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.