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.