It isn't in the travel book: CERVIA

I’ve bought postcards in every city I’ve been to thus far. Cheap, lightweight and perfect for my concise composition of my visit on the back. I can sticky tack it next to my bed and be reminded of the wonderful memories made. I always buy more than one, as to have one for myself and always one to mail out.

I was saddened by the fact I couldn’t not but postcards this weekend in Cervia and Ferrara- as my wallet was literally empty of cash and credit cards. Yet, it is Sunday afternoon and I sit in my bed, my wall of postcards next to me, above my head on the bottom bunk I look up to the bottom of Chelsea’s top bed and see all the ticket’s of the trains been on. I don’t have the tickets for Cervia and Ferrara either.

I am not sad. I filled my pockets with even more beautiful souvenirs and I filled my mind with irreplaceable memories. A postcard can burn. A train ticket could get lost. But my memories are stronger than fire and smarter than misplacement.

Last night I found myself washing shells in the bathroom sink with laundry detergent and soap and a hand towel. - At least it wasn’t three weeks of laundry. But these shells, on the Adriatic Sea shore, shone in colors of navy seals- like seal skin wet and alive. They shone like sunflowers rained on by an orange cloud. They shone like a little kids marble bag spilled out an a grey street. They shone. Yet, in my room they stunk. I had several mini conch shells, al of which I took because they were no conch slugs living in them- or so I thought.

As I was washing them I realized one shell smelled in particular. This tiny shell stunk extraordinarily terrible! And Chelsea complained of the smell with reason- there was a dying slug in our room! I had kept them in a cup on my shelf. I felt terrible picking out the dying slug with my only bobby pin- and then getting a headache from the smell I put the conch slug in the trash can, wrapped up the bag and threw it away in the lobby- and then after Chelsea told me this was a bad idea as it would stink up the entire lobby I darted the trash bag into a trash can outside. I soaked the shells in soap and water, dried them and then generously sprayed them with Dolce and Gabana perfume. Although they do not smell of the Adriatic Sea any longer, they still belong to the Adriatic sea- and prettier than any tacky Cervian postcard.

Cervia is a true hidden tesoro, especially in the wintertime. Arriving to the train station was a foreshadowing of our entire day. It was quite, not like any other train station I had been to. You could literally hear the birds chirp. Beka, Jordan, Chelsea and I roamed around, following the areas to the beach. We passed beautiful beach houses. The shops all seemed vacant. The beach was empty- it was beautiful.  We illegally passed through a closed hotel, walked over the low cement wall and placed our shoes on the sand, crossed over the dune and walked to the sea-shelled shore of the Adriatic Sea. I breathed in this cleanse air, I felt clean. I smiled. I was bundled up in a snow jacket smiling underneath the sun on the Cervian beach.

I went shelling. I wrote things in the sand with my stick- that carried the whole day and then left at the train station. We walked the beach. I picked up more shells and crabs. I put them in my pocket. I did cartwheels.

The sea reminded me of the Gulf Coast- it was not the color of my turquoise Venetian earrings. It was like staring into a forest, a forest of water. Like a swimming pool that someone forgot to clean. It was beautiful. The wave caps were white. No one was swimming.

All of us were feeling hungry and decided to scope out whatever was open- nothing. Finally we entered a gelateria where I asked the gelato man in Italian- not an American Ice Cream man- he was wearing a nice shirt and tie and owned this shop and not just a truck. “Dove e mangier vision equip?” The gelato man picked up his phone made a phone call and next thing you know the chef form the restaurant next door opens up his restaurant for us four Donnas, sits us at a table, pours us Champagne on the house and tells us he is bringing some local Cervian white wine. We treated like Cervian Queens. I enjoyed my platter of Adriatic cold seafood- but gave the mussels to Chelsea who was elegantly slurping her oysters. Right next to my left cheek was a window showing me the Adriatic Sea. On my tongue was the grape juice of Cervian grapes. In my stomach swam the Adriatic Sea creatures- I had some in my pocket too. My lips tasted the salt- the Cervian salt of which makes Cervia famous- served in exquisite New York restaurants and sprinkled on the Pope’s food, seasoning his suppers.

The gelato man gave us some gelato for dessert and we continued our sweetly royal afternoon with a sweet in our hand to explore the rest of this hidden treasure Cervia. We walked around and entered local sea and lotion shops and then once again proceeded to end the day at the beach. Chelsea and I cart wheeled our way to the seashore and I took of my shoes and let the Adriatic Sea numb my toes. My toes turned more purple than my lips- but I left my toes in the water letting them turn different shades of violet- until I stepped on a shell and jumped back.

Cervia isn’t even in my “Eyewitness Italy” travel book. I didn’t even know Cervia existed until last night when I found out Rebeka and Jordan were coming and I decided to go...I loved exploring Cervia without “Having to see” anything in particular. My feet walked wherever and I saw what I saw and I loved what I saw. Sure, I did carry my eyewitness Italy book in my bag, but I didn’t take it out. My eyes were being the witness today.

We Americans do say, “I love” too much. I loved, ooops, I mean I liked learning the words Mili taught us to use for “I love you” as “I wish you well” instead of ti amo as it literally means I wish you well, something deeper than I love you because you are wishing the person to be well, no matter how they feel back- a true part of love. Loving and wishing well when it is hard to do so. That is a true part of love, really wanting someone to be well. To be their best.

The train station of Cervia was awfully quite, but it wasn’t awful. The station looked chiuso but it was aperto. The ticket machine didn’t want our money- so I “took some coffee” macchiato while Bekah and Jordan took some coca-cola; we listened to the birds sing. We then hopped on the train to Ravenna ticket less. Once in Ravenna we purchased our tickets and hopped on the train leaving in 20 minutes… nope, 20 minutes later the train caboose man came in to tell us that the train doesn’t leave for another 2 and a half hours! So hopped off we did to sit at the McDonalds and coffee bar. That could only mean 2 things:

1. We not going to make it to dinner in the mensa tonight- no need to spring back-

2. And two, Cappuccino time! With only about 2 euros in my possession I think I’ve managed well.

The caffeine got to me, story of my life… but this time it didn’t lead me looking for a bathroom as it usually does- although I’ll say I don’t mind discovering all the different and unique kinds of flushers and toilets in this country. This time it lead me to discover about 100 feet of Ravenna- the benches on the Ravenna bus stops were mosiaced! (Ravenna is renowned for its early Christian mosaics. Mosaics span the years of the Roman and Byzantine rule offering comparisons between classically inspired designs and later Byzantine motifs. – I couldn’t say I saw all that history as I meandered around- but I can say those benches were remarkable!

Everyone, or atleast a lot of people who go to Ravenna must pass by and see those benches- yet perhaps most people don’t enter the monuments to see the “Baptism of Jesus” and “Martyr of Christ” mosaics. Maybe one day soon I’ll go to Ravenna and enter, but for now for a train wait- it was quite the beauty.

I cried in Todd’s travel class last night- I cried after watching the video if immigrants trying, suffering, finally making it to a freed land. Their rafts sank, they froze, and they trembled on this “free” land. They risked their lives to get here- and here they are trembling. What had they just endured- physically, mentally? Where do they go from here?

It made me feel like a boy- a boy from Bangladesh I just met last week. A boy I asked to speak Bangla with a friend so that I could hear the strangeness of this language. He can’t show me his memories or pictures or really anything of his place, of Bangladesh. But I can listen to his language, listen to this boy speak. He talked to his mom this way, his father= probably yelled this language when playing sports with his friends.  This is the language in his head- one he speaks silently in his head. He no speaks Italian out loud. Now he speaks five languages. I had asked him to speak for me, share what was in his mind. How selfish of me. I don’t know the pain he has endured any why he left the land of where this language is spoken. But he is here now. And he is smiling. I hope he always does, but I don’t blame him if he always doesn’t.

I cried for this boy. How selfish of me to cry for him. He endured the pain but I cried.

No. Yes.

Again, my family endured a similar pain- having to flee Cuba. They didn’t come on a raft but they still shivered when they got here. - What had they just endured? Where to go from here? Plenty in Cub. Nothing here. Or is everything here?

Again I cried, how selfish of me- they endured the pain- and I cried for them.

Am I being selfish or am I being real? I think I am being human- I can’t go back on put on my grandmother’s Cuban housedress and fly into America. I was born in America- so I can only cry for them. Should I cry for them? Maybe not. I should live my freedom for them. But sometimes I can’t help to cry for them. I don’t need to cry for them but I cant help but feel worthlessly fortunate. Fortunate without doing anything of worth to be this fortunate. I grew up from baby, to adolescence to now an adult- always blessed, always fortunate. And it is because of these blessing I can do what I do, and do what I do.

Like go to Cervia for the day, numbing my feet in the Adriatic Sea. I could still feel the sand on my feet, rubbing my skin and my socks.

Cervia isn’t Florence and it isn’t Venice. When I get back home I can tell people of place that isn’t their travel books. I don’t have a Cervia postcard- but I have Cervian memories. What a blessing.

Al'Americana! and Perfect days for rain...

I feel as if I’ve had too much wine, yet I haven’t had a sip. It’s four o’clock on a rainy Sunday afternoon in Bologna. I think it’s rained almost every Sunday. Perfect days for rain. The sun is always shining on our weekend day trips, but back home on Sundays the sky clouds up and rains. I’d like to think it’s just cleansing the week’s exhaust in the air. But it’s a perfect day for rain. Last Sunday was lunch l’italiana…this afternoon was brunch Americana…

Seriously scrambled egg ommelettes with sausage, cheeses, peppers, and hot sauce in tortillas, homemade bunched biscuits and store purchased coop orange juice. Some had mimosas and homemade chocolate pancakes too (The pancake mix was purchased from the Asian Market nearby, the cheeses were Italian and every ingredient was purchased in Italy…this was an American breakfast).

As usual I woke up an hour after the brunch started, but I was early… the cooking creations were just commencing… Stefano loves the culinary exchange. So do I. I fuel myself up, ready to go, and ready to live. Living every day here in Italy, this weekend and the part of today I have lived… before brunch I kept telling Stefano “I’ve never lost a game in 20 years of Billardino” (foosball). It was us two against two Italians. Like father like daughter I said what my dad would say “I’ve never lost a game in 20 years!”

I yelled in excitement and frustration as we scored goals and lost goals! Onlookers watched and laughed at my enthusiasm. In my head I was thinking I had to win. I had too. It was a close game. We lost after a tie and a score from the opponents. Winning isn’t everything. Really, it isn’t. I didn’t have to win. Stanchy Stefano and I enjoyed ourselves.

Next match: Americans and Italians

Kristin and I played Sarah and another Italian regazzo. Kristin and I decided that after every 2 goals scored we would switch positions from offense to goalie. Switching happened rapidly as the Italians kept on scoring…and us Americana’s didn’t make a single goal. Finally we scored 2 goals. But then they won. Winning isn’t everything.

Like Carla said “La exam no e tutti vita.” The exam isn’t your whole life. And that is part the reason why I am blogging instead of doing my compiti (homework). After the brunch Carla walked into the basement sad she had missed the American chibo. She invited Chelsea and I along with Sarah who was dying for an espresso into her room for some coffee and homemade biscuits Sara’s parents had brought her. Next thing you know Carla is brewing up some fancy coffee from her black stainless steel coffee/espresso machine and we are all chatting away in Italian and English like friends of a lifetime. Over an hour passed over coffee and biscuits. It’s a perfect day for rain. We talked about American cities, cities like Dubai, cities in Italy. We talked about our hometowns and our homes. I felt at home.

Lately I’ve been living a life of a dream. This is my reality. I wouldn’t like to sum my life up like a face book status but this is what I think of now… My status just three days ago was “MY LIFE IS BRILLIANT…THANK YOU MAMI AND PAPI.”  I am so grateful for this life I lead now and I want them to know it.

I know I am not an only child and I cannot be selfish. I sobbingly cried yesterday and the day before. My life is brilliant but I needed to cry. I let myself cry because I felt I had reason to do so. I will probably be put into perspective after visiting Auswits this week but for now I let myself cry. I know it is stupid but it was the grandest problem, like a Bologna cloud pouring down on me, me choking on all of the exhaust in the air. My American Express poofed away on the way to the coop on Thursday…after some tears and frustration and of course hours of phone calls with the bank and mami and papi that problem was solved. A new card arrives this Monday. … On the way to a day trip picnic to Cervia I went to get some cash out as I only had 10euros on my person… The ATM machine was hungry and decided to mangier il mio carta. The machine ate my only debit card left- the only way I can get money; I only had ten euros on me! Thank God Stefano was walking with us to the train station to pick up his little sister Claudia. He helped me inside the bank to explain my situation to the lady behind the counter. It would take 30 minutes before I could get my card- my train left in 15 minutes. Once again I thank God. Stefano would retrieve my card for me on his way back to the train station and I would survive in Cervia, and getting there and back with ten euro. Rebekah, Jordan, Chelsea and I booked to the train station, hopped on our train and headed out for a wonderful beach day… in February. ( I will write of my catch of the Adriatic Sea after I write of the lost fishes (my credit cards) that let go of the hook).

After arriving back to Camplus Alma Mater Stefano gave me my card and I gave him the biggest hug. I had never been so happy to see stupid plastic. Multi colored plastic card with my picture and name on it. So stupid. Yet, so important. I hate to say this while taking a social justice class and making friends with people who have NOTHING. No plastic. And they are just fine. But it has made me felt so frustrated and terrible without this plastic. So stupid. They can smile without this plastic in their pocket, why am I filled with an overwhelming sense of loss without this card?

Thank God I had my debit card back. After an evening out in Bologna with some good wine and good friends I once again made it back to campus to go to sleep and wake up to breakfast and the news that some people were traveling to Ferrara! Chelsea ran to me to share the good news about Ferrara- I’ve had this longing to go eve since my English professor told me I couldn’t leave Italy without going- so without hesitation I ran from the breakfast table without finishing my coffee and put some clothes on, stuffed my purse with the necessities, my debit card and ran to Hans and Cory’s room. Perfect timing. They were heading out the door. We headed to the train station. Perfect timing. We bought our tickets and hopped on the train. We were headed to Ferrara! No seats on the train, we stood shoulder-to-shoulder, crying baby next to crying lady we stood. 30 minutes later we entered the walled city of Ferrara!... 2 hours into the day It was time for some cash, I had only a couple cents on me and Julia had already purchased my train ticket. Hans pointed me to a self-service bank. It was after lunchtime but this machine was hungry. The machine ate my card. The bank was closed. I wanted to cry. I was in disbelief. I didn’t cry because I was too shocked. There it was. There went everything. I have no money and no cards. Okay. I stood in front of the machine and though… My philosophy professor Caterina Zanfi is right. Us humans are crating machines that can defeat us. Was I just defeated? Yes. No. I wouldn’t let it defeat me. I will admit it was hard to smile the rest of the day but I did anyways. I frowned the whole time up until we got to the castle. I explored the moted castle, snuck into windows, snuck up stairs, and jumped on balled figurines. I was happy again. I wouldn’t let this bring me down now- I’ll figure it out when I get back.

Luckily I had a croissant in my bag from breakfast and Hans bought me a gelato- I could get by without spending much. Julia and Amy bought beautiful fossil jewelry. I wanted a ring so bad- a ring of coral. I have coral back home in my Miami beaches. I didn’t need to buy the ring.

When I got back everyone asked me how Ferrara was because they knew I was dying to go. I couldn’t say it was great but I said it was good. I went into my room and cried. I called mami and papi- I felt everything was sucked out of me. I had no money and I owed a lot of people some money for the train rides and lunches. I had taken pictures of the bank to see if I needed to return back to Ferrara to get the card. I skyped mami and was so overwhelmed. As Kristin would say, “get yo self together.” I tried. But I let myself cry with my mom. She told me what to do although I already knew what I had to do. I had to leave the bank a message- in Italian!?!? Telling them not to throw away my card. None of the pictures I took had the bank number. I had to call bank of America. I had to figure out a way to wire money. I need money for Poland in just three days. I have five cents on me.

I took a breath, finished my crying and got myself together.

I went to talk to Hilary, thank God. She helped me write an e-mail to the bank in Italian. We called Todd and he set me straight- do not got back to Ferrara- get a new card from my parents and have them express mail it to me. Wiring money is a plain headache and it would be to late to get the money for Poland. Confide in a friend who would act like a wiring money transaction and lend me money until I pay her back. Thank God for good people, good friends and good family. I was starting to feel a lot better. Kristin was in the room and heard me; she told me she would lend me money. Hilary gave me a hug and helped me translate everything. Todd led me and my parents are the ones behind it all. I am so blessed. It’s a perfect day for rain. I cried. But tomorrow it will be sunny.

I had visited the tesoros (treasures) of Italy, Cervia and Ferrara…I had survived without my plastic card. Today I was fed with American chibo with good American friends and Italian amicos. No need for such importance on this stupid plastic card.

Chelsea would say this was a gift of Buddha. And it takes a lot of me to say that this is yes a gift. A gift of an opportunity to learn that I will be taken care of when in need.  But I must help others to realize I am being helped.

A Sweet Escape...

I walked off of campus and into the area of graffiti walls. I was scared. I saw a couple of American friends looming in the distance and ran to them- I scared them. They jumped and we all laughed.

We continued walking together over the graffiti bridge and into the streets of Bologna. I was still scared. Everyone turned right but I had to continue straight. I was scared.

How was I going to speak in Italian to someone at the bank explaining my lost credit card!? This would have overwhelmed me enormously even having to do it all alone in English in America… I continued to walk straight. I could do it. I didn’t think about it anymore, I was going to do it. I had to. The end. I was doing it.

The second I got over the bridge I saw friends looming at the crosswalk. This time it was Italian friends, Carla and her friend from Parma and Bruno. Carla’s friend was visiting from Parma and this was his first time in Bologna- she as going to show him around.  Carla invited me to join but I explained to her my necessary errand.  She offered to help me and serve as a translator, a very kind friend. I told her not to worry, she had a friend visiting and I felt very capable of conquering this on my own. She insisted. At her insistence, I thought again and didn’t say no this time. We walked to the bank together- and thank God we did because Carla solved my problem within 15 minutes…it probably would have taken me all afternoon. Afterwards Carla invited me to lunch at a local panneria. We walked passed the main piazza and into new streets. New for me but not for Carla and Bruno. Carla led us into this shop smaller than my mini bedroom here. There was a man behind a counter with a stove slicing meets. I ordered whatever Carla recommended for me- prosciutto and funghi. All four of us sat at the only counter. The second our chibo came out our conversation ceased and we devoured our lunch. Of course, next thing you know its time to “coffee.” It really is a verb here. They coffee.

We walked down the street into a royal coffee shop. We sat down at a tea table as if we were American Girl Dolls in a child’s set up of a coffee shop. I sipped on my espresso; they downed theirs in two seconds. Carla and Bruno had bite size mini cheesecakes. It was a sweet afternoon. Why I had I been so scared, I thought this would be a sour afternoon.

We walked to Piazza Maggiore and Carla showed me a childhood game of hers. To the side of the Piazza Maggiore there is a building with four corners- and if you stand at opposite corners and speak into the walls your voice will travel to the other side. Wildly wonderful! Carla and I spoke in English through these Italian walls!

I gave Carla a hug and we parted. I off too H & M to spend some time before having to wait for Rebekah at the Piazza Maggiore to meet up to walk to service. After convincing myself not to buy anything I returned to the Piazza and stood in the cold for thirty minutes. After the cold drove me to walk back to campus I felt discouraged- I was waiting to go to service but Rebekah didn’t show up. I didn’t know what else to do with the afternoon. This was my plan.

I was discouraged and just wanted to skype. Mami wasn’t online. I was upset…

I heard people chatting in the hallway and saw everyone heading for the re-scheduled soccer game of the snowed out game of Bologna vs. Roma. Great. I rummaged for my ticket and couldn’t find it. I wildly rummaged again and found it in a drawer. I grabbed my coat and ran outside. I joined Mark and the rest of the crew and headed out for the soccer game. It was a sweet evening. Not sour.

___

The red stripe on his “rossa e blue” winter hat couldn’t compare to the red on his cheeks. He stood on the ledge, one leg over the ledge closest to the field and the other leg hanging into the bench area.

His face alternated from looking at the field and looking into the crowd.  He had a face of a child. Each time he looked into the field I couldn’t see his face. Every time he looked into the crowd there was no possible way I could ignore his face.

He yelled with passion and an emotion seemingly like anger. “Tuttie stadie de piede!!” Everyone in the stadium on foot!! At his command my body stood. He seemed so angered that the entire stadium wouldn’t stand. He sung the chants with every but of fuel in his body smoking out of his mouth- like the fire bombs going off in the stadium. The smoke surrounding everyone.  He held on tightly to a pole triple his size, waving a Bologna flag with deep pride and fierce. Like his face, proud and fierce. He was a child but he roared like an old lion, like the King of the Jungle- the King of the field. He was a true fan.

I shouted the chants under my breath, standing, cold. My toes went numb. I sipped on my bagged espresso coffee. The Bologna soccer team sprinted across the field.  The Roma soccer team became actors on stage- faking injuries every ten minutes.

The little boy kept chanting wildly. He scared me. He intrigued me. He was a true fan. I was sitting, yelling at the player’s I didn’t know. He seemed to be their son.

Bologna lost. He still seemed proud and passionate. 

pickerbicker

Italian city

Painted in grand graffiti art just yesterday

And fainted frescoes fifty thousand full moons ago

Italian city

I still think you’re really pretty

I speak like a child

‘cause all the colors make me wild

Italian city

I still think you’re gloriously grand

Perfectly antiquely antiquated

sixty thousand suns set and rose, and you still stand

Leaning tower you still stand.

Leaning tower, what do you see?

Leaning tower why do you smirk at me?

I can blame it on the mafia

I can blame it on Berlusconi’s men

Italy’s burden

And I’m a woman

So

I carry a purse

Oh sweet curse

So

I had it in my pocket

My hand the locket

It was in my pocket

Pick

Pocketer

And not purse picker

I’ve squandered the streets

Like a hungry rat

You Rotten Ventian rats

You may have it in between you’re thieving teeths

Drown

Oh carnival clown

This isn’t funny

Oh Uffizi give it back to me

Priceless work of gold

David’s dead

Give it to me instead

Italian city

You’re still pretty

You’re still grand

Bologna’s delicious

And Venice streets more than precious

but please,

tower what do you see?

Who took my credit card from me?

This is stupid

Really

I feel stupid

Crying

Over plastic

But I’m student

trying to be prudent

this is stupid

and so are you

who took my card

you purse picker

I’ll stop my bicker

If the man goes

And my card he bestows.

Al'Italiana!

Waking up at 1:16 in the afternoon. I woke up. What usually comes after waking up? Breakfast. It’s Sunday. Everything in Bologna is closed…including the school cafeteria, which is not really a cafeteria but a line-through restaurant.

Today this was not the case. There was indeed breakfast. Can you believe that three Italian guys here at Collegio Alma Mater, Stefano, Alberti and Vittorio cooked all morning and afternoon a special pasta from Vittorio’s region of Umbria and dessert cannolies of Sicily made with ricotta cheese, pistachio and chocolate!? Three Italian men on a Sunday morning turned afternoon cooked for twenty people. Sincerely, this was the best pasta I have had yet in Italy. But I still can’t get over how three guys cooked and it wasn’t a barbeque. On a Sunday morning. (Stefano did say he was “stanchy” (tired) from cooking. All I ever see him do is sleep and eat. I see him in the mensa, and on occasion the palestra. But still, he cooked and baked his cannolies).

I strolled in just as the pasta was being served. Alberti and Stefano laughed as they served my plate and gave me plenty of pasta and told me it was going to help me grow. After everyone devoured their pasta, Stefano shared his stuffed cannolies. Delitzioso! We all helped clean the basement kitchen. Breakfast was served al’Italiana. I got two fifty-cent espressos and was more than satisfied to go and finish writing my English Paper on Ungaretti’s poem “Il fiumi.”

…and do hand-wash laundry in the sink for an hour. Just two save four euros on laundry machines which could be better used on cappuccinos. 

VENEZIA: Blessed am I who gets to rediscover and re-remember

Journaling on train ride to Venice... waking up at 7:45 am, grabbing croissant, milk and coffee at the mensa and booking it to make the 8:57 train to Venice. Success.

Truly it is, I say, as Elio Vittorini says in his novel "Conversations in Sicily," "blessed is he who has things to rediscover." Tis true, tis I am on a train to Venice. Ready. Ready to discover and ready to re-discover. I know parts of Venice... I know the pigeon lady at Piazza San Marco, I know restaurants by the color of their canopies, I know what I remember. I know parts of Venice but I do not know the entire place. I was hesitant to decide whether to spend my day and money in Venice since "I have already been there." I know I have made the right decision. It would be stupid of me to not come back to a place I deemed my favorite city when I traveled Europe with my twin sister and parents when I was fifteen years old. Blessed am I who has a favorite place to rediscover!

Tears filled my eyes for no apparent reason; no reasons of sadness, but just for remembering, remembering myself with my famiglia walking around in shorts and tank tops stopping at every church, basilica and building with a cross on it. Sofia and I had to wear paper shawls to cover our shoulders, we laughed at the concept. We laughed when Papi put bird food in our hair and we were swarmed by pigeons. I think I remember walking around the whole day until dinnertime smelling like a pretty pigeon. Sofia and I took bubble baths and dressed in the extra long robes. We were queens. We opened the 20euro bottle of pistachios from the concession in the hotel Metrople room and ate the nuts as we acted like nuts. We opened the window to let the summer air of Venice enter our room while we darted pistachio shells at the walkers and street vendors. We kept trying to get the pistachio shells into the street vendors purses. I remember walking through caved bridges, taking a Gondola ride, eating Caprese salad at a restaurant by a water canal. I remember the dancing nuns who fed us one evening for dinner (or this may have been in Paris or Rome) but I remember them. I remember the meal at the outdoor restaurant that looked like a secret garden, I remember it the color of yellow. It was yellow with green vines.  I remember the restaurant with the 100-year-old wine Mami adored. I remember it being just a turn from a random street, the hidden delight of 100-year-old vinegar just around the corner. I remember the owners giving Sofia and I mini ceramic vases as birthday presents.  I still see Sofia's on her desk back at home.  I remember the huge shrimp on mami's pasta at the funny named pasteria we ate at.  I have a picture of this giant sea creature but I do not remember it because of the picture, I remember it because I was there. 

I am there again, there now... well I am almost there again, I am still on the train... I am remembering, remembering, remembering. Blessed am I who will get to re-remember and newly remember.

--

Today was a new day, a new day in Venice. I was wildly excited, yet it was a leisurely day wandering about the labyrinthine alleyways and happening upon bridges and glass shops. Elle, Kristin and I met up with the Chelsea and Stacey at the piazza San Marco. Uh-oh, meeting spot number one...overly populated...can't find Chelsea and Stacey. I stand on a bench in front of the Basilica San Marco. Don't see them. Standing up there I am knocked by wind of remembrance. The Piazza San Marco... the pigeons, papi, bird poop. What a delicious memory.

Somehow, some miraculous how, Chelsea and Stacey see us, we begin walking. We begin walking without a specific destination. Our destination is simply Venice. Simply. We took today sweetly and simply.

If a city were to be described as unique, you think yeah it's different. But, Venice is one of the cities of the world that can genuinely be called unique. There is no other place in the world like it. Genuinely. 

"Built on a series of low mud banks amid the tidal waters of the Adriatic, it is regularly subjected to floods".... Chelsea, Stacey, Kristin, Elle and I walked into the Basilica of San Marco over a plank of wood as to avoid an immense puddle of water... in the Basilica!?! Perhaps a flood?

We meandered our way by the sea, red and white striped poles and gondola men. We walked through local streets away from the noise and underneath hanging linens and underwear. We walked our way to a restaurant...REMEMBRANCE RAN INTO ME. I've eaten here before! This is the restaurant Mami, Papi, Sofia ate at by the water... the caprese salad! This time I shared the memory with Kristin, Stacey, Elle and Chelsea...eating a fresh seafood salad.

We meandered into every glass shop. I bought myself a pair of Venetian glass earrings and had to stop myself from buying every other pair in every other shop. We tried on masks, we passed by children in all sorts of clown, and pirate and princess costumes...Carnival is next week. Lights adorned the streets, and so did the confetti the children threw. 

Sadly, pigeons didn’t attack me this time, but I had my own wonderful non-violent action. We walked over what Chelsea called "The Grand Canal" but I knew this wasn't it. We fooled Kristin and Elle this was indeed the Grand Canal... Elle couldn’t walk and instead hopped all around Venice due to her blister, hence her name Blistering Bertha. Later on that night once in Bologna, Kristin noticed that the bridge we crossed was not the Grand Canal. (Blistering Bertha got her revenge by taking pictures of me stretching my legs across the streets of Venice).

Chelsea and I walked our way around to find the train station, we were completely lost. In this “lost” state we found a lot. I found a fruit vendor who sold me grapes for the rest of my spare change. There went all my cash; I seriously only had change left. I just noticed. Well I had survived. We were heading to the train station. Chelsea didn’t like the fact we were walking with no idea we were heading. No worries, I asked our way to the train station. Once someone gave me directions I would get to the first place they directed me too and then once again ask for directions. Italian directions are a little harder to understand. I really had to use the ladies room…and two hours later we found the train station! And I asked for a bathroom… 2 euros please! Uh-oh I had no money. I went back to the front steps of the train station to sit with Chelsea as we waited for Elle, Kristin and Stacey (who had gone to Murano on water taxi). On my way to the steps I passed the coffee bar, hands in my pocket…and voila! I found a euro coin… not enough to use the bathroom but just enough to get me an espresso! (And worsen my need to use the bathroom, but still completely worth it)

Once aboard with Elle and Kristin we ran to our train and hoped Stacey would be on the train as well. I ran to use the free bathroom, the first time of three visits to the bathroom. I had only used the bathroom once on the way to Venice and no more after that because I entered the bathroom only to find a man hiding behind the door. This time there was a man I thought was waiting to use the bathroom, but instead was just standing there all three times I went to use the bathroom. By the third time this man and I exchanged names. I know I’m not supposed to talk to strangers (I’m avoiding the responsibility talk after hitchhiking in Malta) but this was just chatting while waiting to use the restroom. He asked where I was from and I asked him…and next thing I know he’s pulling out his tom-tom GPS system showing me exactly where he lives in sometime I believed is called Furlia. We chatted for a bit and then exchanged e-mails, an idea I know think I wasn’t thinking at the time as he already sent me an e-mail saying:

Ciao bellissima e simpaticissima Carolina,

Ti e piaciuta Venezia.

Ciao da Aniello. Ci siamo conosciuti innocenza treno Ciao e sempre mucio gusto.

On the train ride “home” to Bologna we passed the cities of Padua and Ferrarra. I want to visit them, I want to see them, I wasn’t to taste them, and I want to plant my feet on the city’s piazzas. I feel as if there is so much to see and time hinders me from visiting all these places. But I must remember that time is what is allowing me to see these places. Blessed am I who gets to see what I see. And what I don’t see now, I’ll see tomorrow. Blessed am I.

IL PONTE

First Visit to “Il Ponte” on February 18, 2011  

            I was allowed to enter the strictly guarded black wooden door and directed to climb two flights of stairs to “Il Ponte,” a shelter for unaccompanied foreign minor males who stay on an emergency and temporary basis. After briefly meeting with two of the directors I entered what seemed to be a recreation room for the young boys, all of them eighteen years and younger. Without any hesitation almost all of the boys stood up to greet Rebecca and I and we all shared our names, hello’s and smiles.

            I quickly learned from one of the directors that many of the young men here are not used to women being here, as in their home countries women are seen as inferior beings. The director spoke mostly Italian but it was not hard for me to understand what he said- he spoke of the boy’s struggle and I could simply hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes. This man said he felt like a father to the boys and the boys saw him as their own father. It is very hard for him when the boys must go, but it must be done he said. He said he must keep this work separate from his life “at home” because if not it could be “psychologically harming.” After sharing this, I asked questions and he answered by telling me that all of the boys here are or are under the age of eighteen, “entering at seventeen years old is a problem.” I am a person who loves to smile but I could not smile listening of this “problem.”  These so called “problems” are not problems and I was sitting in the same building as them, this building I was sitting in was their home.  They are boys who are no longer boys because they have been forced to grow up quickly and unfairly to fight injustice in their lives, from all over the world.

            As read in Anna Momigliano’s article, “Italy cracks down on its Roma (gypsies),” Prime Minister Sylvio Berlusconi won Parliament’s approval for a law-and-order bill targeting illegal immigrants, for which his government blames for much of Italy’s crime. I had just met these boys for only an hour or so, but I could tell you these boys were not criminals. In fact, as I stood watching in the small kitchen as I was instructed to do so, I met these young men and learned from them. Each one of them seemed to have a responsibility, and they did not carry out their responsibility with languish but rather a spirit of thanksgiving in being able to serve and help the community that serves and helps them. The director in the kitchen was warming up a meal cooked by a chef for the young men. I watched as he warmed the meals and then caringly cooked a simple separate meal for one of the boys who suffers from hepatitis. I overheard one of the boys, who was dressed like any other Italian or American teenager walking the streets, state that he was extremely tired. He was not like any other Italian or American student walking the streets.

            Cahns article “A History of persecution: End Europe’s ugly racism toward Roma” states “unemployment among Roma throughout Central and Eastern Europe outpaces unemployment among the population at large by five times. Total joblessness is reported in some areas.” All boys arriving into the first “Il Ponte” meaning a Point of welcome, must be under the age of eighteen years and if they over eighteen years they are then sent to another “Il Ponte.” As an American student of twenty years of age, I have first handedly witnessed how many teenagers in America do not work full time or even part time. At this “adolescent” time in their lives they are fully independent on his or her parents. Here in this home this is definitely not the case. Most of the young men were away working if they had not gone to school. These boys, even the ones who did not work, worked extremely hard in trying to learn the Italian language and other crafts of skill. Most of them travel up to three years working twenty two hours a day to get to Italy and then are caught by the police to live a life like this, a life of what I saw. But this is not the life they live for, although they are living this life at the moment. One young boy from Bangladesh spoke five languages, the other sang with me the Italian and the English alphabet. The other boys set the table while one other boy helped warm and prepare meal. These boys are working men, and they are not only working to exist, they are working to live.

            Rebecca and I were invited to share a meal with them and I grew to be a little nervous, as I didn’t know what I would say. In the kitchen I was conversing with the boys about places they liked and what it was like back home- in Bangladesh, Pakistan and Afghanistan. I enjoyed hearing the boys communicate in Bangla, although I understood nothing. At the “family table” conversations are usually shared about one’s day, however, in this home meals are shared in silence as many of the boys do not speak the same language and if one language is spoken it may cause turbulence amongst those who do not speak the language. At times I grew scared to look up from my plate of chicken, rice and vegetables- I wasn’t even hungry. I had no idea why I was scared. I began to pray and asked God to bless all these young men- and then I questioned my prayer and myself. Who am I to ask God to bless them? I am the one who is blessed; do I think I am better than them? I am not. I continued to pray anyways. This was still a family time, just a family time in silence. These boys are a community, a family- and they are all human beings with the same humanity as you and I- and maybe even more at times because they have to work harder and be more just to be seen as human.

            “They are creating a new climate of intolerance in Europe with movements in some countries now openly hostile to ethnic minorities and migrants,” says Benjamin Ward, the Europe deputy director for Human Rights Watch in London (Faiola, “Italy’s crackdown on Gypsies reflects rising anti-immigrant tide in Europe). I did not see this new climate of intolerance, but rather a climate of hope for these young men in this home, in “Il Ponte,” truly a place of welcoming

Rain drops keep falling...

16 febbraio 2011  

I am almost exactly one month into this educational endeavour I have embarked upon called "Studying Abroad." This endevour I could say is an experience that will, yes I will say, is an experience that will shape me now and shape me for all my life, for this is indeed true. I could also say this "studying abroad" is an educationally enriching experience begun even before my arrival into Italy...(I literally did learn major packing mechanisms before I got here!)
  I could also say that today, 16 febbraio 2011, is the commencement of my "Studying Abroad" because in a slight sense this is true. I could also say, as I have eagerly expressed before, that the learning I inhale into my body and mind not only come from the air inside the classroom, nor the nourishment of the Italian cuisine, nor from museum pamphelets, or the breath of my professors and even from that of my Italian friends.
I say this because although I have read books for my English class and books not for any classes, read my philosophy texts, studied Italian linguistics, conjugated verbs... I find it all very relevant and educationally amusing. Simply I find it fun and not stressful. When it comes to "school" I can easily flip out and just study for hours. Here my studying is 24/7 but it is not stressful because it is all exciting. Yet today I have had to sit myself down and tell myself that I do need to study, this is "studying abroad" after all. My first exam is tomorrow in Art History...I have frightening flashbacks of my friends cramming and studying for Art History back in high school! Over lunch today Todd expressed how it was his hardest subject in College and some people shared how their parents had struggled through their own Art History class. Should I freak out now or later!? NEITHER.
Instead I find myself in Collegio Alma Mater's extremely modern "study rooms"studying the ancient art that I have first handedly seen and been impressed by in cities like Florence, Verona and Modena. Others I have just read about, but I feel like I know them...and perhaps passed by them in the Uffizi museum or Academia Galeria.
    Donatello depicted his David in a new way; he did not depict him as the others before him did as an old bearded man... I am not seeing myself as I used too...I continue to study, but once again I do not feel as if I am studying, rather enjoying obtaining this knowledge...
and thankfully it is a rainy day so I am not reminded that I would rather be out exploring the streets of Bologna. Rain drops keep falling on my head...rain drops of paint, coloring me, coloring my mind.

-------
Todd told me that I was to represent the Spring Hill students this evening at what would be similair to an American College "Student Government" meeting..
Laid out on a white table cloth were ceramic plates, silverware, breads and 2 glasses, one larger for water and one smaller for wine.   In my head I was thinking, alright so this is a student government meeting, cool, I must be in the wrong room...Where's the box of pizza and napkins for plates?... I mean it is Italy.
It is Italy, so ofcourse there is wine... and a meeting like this provides that we be served, plates brought up to us with our pasta, vegetables, and meat and a dolce' mele for dessert...and ofcourse plenty of wine. I couldn't understand the need to be treated like a queen, or as Lee said, a king for a second night in a row. Ace. This was just a student meeting.
I didn't understand much of what was going on, other than the fact that I think I am now part of some play or having to act something out on a stage come April... the language primarily spoken was Italian, unless a student quickly translated for me...or P.G. would whisper to me something about wine. I could understand the subject of what was being said, but not the specifics. Soon enough I will fully understand but as for now I had no idea what was going on... but I was enjoying this. Really, I have an exam tomorrow but I am not stressed. I am sipping on wine given to me by the head of the Collegio Alma Mater. Rain drops keep falling on my tongue.

Bolognese Tuesday

      Walking the cobblestoned streets of Bologna we followed a map to get to our destination.  Asking Todd for the map earlier in the day he told me I would see the place because there would be a wooden door with some doorbells...The day Rebekah and I got lost trying to find our social justice service sight we knocked on over 10 wooden doors with doorbells in hope it would be the right place. Over half of the doors led us into convents... I had a feeling we were in for another Holy night tonight too.
    Finding the right wooden door we all walked through and walked down a set of partially vanishing away stone stairs leading down into a dungeon looking hole in the wall. Orange curtains served as the entrance into this dungeon chapel, and once whisped by the curtains I walked to to the front of the altar and sat myself down near the Bosnian rug on a cushion on the floor. Candles were glowing in the walls, one even falling during the mass onto "Padre's" lap.
     Padre, who used to teach Spanish at Spring Hill, now works in Rome and came to visit us in Bologna, Italy to help nourish our spirits...as he said in his homily. This "dungeon chapel" wasn't adorned with golden chandeliers nor did it have pews. People sat on wooden benches and some of us on potato sack cushions on the floor...yet I felt completely comfortable, I felt at home. This was afterall, the Jesuit center in Bologna.
     Sometimes I close my eyes when I pray but other times I keep my eyes open...like when I sat on the cliffs in Malta I kept my eyes open, not wanting to close my eyes to the astounding scenery of the Mediteranean. In this dungeon chapel I closed my eyes to pray, not because the scenery wasn't beautiful but because I could hear more clearly what Padre was saying, what he was nourishing my soul with and everyone elses souls who were present. 
    Padre spoke of "il cuore," the heart in Italian.  He said true courage comes from the heart and we are all courageous beings for simply studying abroad. The heart, the core of a person...courage. But I believe this is just the first step of being courageous. Il cuore must be open now and willing to grow, to become more courageous.
    Todd gave us a little, probably partially made-up, historical lesson on this dungeon chapel saying it was a place where people were kept and fed during the plague. I believe it....then Todd, as he said could not nourish us in the way Padre did, set to nourish us with chibo (food). We once again walked the cobble stoned streets to the next "place of nourishment"... Osteria Broccaindosso. 
    Antipasta galore of verduri in olio d'oliva, formaggi, insalate, panes, carni...handmade pastas with cheeses fermented underneath the ground, a delicious rarity, like cheese of gold. Italian mochi. Dolces of steaming chocolate bowls, chocolate covered pane, fragole coperto con panna e panna cioccolata, le torte le torte di limone, le torta di arancia, le torte al cioccolato...and ofcourse il vino. 
I was nourished, nourished in body and spirit.

Guardar, Anusare, Gusto... Look, Smell, Taste

2011 10 febbraio

Guardar, Anusare, Gusto… Look, Smell, Taste…

            I will start the moment backwards. I will start the moment with the wine already in me, in my system, as to let it’s influence in me influence you. I will start from the moment Lorenza asked me if I learned anything from the evening’s wine tasting session…my reply to Lorenza was, as best as I could say in Italian, “meglio di prima.” I meant this to mean “better than before.” I meant to express to Lorenza, and to myself, that I now knew a lot more about the gift of wine than I did just two and a half hours ago.

            In my mind I had just wandered through a vineyard, picked juicy red grapes off of the most luscious green vines and bit into the red fruits that instead of being forbidden asked me to be bite into them. I let their juice be absorbed by taste buds, absorbed my entire body and even absorbed by my mind.

            But before their purifying poison penetrated in me I learned I must look at the wine. I must look to see how the light penetrates through the wine. Dark wines don’t allow for the light to cross through. So I held my glass up to the light, like the priest does with the precious blood of Jesus Christ, but instead of praying I scrutinized my wine. It was so dark it looked like blood.

            Next, the wine expertise Alessandrina directed us to smell our wine and tell her with words what the wine smelled like. I said aloud that my wine smelled like wine. I knew no other words that would suffice to capture this smell. It was simply a scent of wine. I was still an amateur at this I thought to myself…but Alessandrina did agree with me that it smelled like wine. Then she handed out a sheet stating about 100 different ways you can describe a wine. Yeah, I was still an amateur.

            Finally we were allowed to sip from our glass…of course moving our glass in a circular motion…and let the wine drip onto our tongues for a taste. Oh the excitement of not knowing what it is going to taste like!

            …There are numerous kinds of wine in the world, but really Alessandrina said there are only two types of wine in the world: the one’s you like and the one’s you don’t like. She is a wine expert.

            We tasted four treasures, four wines. But there are only two types of wine in the world.

The first wine was called Lambruschi Modensia, from Modena…and I was excited because I had walked the streets of Modena, and now Modena was swimming through me. This was the wine I said simply smelled like wine. Wine one, still an amateur. I said it tickled my tongue… it had an acidic absorption on my tongue. It was dry… that’s what the other students said and I nodded my head although I was still quite unsure what that meant. Lambruschi Modensia had no aftertaste; I couldn’t say I liked it very much. I like aftertastes; I like the wine to mingle around for a bit. Just because I’ve swallowed it I don’t want the taste to leave my mouth for my stomach. The stomach can be selfish that way sometimes.

            Wine two was called Il Gutturnio, “un vino dal carattere spicatto e deciso, espressione di una cultura e di un territorio.” From my own and new capability of the understanding of the Italian language I believe this means a wine with character and expression of a culture and a territory. I was tasting the hills from the Province of Piacenza. Il Gutturnio comes from this diverse territory, like its diverse smell. I say diverse because I did not want to simply say that this wine smelled like wine. And this time I really tried to smell this wine for something other than wine…and I did. I closed my eyes and let my nose take control. And because of my nose my mind pictured myself in a floral dress tied in the back with a big bow, standing on my tippy toes behind a wooden gate. Behind this wooden gate there were miles and miles of flowers, all different kinds of flowers. And my nose smelled all these different colored, different kinds of flowers in one glass of red wine.

            The third wine was called Sangiovese di Romana, and although it has a beautiful name, I could smell no beautiful odor. I looked at it, smelled it and tasted it…and then handed it over to Michael who not so delicately devoured it.

            The last of the wines left to taste was my favorite. It was called Negrettino Bolognese, a newly rediscovered wine of my newly discovered wine. This wine had been produced many years ago but do to some natural disasters it was lost and just rediscovered three years ago. When I smelled Negrettino Bolognese I smelled a robust Earthy odor. The earth sat on my tongue, and I let it sit there, and when I finally swallowed I felt whole. I didn’t want another wine. Negrettino Bolognese is the only red wine native to Bologna and the only wine taste I wanted to taste that evening.

            When Lorenza asked me if I learned anything from the evening I responded with a little bit of Modena, Piacenza, Rome and lastly and bestly Bologna in me. With every look, taste and smell I learned about how precious wine is and the places of which they came.  I walked the Bolognese streets dancing and skipping hand in hand with Kristin back to Collegio Alma Mater. My veins were a fertile ground, absorbing bits of Bologna and its nearby neighbors. Now they were all my neighbors and I knew them all a little more.

MALTA

February 12, 2011

“I love being in Malta. I love being in a place I had no idea existed. I had no idea Malta was on the map of the world, an island in the sea, a piece of land…a place in this world- And now I am here. I am a person in this place, a person in Malta.”

            These were the thoughts swimming through my mind as I sat on the bus, my eyes facing out of the window, my face facing the Mediterranean Sea; my face freshened (and even tanned) by Malta.

            Malta, Gozo, Comino…Archipelagos taking their name from the largest Island MALTA.  Malta is a young country, and it makes me feel young…. Young because like a child I didn’t have any expectations of Malta and like a child I was eager to see whatever Malta had to offer…

            Malta has only been independent for 46 years, since 1964. I could say I have been independent since 2009 when I left Miami, Florida for college in Mobile, Alabama. Yet, I feel this journey of studying abroad in Italy has transformed my level of independence to a greater, more expansive and truer level of independence. Sure, I still rely on my parents and without them would not have been able to embark on this endeavor; but I am here and I am independent, making my own decisions, becoming more and more independent, just like Malta.

            Malta was always ruled by differing countries, always being colonized by the strongest country of the time. Malta is a mark of these various rulers who left behind their testimonies in many beautiful and stylistically different buildings. The diversity of this country is also evident in the language of the Maltese people. The Maltese language is a song composed of many different tongue tunes, many different languages…

            …Like my many different tunes sang in the Maltese Karaoke Scotsman pub where I drank beer and wine- and spilled it too- I spilled my heart out in song and dance. I sang different songs with different accents and different tones. Truly Maltese tongue. And the fact that I didn’t sing the songs correctly, (as I always do) was actually really Maltese of me to do so… as I defend this fact by what Todd told me about the Maltese language: proper English in Malta is frowned upon because it makes you seem as if you are “better” than the rest of your fellow Maltese people. When in Malta, do as the Maltese.

            Malta has been inhabited for 7,000 years. For the 1^st 5,000 years we have no idea who inhabited it (…just last week I had no idea ANYONE inhabited Malta). Malta is home to the world’s oldest standing building- a Neolithic temple from 3,600 B.C. (The pyramids are from 3,000 B.C.) A new country in my book, but not to the rest of the world.

            A piece of Italy, Sicily is only 60 miles away... Malta is 19 miles long and 18 miles wide- yes that is the entire country! There are 414,000 inhabitants…that is 1,300 people for every square kilometer.

            Malta was called “Melita” for its honey production and honey color. Yet, I give Malta the color….well, the color of Malted milk. Original thought or not this is Malta’s color to me. Milky, malty…malted milk. Like the malted color of stone street walls I walked past up to the little cake and coffee café overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. A table in a cafe, my butt on a chair, and the rest of the world literally next to me…the Mediterranean Sea was to my right and the Maltese land was miles underneath me as I sat on a cliffed café.

            In Malta, as our tour guide said (10million times) you can tell the age of a building by the color of the stone. The lighter color usually means a younger stone…Malta has a light stone color (aha…it is a young country indeed)…this stone is Malted Milk. Like bakers add Malt to their bread to help it rise, Malta will soon rise to be a delicacy country of the world… Risen up on it’s own!

            No more ruling reigns, Malta is it’s own country…as I am becoming my own person.

            ….

            MALTA-zumas revenge got the best of me…or so did its wine. Day two consisted of a bus tour around the island, with several stops along the way to a “replica” of the pantheon in Rome, a fishing village, and the walled “malted milk” color town called Mdina (the old capital of Malta…it’s now Valetta)…a rocky bus ride up the mountains…Michael got sick and within 15 minutes so did I. An emergency cab ride later where Michael and I speechlessly suffered in the back seat and Todd worried in the front seat, we were back at “Europa Hotel” (really a hostel) and I slept the sickness away. I was feeling so sick I couldn’t even think of what I was missing in Malta and I couldn’t even think about how mad I would be that I was missing it.  Sleeping for many hours during the day for me is unusual and I hate to do it, but this is the only way I’d be able to see tomorrow. So I did, really without a choice because that’s all my body would let me do. I didn’t get upset but just accepted it as a fact that I needed to rest and I would really make sure to enjoy the next day or moments out of bed in Malta…and I did.

Later that evening I was able to make it to GuLuLus restaurant for a Maltese meal…bread and every vegetable and bean dip, the tenderest chicken and date fritters with ice cream and ricotta tortellini. My stomach couldn’t handle the wine just yet. But I was getting Malta back into my system…while everyone else went out Chelsea and I walked along the coast of the Mediterranean Sea from St.Julians city back to the other side where our hotel was situated…

            We passed along many teenagers, probably just a little younger than me (how sad to write I am no longer a teenager) who spoke what sounded like slang English. This is the Maltese language.

             Recuperated and feeling better I was ready for cliff hiking the next day! About fourteen of us hoped on a bus and rode for 30 minutes up up up up up up up up up to the cliffs. Limestone was set expansively across the land and when the limestone came to an end…the Mediterranean Sea expanded to a sight of never ending beauty. It was still from a distance and even when I hiked my way threw the prickly bushes and up and down the limestone it was still still. Everybody went exploring their own ways and I hiked my way through fields of flowers, up limestone rocks into limestone caves and lied down on a rock just staring out to the world. I let the sun hit me and I was waiting for some extreme thought to hit me…like if I was waiting for a revelation; here I am in one of the most beautiful places one could only imagine, up on a cliff all alone, sitting on a limestone rock, the Mediterranean sea salt in my nostrils and the reflection on my pupils…I felt like I needed to journal about this moment, about my feelings. But I didn’t want too. And I told myself that I should. I needed to write about the smell of the flowers, the views, everything…I said a little prayer…and then I didn’t write anything. I just lied there. And I loved it. I let myself be. No revelation came to me expect a little voice, it was my own voice that told me to just lie down and relax. And I lied down and sat underneath the Maltese sun…and I just lied there. And I was in a pure state of happiness.

     And once my body wanted to get up again and wander I let it. I wandered my way to a family standing behind their van selling fruits and vegetables…I asked for an apple and some carrots and took out my wallet. I had bills of 20 euros and handed it to the man but he asked me for change and I told him I only had 20 cents. He said that is how much it all cost anyhow and he happily took my 20 euro cents and I happily took my apple and carrots and plopped myself in the company of great friends, Elle and Kristin and enjoyed my Maltese treats. I let myself be.

A drop of Modena

Modena: 8 febbraio 2011

(Philosophy class trip to Modena, Italy)

            I walked off the “tren” from Bologna to Modena with 3.30 euro less in my wallet, but got back on the “tren” richer- wealthier in unexpected riches. 3.30euro to enter another Italian city, another jewel in the treasure box that I call Italy. Fantastico!

            Modena is home for my philosophy professoressa Caterina Zanfi, yet to me it was a land of the unknown. Without any expectations I arrived. It was like picking up a book I’ve never heard of before and reading it over the summer and returning during winter break to see the book on my book shelf and smiling as I recall “favorite” parts and fond memories of the story.

            Staring at the doors of the “Duomo di Modena” I listened to Professoressa Caterina “teachingly talk” about the Adam and Eve sculptures sculpted on the walls… At first Eve is depicted as a breast less woman, not to belittle her femininity, but to express her purity. Neither man nor woman is ashamed, as they are naked in all their human glory.  After the temptation scene Adam and Eve are hiding, leaves sprouted on their bodies to cover their “spots of shame.” Eve has blossomed breasts, her buds of shame. They are in clothing, covering cloth to cover and conceal their humanly “cowardice.” Caterina spoke of slithering snakes that were sculpted as suffocating the lions- symbolic snakes- symbolizing how power can be a suffocating privilege.

            Staring and listening…. the walls looked white to me and the doors looked wooden. The walls were indeed white and the doors were indeed wooden, not only “to me” but ‘tis fact- it is this way, even to a color-blind person.  Yet, once I looked beyond the fact of white walls and wooden doors and entered inside of Modena’s Duomo, a city I have never heard of before, a city foreign to my ears and eyes, Modena was no longer a foreigner and no longer forgotten to my mind and heart…Once I walked into the Duomo church, the murmuring of praying people, of a praying priest, prayers musically murmured on as this church’s coronating power coronated my heart with prayer and I became astounded by it’s beatitude-ing beauty.

            The numerous columns were built in brick. The walls weren’t frescoed. The pews were wooden. Passing the pews, I walked closer to the altar. Astounding altar. Six silver candles swayed their illuminating serenity. A golden gate glimmered, adorned with floral finesse. Faithful flowering. My faith was flowering. It seems ridiculous to say that a church building can make my faith grow, but in all my observations (and in my un-paying attention to Caterina’s soft voice) I let my mind wander and this time I didn’t take control of my thoughts, I didn’t tell them where to look or what to think about what they saw. I was in a city I had no idea even existed; yet I felt completely at home. The other students were way ahead of me; I stayed standing near the altar and looked up- Jesus floated above my head crucified to a cross. The conversation inside my mind…“Jesus is crucified so many times, too many times, in so many places, so many churches, and yet I think this is the first time I can recall remembering and seeing Jesus’ crucifixion this way…actually seeing him above me, I am so small underneath him, I am so small compared to his sacrifice. I see Jesus’ life story depicted on so many church walls and doors…but this is what his life resulted in…and for me, for us all.” 

            Then I go on thinking about how this church could have been, or could still be, an opera house.  It seems to me that also above my head are opera balconies with red velvet décor hanging from them. The wood, the bricks, the golden gates, the silver candles…Jesus… this house is for anyone, the rich, the poor, the wealthy, the peasants, the beggars, the king. He is our king. Yet, he is not always above us reminding us of his sacrifice. But, he is always with us.

…Modena

            As a class we entered the Duomo’s museum and I became completely bewildered of what I saw. It seemed to me as if humans centuries ago looked nothing as humans do now. There were humans with three arms, three legs, humans possessing both female and male body parts, humans in every possible flexible position…it was either a museum of yoga and its art or a museum of the karma sutra.

             There was a statue of what I thought were twins in the womb, next to each other in opposing fetal positions. The saint of the Church’s name resembled that of “Gemini” and I thought he was the patron saint of twins…I even told Lorie and Katie (twins) that he was the saint of twins. Katie bought his figurine statue. I asked about the twin statue only to be informed it was a human with a dragon.  Well was I wrong.

             I seemed to know less about Modena than I thought I knew… I didn’t even know (or really recall) who Pavarotti was, although Chelsea had showed me a song of his just days before. An extremely famous opera singer (who’s name isn’t even corrected on word’s spell check.) We passed his house, Chelsea gasped, my mind wandered. We passed his daughter on the street…Caterina whispered this to me. Pavarotti’s daughter was walking with a bambina and nibbling on a piece of bread. Caterina told me not to make a big deal about it but I raced to Chelsea to spread the word…too late, by that time she was gone and had passed the corner.

             It seems to me that the most I learned about Modena was through letting my mind wander and letting myself be intrigued by the city…and also by listening to Caterina when she wasn’t teaching, but just talking to me as we walked to our destinations. Little did I know I was walking on water… as I do in Bologna. I had no idea these cities were built above water. The church I was awed by was constructed in the 11^th century and had been bombed after the World Wars (and of course re-constructed)!

            We passed by a little vinegar shop, vinegar barrels and all in the “finestra” window… I was brought back to the memory of being a tiny restaurant in a corner of Venice with my family when I had visited Europe for the first time for my fifteenth birthday. One drop of 100-year-old vinegar on my lettuce lead salad and it was the richest tasting salad I had tasted in the fifteen years of my being.

            With just a drop of ancient Modena, like a drop of aged vinegar on my salad, I too became richer- richer with history, knowledge, and faith.

A day in Bologna. A great day in my life.

6 febbraio 2011

Waking up slowly… at mezzagiorno (afternoon) I wake up to nibble on bread, yogurt (ferme saved from la mensa), and an apple. I’m exhausted from Florence. I feel great. I feel exhausted. I walk over to Elle and Kristin’s room and find them nibbling on bread, cheese and salami. We nibble together. I leave for my room to lie on my bed and read my book “Conversations in Sicily”… I wake up again at five in the afternoon, walk over to Elle and Kristin’s room, they have just woken up as well. Lee wants to go get gelato, so I throw my Collegio Alma Mater sweatshirt on and we all walk over in the crisp cold to Dolce Mania Gelateria and nibble on our gelato, my butt situated on the floor while we talk about Florence. Kristin orders a “to go” gelato for Elle and heads back five (well more like 25) steps to campus. Chelsea, Lee and I walk over to Java so I can get my caffeine fix so I don’t fall into slumber again. Lee and I stay for almost an hour talking to the barrista from Morocco. I have a caffe’, a cappuccino and a light coke because its black and red zebra and giraffe decorated bottle goes well with my one-other-bottle coke bottle collection. Lee and I get a free dinner from all the apperativos we were allowed to help ourselves too… molto (many) croissant pigs in a blanket, little puffer croissants and olive pasted toasts. Delitzioso and Gratiz! The barrista gave us a discount and told us to come back next weekend. No doubt. I head back to campus Collegio Alma Mater to blog in “Stargate Study Room”… all the architects are avidly studying but Vittorio takes a break to teach me out of My “Italy” book about his place, where he comes from, from Umbria. Gia and I share music, and we both blog. The blog bug has bitten me. I’m “fixing” to get a glass of wine and have a Superbowl Monday in the basement. A day in Bologna. A great day in my life.

Doors Into Firenze

I stare at what I call a “Gilded Golden Glory.” It is a door. Not the wooden heavy front door of my home back in Miami. Not the white door that opens to my room back in Spring Hill. It is quite like the main doors of Collegio Alma Mater- it is a door opening me up into the life of Italy. Yet, it is completely different. It opens me up to an Italian life that existed centuries ago, one that exists now merely because the door still exists, but this life does not exist any more (other than the physical existent buildings). But if it weren’t for these doors, no one could have entered into this Italian world, not then, not now.

            This “Gilded Golden Glory” gives the depiction of the life of St. John the Baptist. A saint known, praised and glorified worldwide, yet all the more in Florence because he is the Patron Saint of this terrific (yet presently too touristy) Tuscan city. The door was created in the fourteenth century, but the adorning trees surrounding St. John the Baptist were “sprouted” during the fifteenth century. The towering, twirling Tuscan trees I see out in the distance may be older than me, but they are of this lifetime…not of the lifetime of St. John the Baptist nor of the lifetime of the trees shading him over the centuries.

            People like me who stare at this door (some not even knowing that this is St. John the Baptist) are not the people who opened this door to enter the church to pray and worship. I, we are now simply people observing and appreciating the door- just as I am observing and appreciating this city. I could touch the door and stare at the door-, which I did indeed do. I felt awed by its astounding and intricate beauty, yet I felt smaller than myself, I felt inferior. I felt like I was not worthy enough to just stand there. The door was not created for people to just stand there in front of it. This was a church door was created indeed for its majestic materialistic art- but it was created for more than that. It was a door opening up to the house of the Lord.

            Just as I felt inferior in front of the “Gilded Gold Glory” door- I felt the same quite often throughout Florence-feeling that I am only just a visitor in this city. This city is not mine, nor is it the city of the beyond thousands of tourists who overpopulate it            Atop the tower, thousands of feet high staring out under the Tuscan sun to all of Firenze I saw Florence as it is now- ornate churches, golden doors, cobblestone streets with saint statues on the corners…but, I could imagine how it was many moons ago, centuries ago, when the Medici family ruled….

            Now there are materialistic markets overflowing with goods (especially Florentine genuine leather!), moons ago they were selling fish and meat and cheeses (oh how I love the smell when I near a cheese shop…and a panneria!)…And so too probably leather… not millions of gloves, wallets, and trinkets and especially not shot glasses.  I get so enthused about markets, and was extremely enthusiastic about Florence’s market. I guess I was “one of those” in the market, one of those who fell victim to the market mania…but I was a manic with purpose. I was in search of the perfect leather book sack. This would be my Florentine purchase…. and thanks to Chelsea who shared the same leather desire, she found a sweet little lady in her sweet little leather shop with the sweetest leather bags (like if I were a child with the sweetest tooth) I finished my gelato in the leather store and then proceeded to find the next thing to satisfy my sweet tooth…the leather bag! I tried on several bags, needing to find just the right one…and I did. But it was juts not the right color, not the right flavor... and so the sweet little lady left me and Chelsea and Elle in her shop while she went out to her stand in the market to get the bag in just the color I wanted (She trusted us alone in her shop, I am a trustworthy person, but this bewildered me). Chelsea and I pranced around the shop until the sweet little lady came back and gave us a sweet discount on our bags. Walking for almost 16 hours the entire day (morning, afternoon and night) I didn’t feel guilty about the gelato and I didn’t feel guilty about the bag because it will last me a lifetime, for all the hours I will walk with it on my back.

            Now onto opening the other doors of Florence…

            The door of the “Battistero” (The Baptistery door) was another immaculately beautiful door in Florence, opening up the doors back into what Florence was like centuries ago. The preparation and adorning of this door sparked a competition greater than gold, a competition to see who would create the best door for the Baptistery in 1401. Bruneleschi was among the competitors, but the winner was Gilberti who followed the Gothic style of the time and represented all the scenes of the life of Christ including the doctors of the church, the four apostles. These four figures stood at the base of the door because they represented Jesus’ life.

            …And after I penned the information of the Baptistery door in my journal I wrote, “the wind is throwing my hair around- I am being blown around”- blessingly beautiful abundances. I paid attention to what Elisabetta was saying with my ears, but sometimes the details of everything around me- distracted my eyes and I could no longer listen to her and my thoughts were not Elizabetta’s words but my own thoughts on my own interpretations of the door.  A beggar, a mother, begged while I stood at “the door of paradise.” Michelangelo called this winning door “The Door of paradise” and I call it this not because I am a posing follower, but because I agree, and because it is.

            I have my camera in one hand, and my notebook and pen in the other…and the world all around me. And it is appropriate to say symbolically say “the world” because Florence is the most diverse city I have yet to experience thus far in all of Italy.

            When I went to sleep at night beneath unwashed red fleece sheets in the sketchiest- yet, probably like most hostels, atop 415 steps to its anonymous wooden door, finding a man with thin light brown and somewhat greasy hair behind a night stand also the color of his hair and a dim dainty light serving as a reception desk -- I heard not Italian voices but the voices of English speaking Americans. The menu’s were in English- and translated into almost every language. The people I asked for directions understood my English. I didn’t order a cornetto, but a croissant. There was no struggle to get by. It was like if I had left the country but I hadn’t left the people.

            …and like Elio Vittorini says in the novel I began to read in the hostel bed (probably accompanied my Florentine bed bugs) “Conversation in Sicily,” Vittorini describes the different conversations he hears while traveling “…but I had come to know the man with the oranges, the Big Lombard, the man from Catania, the young malaria victim wrapped up in his shawl…maybe it did make a difference whether I was in Siracusa or somewhere else.”  I agree, the people do make a difference, they make up the place. The people are the place. They are the moving, present day alive statues, which fill Florence.

            I have come to know the people of Bologna…from Sarah to Steffano and the other two girls who sit with me for almost three hours in the Collegio Alma Mater lobby as I make Italian flashcards of probably almost every single Italian word I know. We sit, we sing, we sing “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious…” in English and they teach it to me in Italian. I recite it to everyone who passes by.  The poor man at the reception has to hear me struggle 100 times saying “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious! Anche se il suono È qualcosa di atroce Se si dice abbastanza forte Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!” (which I know have taped onto my bed wall to rehearse every night before bed). Then the poor reception man has to hear me say it another 100 times when I feel I have perfected it.

            Sarah and Steffano are my teachers. So is my professoressa Elisabetta who took us as a class to Florence. A wild thing! People study what I study, art history, all around the world. And I feel so honored, so privileged to literally marathon run to a train station, and by the time I catch my breath, have my breath be taken away by the art of which I have and am studying. It is right before my eyes, and although I cannot touch it nor can I photograph it, I can see it closer than most any other students. I can see the paint, I can see it beautifully chipping away with time.

            While Elisabetta was teaching about a painting in the Duomo, I heard Todd mutter under his breathe to another student how people pay over 200euro for a private tour like this! And  here I was journaling away in the Duomo… I am a student. Studentessa.

            I learn not only from Elisabetta’s class, but also from what I hear, from what I see, from what I read, from what I taste, from the mistakes I make (like ordering a calamari pizza with no cheese). I learn from teaching too…

            MI PIACHE. (I like). This was my favorite part of being in Florence…Gia met a lady, a teacher who taught second graders in Florence, while she was working as a hostess in L.A at Duke’s restaurant. Gia, the social Queen Bee, my great friend here, told this teacher how she would be studying in Italy next semester and next thing you know this lady, Romina, told Gia to come to her school to teach the bambinos English! Gia told me how she had signed us all up to teach at the school and I was thrilled! The day before teaching, we (Me, Gia, Sarah, Mark, Chelsea and Elle) were sitting on our hostel beds and Gia asked who was still in. I was. And so was Gia. It ended up being us two…the two adventurers. The next day I woke up early to see the sun rise on the Ponte Vechio with Chelsea, enjoyed a cappuccino and a frutta croissant and met up with Gia. Gia and I crossed Ponte Vechio, stopped for another espresso and headed to the school with very vague directions.

            Gia and I became two school children, making friends with a Florentine mother and her two bella bambinas who were heading to the same school we were trying to find. I felt like I was no longer a tourist in this city, a feeling that I had since felt since arriving in Florence. I was a bambina too, a child exploring Florence. Many more mothers joined us and Gia and I gave “chinques” (high fives) to all the children, asking them questions and they skipped in front of us and behind us, in their boots and smiling faces eager to get to scuola!

            Children kissed their parents goodbye and ran up the steps into their classrooms. Rooms where they learn, and where I did too through teaching. Romina came running down the steps. A thin, blonde, hyper, kind young lady embraced both Gia and I and I did not feel like a stranger. As soon as I entered the classroom, I did not stop smiling for the three hours Gia and I were there.

            All the children looked like little Madeline’s in their blue robes, the blue robes of the little were embroidered and decorated with white iolite. These children were all so beautiful and intelligent… and so eager to learn English. Carmelina, a beautiful seven year old, the daughter of the most famous neurosurgeon in all of Italy, already knew the language and served as a translator between me and the children. She hopped on over to help me when I was trying to speak to Francesco. She was patient and kind. We taught the children the days of the week, the colors, what they liked and what they didn’t like… which most of their replies were “I like gelato” and “I don’t like vegetables.”  We went over the colors by example with their colored pencils. They wanted to know the exact difference between the light reds and dark reds, the light blues, the turquoises, the dark blues. I taught them all I could. Standing there in front them, some of them almost as tall as me…the twins Niccolo and Cosimo were bright smiled boys while Cosmo seemed like a little sad puppy who slammed his fists on the tables when he was frustrated.  Romina stood by him until he got it and Gia and I gave him high fives, his face no longer drooped down. The children, Francesco, Niccolo, Cosimo, Cosmo, Giulia, Carmelia, Vichenzo and all the others drew pictures of us and hugged us so tighly. In this Scula Nadia Nencioni I learned more than I thought I could. I learned about myself and of these Italian children and of Romina. I learned how life is about passions and if you are not passion about something do not bother. I stood up in the classroom and I learned how I was passionate to help these children learn, even when they were frustrated with differences of colors that were the same (like orange and peach and light orange) they learned too because they were passionate about learning- even puppy Cosmo. I showed them a globe and where I was from and where they were. They were all so impressed- but I was more impressed by them. There intelligence at the age of seven, their compassion at the age of seven. They saw me struggle with their language- and even at venti years old, they didn’t laugh or think I was stupid. They understood where I cam from and helped me. They were the one’s with patience, with me, when I tried to talk to them they struggled with me, until we had it…and figured out that they hated vegetables and liked gelato. We shared stories about our sorrellas and fratellos (brothers and sisters) and our pets. We hugged and we laughed... and then it was snack time for the children, bread and oranges and it was time for Gia and I to go and visit the David at the Galleria dell’ Accademia. The children embraced us and begged us to come back, as so did Romina. They showed us their drawings of us and we took many pictures with them. Although regardless of the photos, there is no way this moment

            The steps to the David, the steps up to the hostel, the steps to the Michelangelo park, the steps to Romina’s second grade hostel and the 830 steps to the top of the tower…I was stepping all over the word.

Atop the tower, Chelsea and I tried to give Florence a color. I imagined the color of Verona was beige, whiter with a stain of red for it’s romantic feel. I tried to give Florence a tower while I stood there, facing the Duomo and the entire city.  Like the children wanted to know the exact difference of color between their orange colored pencil and a lighter orange color pencil- I wanted to give Firenze (how Florence is said in Italian) an exact color, and just as seven year old Giulia gave her pencil the name of what would be a color of a crayola crayon, so I  did to Florence: Wheat macaroni. It wasn’t quite yellow nor was it quite brown-ish. But it was the color of uncooked wheat macaroni. (and just now I recall, by looking at my journal writings that Elisabetta said the color, the real color, of Florence id Violet!)Yet, the front of the Duomo is an exception. The inside of the Duomo felt somewhat empty compared to it’s exterior. The interior was indeed beautiful with frescoes and paintings but the outside was beyond expressively ornate, intricate and beyond beautiful. The Duomo is the city’s geographical and historical focus. And with reason. The exterior of the Duomo blew me away with its richly decorated marbles and reliefs. Never had I seen such a beautifully built building. The façade of the Duomo, however, did not match it’s interior as it was commissioned to be rebuilt in another century.

It was breathtakingly stunning as the Tuscan sun was burning me, seeing the Duomo from the tower. I had the most spectacular view of arguable one of the most spectacular cities in the world!

            Along with beauty on a corner street comes some not so beautiful times on the same corner streets. Witnessing a photo shoot taking place on a column of a street corner I saw the street corner where I faced one of those not so beautiful times. I thought this lady was beautiful, in her politically correct way to say “Roma” and not “gypsy” outfit, begging for money. Elisabetta was teachingly professing about statues inside a wall while I pulled out my camera and took a photo of this Roma lady. The photo was blurry. I put my camera away and then I could smell the lady next to me. For some reason, I smelt fear. I smelled myself. She was yelling at me. The class paused. David ran over to stand in front of me. People were nodding their heads at me to not give her money.  I did not know what to do. She seemed brute. She seemed hungry. Todd threw some money into her cup but she continued to fuss. I threw in some money, although others nodded not to. She wanted more. I threw in some more. Some people thought she wanted to steal my camera. That thought didn’t even cross my mind. I thanked Todd and David and Todd told me it was a personal decision to give her money, you can’t give them all money but it is up to you to give to whom you want. My mind felt tortured at that moment. I did take a photo of her and would have given her money but when she started being so verbally brutal with me I no longer wanted to. I trembled for a moment but then stood still. I thought of my social justice class, and how I had defended these people, and I still wanted to, but at  that moment I felt victimized. Yet, I wasn’t even the victim.

            Walking away from that corner street, the class proceeded to see more. We moved away from tourist locations into a local neighborhood where in a little nook of a corner was situated a beautiful cathedral called Santa Maria del Fiore. It took almost fifteen years just to make the door, and yet we only stood inside for ten minutes for that was all that was allowed even with our paid entrance. I saw depictions of Adam and Eve, their story will always intrigue me. Probably because it was the first Bible parable I could recall.

            We were viewing things from the humanistic period- a period focusing on, well on the human as an individual. We are the viewer, I am who chooses what to see while here in Florence (and in all of Italy). While walking on the side streets of Florence there was a wall next to me and on the other side of the wall there was water and beautiful buildings. I could see the buildings and even the bridges, but it did not occur to me that I could not see the water. Chelsea and Gia were talking about how beautiful it was and that’s when I whispered to myself that “Oh, I can’t see” and it didn’t even bother me but they picked me up and I saw the water, the reflection of the buildings and the bridge on it and saw all of its beauty.

            The Ponte Vechio (a bridge that was saved even after Hitler and WWII) was where I stood to watch the rising if the Tuscan sun with Chelsea. The street looked like little wooded treasure boxes and jewelry boxes and at 8:30 in the morning one could see the little wooded treasure boxes open up and see the glimmer of silver and gold jewelry- and nothing else for the street of Ponte Vechio is only to sell gold and silver. It used to sell meats and cheeses and then goldsmiths took it over and since then it has become a law to only sell such treasures.

            Once Kristin and Lee joined us in Florence (we had planned to train trip to Pisa and Sienna, but then opted to stay in Florence) we escaped throughout the streets. On our Saturday night we ate pizza and wine and on our Sunday we had gelato and encountered a Chocolate Festival in one of the piazzas of Florence! I had chocolate covered strawberries and chocolate covered pineapples while others had cups of chocolate, chocolate bananas, chocolate bars… we were on a chocolate craze.. and I let go of any worries and enjoyed my chocolate covered treasures. (as a girl, today was the perfect day for chocolate for my cramps were now cured). Florence was sweet.