A family experience in the Italian Alps

Backyard view from Florian's house. Epic.

Half-eaten main course of lunch at Florian's house. The blurry thing to the right is Franziska, Sabine's pocket-size best friend who spent almost the entire weekend with Sabine and me. The food, Sabine's good friend and the family playing cards in the background well sum up the weekend.

Getting ready to ski!

This weekend I went to South Tyrol, the Italian area bordering Austria where most speak German before Italian. It was a snow-covered and family-oriented place where most grow or raise a portion of what they eat. I stayed with Sabine, a girl who stayed with Anna while on a school trip in my first two weeks in Florence. Highlights were hearing 'Sweet Caroline' in two different bar settings and claiming it, plus sweet hot wine with a German name I can't remember. Low points were on the 6-hour train ride to and from, and on the return having to stand for two hours while 14-year-olds kidded around and bumped, though really worth it. I slept in Sabine's bed, we painted our nails one night, it felt like a sleepover.

First night: went to a Christmas market in Bolzano and drank that hot wine, then went to a hockey game. The fanatics had drums and flags. I'm not sure if it was this night or another, but I believe we went to a town famous for its nativity dioramas in store and home windows. One was made of chocolate.

The first full day we went skiing in the Italian Alps (!) I borrowed Sabine's mom's skis, Sabine's ski clothes, and we just went when we woke up, no big deal. It was beautiful and warm. The rocks that made up the mountains were a light brown, not blackish brown, which I'd never seen before. We ran into one of Sabine's old friends, Filippe (sp?) and skied with him for a bit. He's a butcher, meaning when people in the area want their animals killed and gutted, Filippe's the guy to call. At lunchtime, we ate in a restaurant on the side of the mountain and went into this bar in a tent where people were dancing and swinging around their drinks in a way I always pictured Germans would. It was warm and jolly.

That night we had pizza for dinner, take-out from a place that was walking distance from her house, and went to a pub and 'Juwel Club,' pronounced three different ways depending on if you want to say the name in English, Italian or German. The D.J. at the pub said that I was the first American he had ever met and gave me a shout-out in English. Nice change to be the 'cool' American tourist. We were at Juwel until it closed at 4 and walked home. The music was mostly American, as it has been most places I've visited in Europe, but there was the occassional German tune and less occassionally Italian songs. It was a young crowd, a weird experience to be in a club and feel older than the room's average, though with enough bright pink Hello Kitty shots I didn't care.

Sunday we saw Ortis, a man from the Bronze Age that was discovered near the area. The scientists know almost every mundane fact about Ortis, from what his last meal was to what areas he lived in to how long his hair was. We had lunch at Sabine's boyfriend's house. Her boyfriend's a carpenter, and his family runs a bed and breakfast. SO good. The appetizer was bacon with two great breads, main course was dumplings and strodel(?), then the dessert was essentially funnel cake and jam, but better than the state fair.

Overall, it was neat to stay at a home in a completely unique culture and setting from anything I've ever experienced. I took apples for the train ride home that the Schrotts had harvested themselves, plus a turkey sandwich. Also great to see snow and ski for most likely the only time this year right before Christmas.

Singing monks, clubbing, and visiting Lucca

The weekend. I planned my most valuable day of the week, Saturday, around a visit to San Miniato to hear monks sing. Mistakes, I'll get to that.

After finally leaving the apartment around noon, Nil and I wandered around the city for a bit and went to Santa Croce. Because this was Nil's first time in this church where some big names--Leo, Mickey, Machiavelli, Dante and Galileo-- are buried and my third, she was wanting to spend more time there than I was. I left her and met Emily and Blair for coffee. On the way back, we were caught in a water protest. There was a block-long blue paper sheet being waved, banners and drummers. I don't really know what it was about. Everything was written in cryptic Italian that I'm sure would be clever and moving if I knew what Florence's current water problems are and were above Intermediate 3 level of Italian.

The three of us then met up with Nil again and went to San Miniato, where I joined Eleonora's tour group and they wandered around the church separately. I could understand a decent amount, there were children aged in the single digits so Eleonora was using simple words. There was a frustrating moment when everyone was guessing what this animal was in this mosaic, then when it was finally revealed that the name of the animal isn't in my Italian vocabulary I was still left in suspense.

I then left the group to meet up with Nil, Blair, Emily and Allison, an old high school friend who happens to be studying abroad in Florence as well this semester, in another part of the church for the highly anticipated monk singing. They had already snagged front row seats. I had imagined that this would be like an A capella performance, or at the very least the monks would have a little more talent than the majority of the performers at the Italian karaoke. Not so. They sang in Latin for at least 30 minutes, mostly solos with three-note ranges. Then they began preaching. It was in Italian and they spoke very slowly, at first exciting because I could understand, but then disappointing because it appears traditional church sermons are universally dull and repetitive, no matter the language.

We left in the middle at a politely less conspicuous time, then went to get warm wine to warm ourselves in the frigid weather and recover from a painful letdown. There's a Christmas market in front of Santa Croce with nicknacks and food from around the world in little stands. I ate a delicious, thick wurst with craut and mustard. I've been told a few times since being here that I could pass as German. I don't know much about the country and haven't met many Germans, but I do like what they do to their pig meat.

That night, Blair and I went to the club Yab and we were dancing almost the entire time, and the fellas were all over Blair. She thinks every European guy's gay and therefore thought all her dance suitors were gay, but I didn't pay enough attention to know for sure for most of them. There was one human being with the same hairstyle as Johnny Depp in Willy Wonka wearing a white, pin-striped suit, thick, square, white-framed glasses, and male dress shoes with heels on them. We couldn't figure out if the human was male or female, it was the worst case of androgyny I'd ever seen. I was wearing black boots with heels that my mom brought me when she came to visit, and on my 20-minute trek home, my feet were dying.

Today, Nil and I went to Lucca, a little city an hour train ride from Florence. Our objective was to see churches, which we did, though less than anticipated. We also happened upon a chestnut festival, where we ate many food samples in a heated building. It's a lot quieter and greener than Florence, though we agreed that Florence is a better place to be living in this time in our lives. It's the best travel makes you appreciate home, or temporary home, more.

What non-Americans think of Americans

Before coming to Florence, there were some generalizations I expected people from other countries to make about Americans-- we're fat, rich, really embarrass ourselves drinking while on vacation or studying abroad-- but some took me off-guard. So, some negative stereotypes of Americans:

We expect everyone to speak English. Several people of different nationalities have told me how lucky I am that English is my first language. The global nature of the language does make life easier while traveling and probably also in finding a job, but it also gives Americans an excuse to never need to learn other languages but still get around foreign places. One Brazilian guy approached two others and me in a bar in Brussels and, after trying to tell us that Brazilians were the ones to invent the first airplane, not the Americans, continued unsolicited into a story that began with a French phrase. He started to translate it, saying 'I know that since you're American you don't speak anything but English,' at which point I cut him off and left. I suppose I was especially sensitive since I'm a resident of the First in Flight state and he began by taking a shot at the credibility of our Wright Brothers, but his presumptuous statement does hit truth about the presumptuousness of Americans. Yes, English is the international language of business and yes, if you don't know the mother language of an area it's probably the best alternative, but especially for smaller countries who want to preserve their cultural identity and language, they appreciate when visitors respect them for hosting us and make a little effort.

American girls are easy. Probably heard this one before. Eleonora's husband, Stefano, was explaining to me that Italian men will go to this specific club in Florence because there are so many American girls, and he said 'it's weird talking to you about this since, you know..' but implied that we're easy. And there's truth to this for the same reasons that we can't handle our alcohol. American girls are especially carefree abroad, both with guys and with alcohol that propels less discretion with men. The American entertainment exported to different countries paint a slutty picture of American girls as well, making the Italian men even more forward than they quite naturally are.

We're flaky. Nil and other people I've met who did exchange programs in the U.S. said that some Americans were very friendly at first, but it was all talk. 'We should do something' was thrown around nonchalantly without any follow-through.

We're 'closed.' I've heard this many times from many people, some citing their experiences in the U.S., some experiences with American tourists. It's not a city versus town, home versus vacation trend. For example, Stefano spent time in Los Angeles, Nil in the more rural Minnesota, they've seen Americans out of their homeland as well. Both used the word 'closed' to describe us. They said that the Americans weren't interested in meeting foreigners, that we only want to spend time with other Americans. One theory of mine is that because the U.S. is possibly the largest area in which the majority of people speak the same language and in the same dialect that more or less everyone can understand, other languages are especially foreign for us. Americans are much more out of their comfort zones with people who speak foreign languages or even English with an accent than, for instance, the Europeans. Because we feel so out of place, we keep to ourselves, which backfires when we seem uninterested. I'm sure there are plenty of closed Americans who genuinely aren't interested in meeting people from other countries or cultures, but I've seen unintentional cold shoulders more than purposeful ones.

This isn't to say that all Europeans or foreigners don't like Americans. Plenty have said very nice things about us Murkins. In fact, probably more good than bad (to my face). Just interesting judgments that may or may not be running through the heads of non-Americans.

Italian karaoke

Did I sing? Yes, 'It's Raining Men.' They convinced me to do it because I'd pronounce the words right.

I'm not sure why, and ironically so considering how awful a singer/performer I am, but karaoke has drawn me in this past year. I went at least four times in Atlanta this summer. We usually went to this place called Metro City Cafe where this guy with hair about to his waist would bring his karaoke equipment and sing his own songs a few times every night in an eerily high-pitched voice. We called him Karaoke Jesus. One time a friend with an identical hairstyle--to his waist--was head-bopping along beside Karaoke Jesus and his equipment until he hit his stride and did a front handspring in the middle of the dance floor. That moment, when his inner star power emerged, was a moment he lived for. I don't think anyone who saw it will forget it.

Anyway, Italian karaoke. Eleonora, my conversation exchange partner, invited me to a little restaurant for dinner and song. Her friend gave me a ride there, one of only two times that I've ridden in a car since being in Italy. There was one Irish woman I met earlier that night there but sat in a different part of the room, but otherwise it was a roomful of Italians. There were 26 people sitting at our table. Apparently this place doesn't normally do karaoke, but someone asked for them to set up karaoke and promised to bring this small herd. Most were in their late 20s or 30s and, refreshingly, were caught up in fun and therefore didn't want bother with English unless there was no way I would understand.

We didn't get our food until 11 but got our alcoholic beverages at least an hour before, making karaoke more tolerable.

Most of the songs were classic Italian songs that, sadly representing my lack of immersion, I'd never heard before, and occasionally classic American songs. As at every karaoke, there was that guy who sang a solo every third song and harmonized when not the lead singer. Someone chose the original version of the song 'We No Speak Americano,' the only Italian song played that I knew, and those around me dedicated it to me. From the moment I walked in, they tried to get me to sing because I'd pronounce the words right. I tried my best to avoid it, but during 'It's Raining Men,' a mike was put in my hand. I panicked and I sang. It was pretty awful, not even funny awful. More uncomfortable awful. They liked my pronunciation but didn't ask me to sing again. Fortunately there was one girl that chose the song 'My Heart Will Go On,' knocking my performance into second place for Biggest Buzzkill.

I did as the Italians do and finished off the meal with an espresso. Seeing as it's 3:42 am and I'm blogging, that might have been a mistake. The setbacks of trying to fit in.

Backlogging: the parents and my pal Al

In the last three weeks, my parents came to visit one week and then my oldest pal, Al. They forced me back into my true role as a tourist. I visited Rome and Siena with my parents, Milan and Venice with Alex.

My parents were originally supposed to fly into Florence for a night, then we were all going to go to Rome together. That morning I get this email from my mother:

I guess you got Dad's skype msg that we are now on our way to Rome. I hate that we won't be w you Fri night, but we will find each other at the Vatican Sat am. We think we will be at Hotel Amalfi...

We get into Rome at 3, so I'm sure we'll be wiped.

I love you

Mom

Having no way to get in touch with them and doubts about finding them 'at the Vatican,' I took the train to Rome to meet them at their hotel after they checked in. I was a little scared when I bought my train ticket and called the hotel to hear that 'The Russells are to check in tomorrow, not today,' but fortunately they were waiting for me at the hotel.

In Rome we did everything a good tourist should do-- spent a day at the Vatican, toured the colliseum, threw coins into the Trevi Fountain. I threw my coin from a level up from the fountain and completely missed the first time, then a man on the lower level picked up my coin and threw it over his shoulder. As the story goes, throwing a coin over your shoulder into the Trevi Fountain means you'll return to Rome, so I wonder what an assist means..

One of better memories sidetracking our trip to the Coliseum to go up a cool-looking tunnel, then entering a church and discovering a really nice horned Moses statue. Turns out the church was San Pietro in Vincoli, and it was Pope Julius II's tomb, made by Michelangelo. Pretty cool to be able to 'happen upon' a Michelangelo piece.

We also had a tour guide at one point who was a UNC graduate. She couldn't find a job that utilized her degree in the U.S., so she decided to visit her Roman friend that she met while studying abroad. One thing led to another and she's a freelance tour guide for the Vatican and

In Florence, Anna made us dinner one night and my conversationexchange.com friend, Eleonora, gave us a tour. And we walked.

And Siena. It was cozy and not quite as gray as Florence. A picture of the city , mostly the Duomo that, of course, we entered and looked around while reading a tourist pamphlet:

Then there was a week during which I wrote very important papers, then Alex came. We set goals to eat a gelato and visit a church every day. I think she was 6/6 for churches, 5/6 for gelato, so priorities were good. We were late to pretty much every train, always my fault, and only one time did it end not ideally.

We started in Milan. It was clean, liveable, not very touristy but still with an Italian feel. Alex had her first aperitivo experience as well as hostel experience, which was much cleaner and quieter than the norm.

This is one of many 'Alex and Horse' shots from the week. This particular horse was in Venice.

The next day we were trying to get to Lake Cuomo, which Study Abroad peers said was gorgeous and Rick Steves said celebs like Madonna and George Clooney frequented the area in his Italy guidebook. We missed the train to the city Rick recommended in his guidebook, my bad, so we took a train to Lecco, a city Rick didn't recommend but I'd seen on a website for Lake Cuomo tourism. On the train there was small talk with a Spanish mom and daughter. I asked them if they were going to Lecco for a vacation. They laughed and said they were going to find work. I wondered why it was funny.

Turns out Lecco had the feel of those little towns in Nevada with gambling computer games supporting the entire community's economy. There was a mountain, there was a lake, but there wasn't much else. We 'brunched' and returned to Milan.

That Friday we went to Venice. It was very cold and very rainy. The perks were our chocolate feast and finding San Marco. Despite San Marco being the biggest tourist magnet in the city and signs at almost every corner, it's pretty hard to maneuver the streets of Venice. My inner middle-aged man is proud to say that we never once asked for directions, I led us there in around two hours by following a map. To Alex's pleasure, there were horses on top of San Marco. On the way back we had hot chocolate, chocolate cake and a chocolate meringue. And that was the only day Alex didn't get her gelato fix.

Wonderful time with guests. Glad I have an old friend and parents who weren't afraid to take advantage of my current living situation and entertained my wealth of Renaissance knowledge I regurgitated onto them as we wandered through Florence. And that I had an excuse for whipping out a map.

I don't know how to delete this picture!!

Fall break of Amsterdam, Brussels and Paris

Six weeks have gone by with only Facebook photo album documentation of my times in Italy. I was kicking myself a little for not writing more on my blog, but then again, I can only recall taking out old journals a few times in my life. Once to refresh the memory for a class paper, another time out of boredom, after which I decided my 16-year-old inner thoughts were not something that should ever be relived. But, just in case life deals me unfortunate cards and I must live vicariously in this experience rather than be busy in a new experience, I'll try to catch up, starting with the fall break of a lifetime. I went to Amsterdam, Brussels and Paris.

Starting with departing from Florence. On the way there, I waited 30 minutes for a train to Pisa before realizing the train wasn't coming (I was engulfed in Harry Potter), so I had to catch another train to get to the airport. When I got to Pisa Central Station, I realized the train to the airport would get me there after check-in time for my flight, so I went down to the street by the station and asked a man unlocking his bike if I should take a taxi to the airport. He said no, I'll walk you there, then put my suitcase on his bike and walked me to the airport. I made it on time for check-in, and he told me if I went to the Florence theater and ask for Alberto the Electrician, he could meet me and give me a tour.

So Amsterdam. This picture, one of many almost identical pictures, well embodies my experience there. I took lots of pictures of Blair and told her "I'd make her famous like Twiggy." Another great Blair memory was the two of us breaking off from the rest of the group to get Thai food and going shopping at one of those gift shops equivalent to Wings in eastern beach towns. After spending a long time contemplating our purchases, I got fingerless, candy cane-striped mittens. The body of the gloves don't keep my hands warm, only remind me of how cold my fingertips are. Blair bought a yellow scarf with purple roses she calls an 'Ed Hardy' scarf.

Other activities in Amsterdam included walking through the redlight district, touring the Van Gogh museum, and hanging out with Dutch boys. Two days wasn't enough.

Then Brussels. I compare the city to Atlanta. Like Hotlanta, which seems a little out of place as a metropolis in the South, Brussels seems to have a bit of an identity crisis as the capital of the EU. It also shares Atlanta's unattractive urban layout and dull, gray building facades. But because it's so awkwardly defined and not a must-see for most tourists, the fun's without affect and doesn't seem to be generated for the masses. The best part was the beer and waffles.

This is a picture at a bar we frequented two nights in a row called Delirium. It had 2,500 different types of beer on tap, a beer-lover's Utopia.

Paris. Here I met high school friend Erin White, who took me on a food tour of the city and made visiting all the must-sees of the city so incredibly easy. I saw the Eiffel Tower, Orsay Museum, Notre Dame and bunches of bridges, among other things. Best things I consumed, a hard call to make, included an omelette, macaroons, and a home-cooked meal at the apartment. Best night out was Halloween. I was a deviled egg, which I realized in retrospect was probably lost in translation in the French-speaking country of France, Erin was Kesha and her roommate Allie was a Frenchman. We danced on a little stage and went back home to eat cheese and watch Jersey Shore. Great to have great friends living in great locations with extra beds.

This is a picture of the Seine River that runs through the city. The trees in the parks and along the river were turning yellow and couples were publicly displaying affection in every romantic or non-romantic (subway?) spot in the city.

That break was amazing. Maybe reliving experiences ain't so bad.

Turning around a mid-semester slump

A month into Florence, I was wondering if I made the right choice by coming here. I'd made a few friends at LdM that went to other universities, but I still spent the majority of my time with fellow UNCers. I thought that I would have more experience interacting with the Italian people and culture, and once the daily 3-hour pre-session of Italian stopped and my classes in English started, my Italian came to a standstill. Nothing wrong with the UNCers, but if I had wanted to hang out with Americans who had similar lifestyles and experiences to mine, I could get in touch with old friends. I wanted the new culture experience, but it felt more like a National Lampoon "Vacation" movie, except college and not family version. So, I did stuff about it.

What I did:

1. Bought Harry Potter in Italian. I know I know, it's a translation and I have yet to hear an Italian talk about how great WB's latest movie trailer is, but it's easier to follow a storyline I know in a language I don't really know. I had wanted to reread the book before the movie comes out, so it's a perfect way to keep the real and fantastical Italian words on the mind. Favorite new word in my Italian vocabulary: Mangiamorte, or Deatheater.

2. Signed up on conversationexchange.com. Mentioned this in the last post, it's a website on which people trying to learn other languages can find each other and meet. Demographic of the people who have messaged me is still primarily 28-year-old males--not 27 or 29, precisely 28--but I've met with another girl from Florence who will speak with me in Italian if she can give me a tour focusing on Medieval art this Friday. Considering I'll have two tests next week that would touch on the subject, I think I'm getting more out of it than she is. There is also another Italian grad school student I'll meet tomorrow to just talk.

3. Hung out more with my Turkish flatmate. Nil isn't Italian, but she's not American either. She's part of Erasmus, a program through which European students study abroad at different universities, and I've gone to events for the Erasmus students. Everyone speaks English and is trying to learn Italian. Perfect. Also, as an individual, Nil is the epitome of dear. Last night I was tired and didn't feel like going out, but I caved under her insistence, put on eyeliner and one of my four outfits and went to a pub with her. I met European students who, unlike many I meet on nights out on the town, I think I'll see again and would like to see again in Florence. On the way home I said I had fun, and Nil said, "I'm just happy to see you happy, because I know we won't have this again after you go back." Wisdom that needs to be prominent on the mind.

4. Signed up for an art class. I've realized with the void of journalism and art classes while taking culture, art history and philosophy in Florence, there's nothing like a class with tangible finished products. When I decided to study abroad in Italy at the start of my college career, I thought I was going to major in art and that it would be the perfect place to do so. In the heat of my battle to go to Bologna in the spring, I dropped the only art class I was taking to add another 3 hours of Italian. Once I let that aspiration go and really started to see the art in Florence, I really missed drawing and painting. So, for the price of half the tuition for the class and art supplies at twice the cost as in the U.S., I enrolled to audit a pastel class. I've only been to one class so far, and the drawing resulting from those three hours is pretty horrid, but my hands were dirty and I was thinking like an artist.

5. Ran. This action verb might be slightly inaccurate, but Sunday, after nearly begging other UNCers to take a day trip to a nearby city or go hiking to no avail, I thought about studying. I packed up my backpack and descended three stairs outside my apartment door, then turned around and changed into my running shoes. I leisurely jogged along the Arno River, and when I was too tired to continue running, I kept following the river. I ended up walking for about an hour. I passed a few parks with old couples picnicking, young couples fishing, a families biking, a venue advertising Italian rock bands, and found a bike trail that I look forward to trying out. Despite the shock of realizing what a toll eight weeks of barely any exercise took on my stamina, I felt like I found what I had been looking for while trying to make plans to go to another city or hike that day: something new.

Running isn't an Italian thing to do in the least, very rarely do I see anyone running, and if I do, 9 out of 10 times they're American. The translated book, conversation exchange, time with European students, and the art class through LdM are Italian-esque actions with American twists, but they help me find my ground in Florence. With UNCers I felt part of a herd, but alone I sometimes felt I was floating into the abyss. These activities make me feel like a grounded individual. A purposeful wanderer, if you will.