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