today has been a simply delicious day. Mark, Lee, Elle, Kristin, Chelsea and I changed out of our pajamas and into a new day’s clothing for a new SUNNY day in Bologna. Today has been the brightest of days thus far in this city and we all walked following the rays of the sun- all the way down the main streets, passing all the places CLOSED on Sundays- cibo cibo cibo is all we were looking for. Cibo=food. La mensa is closed on Sundays at the Collegio Alma Mater as well as is almost everything in Bologna- except Il ristorante Zamboni where we all found ourselves seated, devouring our pastas, pizzas and paninis. One glance at the menu and I knew what I wanted- something Bolognese- Bolognese must be something from Bologna, the picture looks good. Done- oh yeah, plus a cappuccino. (Todd says it is not normal for people to order cappuccinos mid day, only at breakfast- I guess I’m not normal, or I guess this was my breakfast…but I don’t think it is normal to have pasta for breakfast either. Oh well. It was all very delicious).

            The evening, as I am enjoying with some wine in my Ferrare adorned Coca-Cola light  bottle- while I sit next to mark smushed by Elle and Kristin and Hillary’s doors where the wi-fi is the best- has been a delightful day. I was privately tutored by all the Italian students- most especially by Meri and Giuseppe- as I did all my Italian homework and more. I practiced all my verbs, conjugations, alphabet, months and numbers. I am an eager kindergartener student in the eyes of the other Italian students studying engineering and law. But I could not be happier and more eager to learn Italian. I read my book before bed and Chelsea believes I have soooo much Italian homework- but I do not. I just really love the newness of a new language. I love learning a new word. I love learning the language. I feel this longing to learn the language- as if it were a longing I’ve longed for forever. But in reality, I feel more of a longing just now- in Italy more than at home when I did my discs. Now that I am immersed with Italian students- a Bologna blessing of studying here in Bologna rather than in Florence where there are millions of international people- not just the locals- who I am really getting to know here. (Like I now know Giuseppe is non-pasiente?).

 Io amo, tu ami, lui/lei ama, noi amiamo, voi amate, lor amanno. ITALIA!

            I am a pastellito in a croissant shop surrounded by other croissants. 411: Pastelito is a Cuban pastry...Croissant is an Italian pastry. Yet, this little guava pastelito wants to learn all about the nutella inside of the croissants….

            Just like I learned how to play poker… in italian! Hard enough to learn poker in English and yet I still won! Bravo! I had no idea what I was doing…this is where I learned that Giuseppe had no patience. 

            Giuseppe is very hard to read- just like the Italian language is at times. Yet, he tells me is a poet and tonight he wrote a poem on my arm at Dragon Pub where Kristin, Sarah and I went out with all the Italian guys and Meri. It was as delightful as the two glasses of wine I sipped on from different places Antonio ordered for me. It was “fredo” (cold) outside but it did not bother me as we were walking back to Collegio Alma Mater where Kristin and I hung out with Matia, Meri, Antonio, Giuseppe and Girogio Lucca. Conversations at the pub and in the room are mini lessons for me- lessons of the language and of the people. They are my teachers as I am theirs. We are all learning.

Verona...Bologna...THE TIME OF MY LIFE

January 22, 2011

            People will tell you “have the time of your life,” especially when you embark on something really special- like studying abroad in Europe.  People did tell me, but they didn’t have to- it didn’t really even hit me when they told me or still tell me. What hits me is when I realize I AM HAVING THE TIME OF MY LIFE. The Verona wind was still and chill, but it knocked me out of my boots!

I’d like to dive into describing my day as a vagabond Verona princess…but, first I’m going to slowly swim into last nights "shinding". “CHELSEA CHELSEA CAROLINA CAROLINA….” The romantic roars of Italian men shouting Chelsea’s and my name was heard while we were next door in Elle and Kristin’s room with Mark and Lee sipping on wine as we were waiting to head downstairs to the Rec room for a graduation party for Francesco. Nope, we don’t know who Francesco is…just yet. And we don’t know any of the Italian men shouting our names either. Our names our posted on our door over a magazine ad of “La pasta fresche.” Fresche men indeed. Francesco, graduation guy, was wearing a polizia hat and put it on my head and we all headed down the hall and down the stairs of Alma Mater Collegio to, well to have the time of our lives.

            Oh what a night! A school party has never been so fun; in fact a party has NEVER been so fun! The Italian students worked the bar and the “concierge guy” at the front entrance of the school was the rocking DJ (who started off the night with hp 90’s and 2000’s American songs) then played some salsa? And then finally italiano! But, there was a half time show consisting of the Italian Beach Boys- full out in bathing suits and hula leis- singing “Hotel California” to Francesco with their own lyrics. Francesco studied in California…good song pick. Chelsea, Gia, Kristin and I were dancing the night away and all the Italian guys wanted me to dance with Francesco so next thing I know, I’m singing Hotel California with the “Beach Boys” and dancing with the graduation man. He held a gnome over his head (yes, I am wondering why as well) and a huge pitcher of home made wine in his hand- and apparently “this is ‘IT’aly!” initiation to have the wine spilled all over you! (Just ask Gia, Chelsea or me…we smelled and tasted like wine the entire night). No problems. I danced the night away and was even carried and thrown in the air- as several others were. I danced with an anonymous Italian man, although I wish it was Victorio the II. Gia and I were parched and in need of water- not wine this time- and Giorgio Lucca offered to get us a bottle of water and we ended up with Mari and several other Italian guys who liked Chegevarra- I told them I was Cuban and the conversation quickly ended. Wine was running through my veins and on me- literally. I had been initiated. As the wine stung my eyes, I was falling even more in love with Italy. My eyes have been poisoned with the greatest venom- wine.

            Speaking of… Oh Juliet Capulet “what did you ever do to a man that he killed himself over!?”- Chelsea Audibert en route to Verona, Italy home of the Casa di Giulietta while I avidly poured my heart out into a letter I would leave at the casa. The quote was Chelsea’s attempt at composing a letter as well.

            Chelsea, Elle, Kristin, Mark, Lee and myself woke up four hours after going to bed- bought a one way ticket to Verona and headed off on train to the most incredulous city! Exhausted I was to get up at first- but now I am so much more awake and alive and enriched. I am exhausting myself but am wide-awake.

            I had second thoughts about blogging this letter, but a second thought turned into my blogging it- if the ladies of Giulette (or a stranger who picks up my letter) reads it I than anyone can. (I kept my rough rough and rough draft):

           

            Dear Juliet,

                        I read Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet as a freshman in high school. I was fifteen years old at the time and am now venti (twenty) years old.

                        When I was fifteen I didn’t know what love was (besides the love of my family and friends). Do I know what love is now? I wish I could tell you. I could tell you I believe I’ve fallen in love twice- but then that makes me wonder what makes the “love of your life” so different than your other “loves?”… “How do you know?”

            “How do you know” may seem like a childish question- and maybe I’m still a child to love- but children have the biggest, loving hearts. Whether or not they know what love is makes me wonder if that is why they are so loving- because they don’t need a concrete answer, they just love.

            My mom tells me I’ll know, and my mother is my Juliet- a beautiful loving wife turned into a selflessly loving mother. I trust her, but I guess I’m just scared- like a child.

            Each love is different for it is a different relationship. Both of my loves have been different. Both of them having been loving. And I’ve loved them both dearly. Both differently.

            Love is a whole heart made of two people’s hearts- and I always give my heart wholeheartedly to the people I love. Sometimes I give so much that I feel I’ve lost balance between being able to explore, create, find myself as an individual and I end up feeling and finding that I won’t allow myself to gain from the relationship and fully loving the person.

            So I guess my question to you is, oh Giulietta (as I have learned to spell your proper name), “How do you know…this love is for the both of us?”

                        Sinceriamenti,

Carolina M. Dominguez

Okay, so I really don’t think my “question” was what I was really aiming to ask but I felt like I needed to ask her a question- just like in the movie. And just like my friend Megan did. She e-mailed me her letter and I folded hers and mine together and was ready to hand them over to the ladies…until we finally arrived (what awe!) and it cost too much to do so and nobody really did it! I was determined thought. After touching Giulietta’s left (not right) golden breast…and laughing at Mark and Lee and the other men who did) I found a wooded door to the castle and partially slipped our letters under. I took a picture and left it to whoever found them to do what they liked- hopefully respond! (Everyone knows love). On the way out of the “casa” I founded a better little nook by the door and ran back to where I had left the letters, grabbed them and replaced them in this so perceived better location for someone to find. (P.S: Megan, I did my best and I hope we get responses from someone, anyone!)

            On the train, I was conversing about my love life to the girls- love life. Love is life- whatever love it may be, most importantly- love your life. Let your own life stand out to you- like the little mamey colored houses we passed on the train that stood out “on the infinitely green grass” of Italy- even in wintertime. It is quite baffling how even Florida grass does not maintain such vivacity and God given green-ness (ps: Mi amico alliteration! –I love alliteration!)

            I finished my straccieleta gelato- my first Gelato thus far!! While in Giulietta’s castle- I found myself devouring both the castle and the place. Chelsea and I stopped for gelato at Andrea’s (a man) gelato shop. He was a lovely man with lovely gelato. We saw him later on strolling the streets and he stopped us, recognized us and wished us a wonderful afternoon in Verona- the people are so wonderful here (except in the train station, but I think that implies to any train station anywhere in the world).

            I wore my great grandmother’s self-knitted hat the entire day- and I almost lost her 99 times (about as many times as the years she lived!) Thankfully she returned home with me- it’s hard to keep track of that shaggy ol' gal. Kind of like me today… I stopped to take some pictures of works of art that reminded me of my sisters (a ballerina for Ali and two little angels- me and Sofia) and all of a sudden the group of “successful first time train riders to an Italian city” were out of sight! I stopped, looked at a fountain- and then silently prayed “Dear Saint Anthony I AM LOST please help me be found” So St. Anthony pushed me forward and I began to walk, the speed walk, the sprint- my great grandmother waving on my head about to fall off- when I see Kristin and Elle laughing at me- and then I began to laugh too! More out of relief. Alessandra and Sofia, see what you do to me!

            That left me out of breathe- unlike the 368 steps down (we took the elevator up, and me, Lee and Elle were the only ones to not take it down) of the Torre dei Lambert. While elevorating or walking up and down the tunnel you can see the different materials used- tuff, brick, marble. It is the highest tower of Verona and a Veronese poet and writer called Simenoi wrote about the tower: “It is a thin light that heights its solemnity to assert the most clarion call to the beauty and life of a Verona, collected under her maternal protection.”

            Standing on the bridges of Verona were just as illuminating as standing atop the tower! Some regatzza in the gelato shop told us Verona is a city of 9 bridges- like Bologna is of towers.

            I’ve said before in my head, or even in my journal, that sometimes I feel like crying because the world is so beautiful and there is not enough time to see it. Today I did not think there was never enough time to see the world- I was seeing the world without time (ironic we hadn’t bought our return ticket yet). And my heart was crying because my eyes were seeing what my heart was feeling- Verona: Victorian, marble, clean, enchanting, love-ly, painters, gelaterias, Andrea’s, school children on the bus- so blessed school children to learn from this city!, fake guards at the castle who invited Chelsea to lunch and me to coffee- (I whacked his very own sword against his golden plastic abs).

            My heart felt so big in Verona- it was so full of Verona- My heart hurts writing about it now, it is still so full of Verona. It will always be full of Verona.

            We entered Verona following an arrow to the buses. We were following our unknown desires. We never payed a bus for the rides- no locals did- but we paid to use the restrooms. The buses took us everywhere our legs did not (and let me tell you…our legs took us all over and far... even Elle in her wedged boots!...although she took a breather at Mark’s one must visit stop- the soccer stadium, which after finally seeing said “well, that was the crappiest stadium I’ve seen.”- Oh what a laugh. That was the only “crappy” part and it was still nice. I found a set of books, OH MY MY TREASURE! “TRASHCAN TREASURE”- as Elle called it. I resorted to keeping the smallest book, as to be able to keep it forever and always and have it fit with my things on the way home (how sad). The book is titled “Idea Bambino-Le favole de mangiare”- a children’s cooking book that turns food into lovely creations- like penguins- for children. I read it on the bus- it helped me clear up some Italian words surprisingly- but didn’t lead me to appetize any of the food as I was experiencing my first encounter with a smelly Italian man sitting next to me.

            Although the tiny prosciutto sandwich I had for breakfast was delitziosi! I used to eat prosciutto sometimes on the boat while in Eliot Key- but now I eat it all the time from it’s very homeland!

            Verona, Italy is not Bologna, Italy. But, I must say I am happy to be studying in Bologna, although not as beautiful its is still invigorating and enriching.

            Bits of Bologna:

            It was first settled by the Etruscans during the 6^th century B.C, the Romans, Lombards and the Papacy subsequently occupied it until the Italian unification in 1860. Each of these ruling entities has left a distinct mark on Bologna, as can be seen from the varied architecture, the wonderful cuisine and the dialect spoken by the cities inhabitants.

            With the opening of the Emilian Way, the city became a major crossroads for trade throughout the Roman Empire.

            Throughout Italy, Bologna is known by 4 nicknames, each of which highlights a different aspect of the city:

            1. “Bologna la grassa”, literally means “Bologna The Fat”- refers to the famous Bolognese food, reputedly the best in all of Italy, as well as to the city’s wealth and prosperity.

            2. “Bologna La Dotta,” meaning Bologna the learned. Founded in 1088, the University of Bologna is the OLDEST UNIVERSITY IN EUROPE! It includes the ranks of Dante, Copernicus and Petrarch!! Presently the University is home to 90,000 students pursuing degrees in subjects including literature, medicine (oh Francesco the Dentist who lives in front of me), the physical sciences and jurisprudence.

            3. “Bologna La Turrita,” meaning the city of Towers (Chelsea and I quickly figured that one out on day one). The city’s skyline was pierced by over 180 towers in the middle ages constructed by its wealthiest and most influential families as statements of power and means of defense. A stroll through the picturesque Pizza Magiore and down Via Rizolli will lead you to two such towers referred to as the Due Torre. These towers built by the Asinelli and Garisenda families, are the most examples of the monuments that once filled Bologna and are commonly used as symbols of the city.

            4. “Bologna La Rossa,” or “Bologna The Red.” This nickname not only describes the predominant color of the city’s buildings, but also refers to its political history. Except during fascism, Bologna was governed by the left from 1913 through 1999(even after I was born!), and again from 2004 to the present.

Oh Bologna you are now my city.

I fell out of the train and onto a lady who was eager to board. I repeated ten times fastly, “sorry sorry sorry…” x10” My interpretation is: I had to fall out of the train because I didn’t want to leave.  St.Anthony pushed me out again. I shall be found in Bologna.

PATZO PASTA

January 20, 2011

The sky is dark, nero (black) like my pea coat that warms me in its hugging embrace as I walk the bellisima streets of Bologna- the backstreets, the graffiti walls a masterpiece although not Michelangelo’s work on the Sistine Chapel- the anonymous painters are the Michelangelo’s of Bologna’s streets, the Napoleon fountain with mermaids replenishing the fountain waters with their bosoms- all becoming a familiarizing cue each day as to where I stand on the map of Bologna.

            I woke up at 1pm and was unaware of the fact I had slept in so late until Chelsea alerted me. I went to our “toilet” believing it was 7am and as I sat on the throne of thought I heard my stomach roar. I was excited to walk to “la mensa” for a novella croissant, some coffee and perhaps some “ferme.” After being shocked by the time I had awoke I rummaged for an apple and ate it to the core. I quickly dressed myself in a meager turtleneck, scarf, jeggings, socks, boots, coat, and hat- all in that order. (I forgot my gloves and my hands froze as I sipped on my Ferrare decorated Coca-Cola light!) Chelsea and I were headed off for a stroll in the streets- destination: Zara, H&M, train station to buy our ticket for Verona tomorrow, and a café to grab some breakfast (lunch?).

            Congratulazioni to noi (us!) We made it everywhere smoothly, asked for directions and understood them as clear- well as clear as the Bologna air today (it wasn’t as foggy as usual).

            Roll of Thunder Hear My Roar. Chelsea and I opted to take a backstreet and saw where the locals assumingly live. Nothing like America- I can just imagine their lives so much simpler- all the Italians do their grocery shopping with one bag they stroll down the street as they walk to a from the shop- usually a market to gather fresh food- breads, cheeses, wines, and fruit. Like Chelsea said, imagine what they would think if they saw us loading up our vans from the grocery store. Already our cars are HUGE compared to their tot toy vehicles. The amount of food we purchase at the grocery stores- not markets- is indeed a gross (massive) amount. It is all packaged in boxes and we all purchase the same food with the same labels made by the same companies who are interested in our money and not the quality of the food. Here people buy fresh loaves of bread from a man who has taken his time, his life, to make the bread for the enjoyment and gusto of his shoppers.

            After a turn off the local street I peered into a window of a café and read “café Latino,” The Latino part didn’t catch on to me until I was inside and started to speak Italian and the man asked if I spoke Spanish. Then Chelsea informed me I could speak Spanish because we were in a Latin Café. Jaja! Well, the Latin Italians do it right- the croissant and café for due euro were delitziossi! It was a nice smell, taste and Latin feeling of home.

            It is hard to communicate with my family and loved ones with this time zone difference and barrier of communication- without free telephone calls, no proper cell phone and the uncertainty of being on Skype. Although I do thank technology for its wonders, I do not miss having my phone on me at all times of all hours of the day- I feel much more free. Less attached to my phone, my attached to the world around me- and where I am is a beautiful world. Yet, I do yearn to hear the voice of my mother and father and sisters and brother and loved ones. Whenever I turn my computer on, Skype is the first thing to upload and I wait staring for my mother’s username to turn green- Just as I wait for the pedestrian crosswalks to turn green, because in Bologna the streets lights pertain not only to cars, but pedestrians have their own set of street lights. How illuminating italianos can be!

            I want to share with my family my gratuity- (no gratuity is paid in Italy!)- And all the wondrous moments I am experiencing. As much as I am beyond happy- I just want them to know it.

            Chatting with Sofia over face book made me want to tear up- not because I missed her, but because I realized I am so fortunate for my family. She told me to never blink, and trust me I am not- I keep my eyes wide open, especially for bicyclists and pickpocketers.

            Chelsea and I did not know whether we had to pay for the bus today and observed the other locals who were boarding on the bus- they did not pay, so we took a free bus ride to the train station- “stazione de train” is what I asked everyone, making sure we were getting one the right bus to get there. Upon our arrival to counter of the train station we were informed we were at the BUS station- and laughed our way to the train station.

            VERONA demanti. Verona tomorrow! I bought my very first train ticket! I can recall my father purchasing and organizing all the train stops and plane tickets and meal times and everything while in Italy when I was 15. Now I am doing it all on my own- it feels surreal. Yet, it is happening. I am venti now. Venti seemed so old to me on my birthday but now I don’t feel so old- I feel so young and so alive experiencing a life in Europe on my own. With the purchase of one train ticket for 7.20 euro I can take myself anywhere here- that should make me feel old but it doesn’t. It makes me feel like a young wind whirling through the world for the first time. Alive and free wind, not a dead wind that sits still over a barren lake.

            On the way to the post office it began to rain. It was rain and not snow unfortunately. I did not have an umbrella and walked under the canopies as much as the streets allowed. I did not mind the drizzle, but when the group crossed a street and several others and I were left on the other side I pretended to get under an Italian ladies umbrella- and she saw me and let me perch like a little bird on her should- but under her umbrella. I tried to chat with her about her dog but it just turned into me saying nonexistent Italian words. The night before at dinner I had learned “en boca il lupo” which is a phrase meaning good luck but literally translated as “in the mouth of the dog” although Giuseppe told me it was wolf- but I never know whether to believe him or not- he calls me bella sometimes and patzo the other times- I think he thinks I’m mostly Patzo, crazy.

            The post office was another smooth ride, a smooth ride into being legal here- although I was quite confused when I got an appointment to go to the police station to get fingerprinted. Todd says that’s normal. Phew. As I sat on the seat waiting for my number to be called- like if at a deli- I did what I do best- people watch. My main observation: the Italians wear comfortable shoes. Yup, half an hour and that was my best observation.

            And half an hour just now is what it took me to figure out directions in Italian to print out a friend’s love letter to post on Giuelliets house. Thank goodness Vittorio popped in and was able to help me- he’s the greatest help. At dinner tonight he taught me how to eat pasta Bolognese the proper way. When Jacqueline and Gia were cutting their pasta you should have seen his face, but since you cant just imagine your face if you saw an American seeing someone eat French Fries with a knife and fork. Weird. But his face was more like- you sinner, you foreigner THAT IS NOT HOW YOU EAT PASTA! But he’s a sweet guy so it was more like LET ME HELP YOU. He came to my side and explained something about gravity. Anyways, he grabbed a spoon and fork and twirled the pasta on the fork onto the spoon, like a backboard. And voila! I had a nicely spun big fork load of pasta. Delitziossi!

            I would say I am full- but then that would limit me to being already full. And I am not. I am eager for more, more adventure, exploration, and living. Viaggiando Vento. Week one…two countries…I’m still Viaggiando Vento.

ADRENALINE

January 18, 2011

Bus Ride: Interlaken, Switzerland to Bologna, Italia!

            Really, my only time to pen thus far has been on plane rides and bus rides. I’m to busy, to busy exploring, adventuring, hitchhiking, skiing…LIVING in the WORLD.

            Our bus driver wears a suit- Paulo- very customary. No tobacco chewing, spitting out the window. Jackie threw up because of the winding Alps, but now we are already in Italia. We stopped at Chelsea’s favorite joint in Italy, “Auto Grill.” We have probably stopped at half of the auto grills in Italy and they just keep getting nicer. I bought a Maxi Mortadella- delitzioso! I also bought the best tasting apples in Switzerland-“You go all the way to Switzerland and buy apples” Todd said to me as I ran onto the bus with a pack of apples. I do love apples. I was shocked by the fresh, crisp taste- just like the Swiss air.

            There is a significant difference in the air quality of Bologna and Interlaken. Honestly, I do not even know how Paulo can see through the fog. (This baffles me just as much as I wonder how this bus fits in Italy). The fog is eternal- lasting from morning till night.

            I am filled with happiness as I look at one of my two purchases in Switzerland: A Swiss Army Knife for my brother seven-year-old brother Manny.

            This second day in Interlaken was mostly spent at Swan Lake. Not really called Swan Lake, but really Nehaus- was a jewel of an afternoon. The lake was a hidden jewel- with the Swan princess to greet us. Me, Lee, Ellie, Sarah, Chelsea, Stacy, Kristin and Gia.

            From the lake I could see small German houses, which from a closer point of view are not so small. I wandered lonely as a cloud around. I wandered with my new friends. The Swiss Alps all around, I was in heaven.

            NO FEAR, “Angel Gabriel”. The first, a saying of my father. – And the imprint on a broken zipper piece I found yesterday before I skied my first Blue slope ever with Gia in Switzerland. A pink zipper piece with the words NO FEAR must have been stepped on and snowed on by millions. Yet, it caught my eye and I picked up from the ground, read it, put it in my pocket and followed behind Gia and yelled, “I was born ready.” The first, a sign of the mentality to maintain while going down the slopes with Gia. “Gia’s ideas are never good ideas.” The second, the name of a heaven sent man miraculously heading to Interlaken who picked Gia and I up. Mami and Papi, please do not worry—What started off as a joke from delirious desperation- and not really knowing how far Interlaken was from the train station (really far!!) made Gia and I hike our thumbs up, while our other hand held our skis, poles, and snowboarding gear. The Interlaken highway to our left and a river way down below to our right.

            Angel Gabriel stopped his car and Gia and were in disbelief but ran to his car at second thought- “…” He then spoke and told us he used to be a hitchhiker when he was younger but that he usually does not pick up hitchhikers because they seem to smell…but we didn’t look like we smelled, and we didn’t look American (I do not know what he meant by the second statement). He said he almost didn’t see us- Gia and I were about to put our thumbs down. I could barely hold my skis in my numbed hands and my feet felt unattached to the rest of my body. The ski boots were heavier than overweight elephants and it hurt to take each step. The scenery was indeed scenic and kept my mind off the pain. I sat in the front seat silently praying to myself and repeating over and over NO FEAR NO FEAR NO FEAR… we finally made it to Interlaken about 30 minutes later. Amen. “Gia’s ideas are never good ideas,” but this seemed like the only option, and we did not know it at the time, we didn’t even know it was an option… but Interlaken was cities away!

            On the train ride back from skiing, Gia and I met a man who was part of the Swiss army and his lovely wife. We saluted him. They owned an apartment on the Alps and gave us trips on where to travel (as we asked everyone we met for local tips on traveling). The lady said she as spoiled after saying she had an apartment on the Alps. I agreed, but I too know I am spoiled. Gratefully spoiled.

            Side Note: The food in Italia is the King; the food is the peasantry class. Even the food from Italian gas stations is royalty…especially after a day of skiing and hitchhiking with one meal in my stomach (probably no longer there).

            Gia is like my Ali Golik on the trip. They are different, but share many personality characteristics. Gia is a true compassionate person- her compassion for others is genuine, as I first handedly experienced when I FELL OF THE SLOPE! (For the first time- in preparation for the next fall). She made sure I was okay, physical and emotionally as I trembled, not from the cold but from shock. I didn’t know blues were so intense and so long. I took ski lessons with Todd’s two children, Carlo and Liam…and with Kyle too. It took me a while to learn but I did. I did not feel under confident nor did I feel overconfident. In fact, I don’t know what I felt. But Kyle and Neil (the instructor) went off for a blue and the children went off to lunch so after the lesson I found Gia who asked me if I wanted to do a Blue slope with her- she would take it easy and slow with me. And so I agreed. Slowly but surely I went. Turn, pizza, open, pizza, slow. I seemed to have it, until I sped passed Gia and could not stop. I couldn’t make the turn and tumbled down the side of the slope. Underneath me was the underworld. A flowing river of rocks and freezing water. And Alpine Trees. NO FEAR. Seriously, this is time to fear!!!! Help! HELP! HEEEELP! Gia came to my rescue… but first took a snapshot of me because she said this was such a “Kodak Moment”…looking back at the picture I am smiling but I really think I was smiling because this could have been my last picture. She helped me up and pulled me by my skies and my hand. I seemed to be quite the entertainment for the other skis. I started to laugh…out of fear. Gia had such patience with me from the beginning, a beginner skier. She could have gone off and done the slopes, as she wanted at her own pace.

            Standing on the Swiss Alps (once I could stand again) was incredible. I pushed my boots back into my skis and said aloud, “No Fear.” 

            On the train Gia said that studying abroad is an experience that will change us. Lee said he wanted this and he needed this- Studying abroad. He was bored of the sameness, the monotonous of everything he already knew. I too thirst for invigorating new waters. My mind wants to be enlightened, to be new.

            Viaggiando Vento pushing me- the Alps. Gia’s breathe, Lee’s breathe, Francesco’s breathe, the Bologna (foggy air), The Swiss Air, Chelsea’s nudge on the street so I don’t get run over, Neil’s push on the Alps to keep going on my ski’s that I will eventually learn to stop (sometimes you need to learn to stop in order to go- if I hadn’t learned to stop- which I don’t believe I ever fully did- I wouldn’t have been able to ski the blue- although I ended up stopping with a crash. I’m learning to ski- I’m learning to be.