Bella Italia, It’s Really the End

Less than twenty four hours until my forced separation and I am racked with anxiety. Ok a little dramatic, but truly I am dreading tomorrow. How can I say goodbye to my little Italian city and ideal Italian life? The farewells have already begun with my friends and that alone is killing me. Dying on each side of the ocean - I can’t wait to go home and see my family and friends and at the same time I am dying to plant my feet in a meter of cement and never leave this country. As I look out my third story window onto our narrow cobble stone street, Via Orologio Vecchio, I can’t help but think I am doing this for one of the last times. In total I know I have spent hours leaning against this haggard window frame, gazing out onto Viterbo alive and beautiful. I was never struck by any profound thoughts or floored by earth shattering revelations at this window. It has always been simple, easy thoughts that pass in and out of my mind like the slow, methodical passing bye of the people below. Mostly I just reminisce like I am now, on the charmed days I have been privileged to spend here. Many of them have been shared in this forum, alive eternal and made so by the sustaining power of written thought. Also quite a few memories I will never jot down. For as long has I can remember them I want to hold on to them in case of those moments where I need a spontaneous laugh, or quiet smile. Perhaps I will make them alive in story and rendition to entertain myself and those around me. In truth there has been too much packed into these four months for me to ever tell in entirety.

Like last night for instance, our landlords Cesare and Giovana invited us to their restaurant for a farewell dinner. They are an older couple and nice as can be. I have grown especially fond of Cesare because whenever we go to their restaurant, which happens to be below our huge, ancient castle of an apartment building, he always sits down with us and jokes around with his wily, old man wit and tries to make us laugh first in Italian if we can comprehend and then in English when all else fails. He invited my roommates and to dinner and proceed to bring us a full four course Italian meal complete with his own house wine and he did it all for free. That is the kind of people that are in this city. They are so generous and are literally dying to give at any chance to people they care for not matter how well they know them. It’s things like this and the memories that are attached that I will miss most I think. Sure Italy is beautiful, the history is unrivaled, but it’s the people, Italian friends and strangers along with my dear American friends that have painted these fours months for me and whether they know it or not they created a masterpiece that can never be matched. So it is with these final words that I close my Italian experience and say goodbye to this country I love, it could not have been better. Arrivederci.

Venice at Carnivale [Extended]

The following is an expounded text from one of my former posts:


Shoving, pushing, tripping among a myriad of masked faces filling constricted streets and arched canal bridges. Antique buildings rise from cobblestones and hem in the traffic jam of vibrant clothes and merry voices. My body together with a million more stack and pile forming chokepoint damns in a city bursting at the seams, ready to implode from the inner pressure of so many people filling such little space. Such is Venice, Italy in March and such is Carnivale, the word’s most renowned masquerade party. I spent two days in this city turned circus drinking, eating, soaking up ‘La Dolce Vita’ in age old Italian fashion. For me it was impossible to separate the city from the festivity because they appeared to me as one. The costume adorning, street performing masses lived Carnivale aloud every moment I witnessed, and I lived with them.

Carnivale is the event and Venice the venue but the people are what bring the weekend to life. While I was there, I could feel their energy pulsated through the city. I felt the hum of the crowd from where I stood on the crest of the entry bridge to the city. I gazed down into the mobs of people rushing in and out of the center and thought of the body’s cardiovascular system. People united in their experience of Carnivale with their costumes, masks, and songs where the lifeblood of the party. Saint Mark’s Square was the heart through which all the people circulated, going in and out, to and fro. The intricate labyrinth of narrow streets and winding canals became the veins and arties through which the surging current flowed. Wherever the current went it brought vitality, even to the most quiet, numb regions. One moment I was watching safely from the bridge, the next I plunged head first into the swollen stream of people. Submerged in the rush, my body sparked, electric and alive. I laughed, cheered, and danced not because I felt like it but because I was infected. No one asked me nor did I inquire. With no choice in the matter, I simply let go and felt my blood grow hot and boil from the charge sprinting in my veins. Excitement shot through my limbs and exploded from my mouth in song and laughter because that was the only place it could escape.

I wore my mask black, white, and gold always pulled closely over my face. The disguise was not to be lifted. From behind it I could watch and take in Carnivale unfiltered. You see everyone wore a mask with the inner desire to live, if only for one weekend, uncensored. That is the secret of Carnivale. With inhibitions removed the world looks, tastes, and smells all the sweeter. My mask afforded me the richest experiences possible including the most genuine conversation with a stranger I have ever had. Stripped of pretence we simply reveled in our party relationship injected with mystery. Sure I was speaking in broken elementary Italian to a native speaker, but with my mask on I burst into a fountain of chatter unchecked and unruly. I did not think of my appearance so my experience was painted by the real energy and beauty around me rather than my diluted perception of it. When the focus is removed from your insecurities it is truly incredible how much brighter the world around becomes. My experience of Venice at Carnivale was so exciting and memorable solely because of the sheer mystery and energy that originates from thousands of people embracing this freedom reality all at one time. That is the source of the infection. Venice is unique and timeless in itself, but Venice at Carnivale transforms into something totally different. Contagiously, the very streets, buildings and canals brim with party delight and seem to wear the colorful people that cover them as their own festive costumes. I have never seen anything to compare it to. There is for me no urban occasion to match.

Cinque Terre

History testifies, ruins bear witness that civilization as we know it was cut from Italian stone. We marvel at the magnificence of the Roman Coliseum, the design of the ancient canals of Venice, Pisa’s precarious leaning tower, and the revolutionary authority of Florence. Minds of men, the like of which the world will never see again, Leonardo Di Vinci, Michael Angelo, Galileo Galilei. Indeed, the birthplace of the world’s greatest empire has long been shaped by the hands of men. Yet, for all the majestic cities and beautiful minds, there is a beauty still older and perhaps grander, the natural loveliness of the Italian landscape. Splendor beyond words from the majestic Alps in the north to the jagged coastal cliffs of the south. Yet all is not created equal and truly one place shines on as nature’s crown jewel in Italy, Cinque Terre. There is Italian beauty and then there is Cinque Terre. As an eye witness, I will ever be defendant of this coastal diamond as one of the most magical places on earth.

The taxi pulled to a stop in front of what looked like a simple snack stand on a seaside cliff. My heart sank and my ears flushed warm and red from embarrassment. Reluctantly, I groaned, “Well, I guess this is it you guys, please don’t hate me forever.” I was confused. I was sure I had booked a seaside hotel in Cinque Terre, but as we stood at the edge of the cliff all I saw was one simple building with a small sign reading Hotel Il Borgo di Campi. Yeah, this was the place alright. My thoughts tumbled heavy and slow in my head. All I wanted was a peaceful weekend with my friends Jack and James in Cinque Terre. Which by the way is notorious for its seaside charm. And on top of that Jack’s sister was visiting from Manchester and we wanted to show her the “real Italy.” At the time we were all thinking the same thing, but all I can say now is I am glad first impressions are oftentimes deceiving.

As it turned out, the building we saw at the top of the cliff was just the highest piece of an absolutely beautiful residence that stretched downward on the cliff. So here is my simple explanation of what Cinque Terre is: literally translated to mean “Five Lands” it is a combination of green mountains and cliffs that rise up and tumble right into the sea with five picturesque peasant villages scattered along the coast. Now these mountains that break into the sea have been cultivated for centuries and now have step-like terraces cut into their sides where farmers grow traditional wine and olive trees. It truly is a site to see. Vineyards that tumble like stairs down these mountains almost into the sea. As it turns out our hotel was one of these mountain side step gardens. I am not even joking we walked over that cliff and it was a straight 275 meter vertical drop into the crashing waves below. Our room, which was actually an apartment, was one of dozens scattered down the cliff face. To reach it we walked down stairs that connected each terrace and all the buildings. All around there were gardens, trees, flowers, vineyards, patios, and fountains. I have never seen anything like it in my life. I hate to beat a dead horse but we actually sat on our sea cliff terrace garden and had dinner while the sun set over the ocean right in front of us. An experience completely unique and all to itself. I am so happy to say that our first snack bar impression could not have been more wrong.

Cinque Terre like I said is not just one city, it is place in the broadest sense of the term. It is so natural and beautiful that the region is actually a natural park. The five seaside villages stretch for 30 kilometers up the coast, all connected by walking paths and a rail line. Our hotel was just outside of the southern most village of Riomaggiore. Our experience outside of our amazing hotel was a day long hike from village to village. As we walked these paths the ocean was always on our right and wild mountains on our left. It was so beautiful and unique. The hike itself is truly pretty long and grueling but that setting is so amazing that is practically cancels out all negatives and makes for one of the best Italian experiences. Our hotel was such a diamond in the ruff and so cool that I have to say it made the whole weekend. I will be surprised if I ever see anything so wonderful.

Tuscany: By Way of Panda (part 5)

Everyone was up fairly early the next morning. The young morning was shockingly foggy. In fact the whole panorama out of my window was completely blanketed in a thick looming cloud. I had hope that the afternoon sun would burn it off however which it in fact did. By the time we were out and about there remained only sifting pockets here and there, mostly in the valleys. We once again drove up and over the rolling Tuscan hills yet this drive was even more breathtaking than its predecessors. Somehow despite our rising expectations as the bar continued to be raised, each drive exceeded every other. Astounding. One final cresting slope on this particular excursion brought us into full view of what has been called the “Manhattan of Medieval Cities” the hilltop fortress city of San Gimignano. From a distance I could easily see how it had received such a modern moniker. Rising tall and ancient all over the city were no less than a dozen stone towers. Match that against rolling vineyards and cutting mountains in the background and I was smitten. We spent the whole morning and early afternoon exploring this Tuscan gem. I can easily say it is one of my favorite Italian cities. It’s just so unique, so worth the trip. There is no doubt in my mind we would have lost ourselves within its tall aged stone walls for the rest of the day if we did not have an all important horseback riding date. Reluctantly we bid farewell to the our walled city wonder and let the Panda carry us back to the horse farm.

This ride was much like the first one. Beautiful day, amiable chargers, and astonishing scenery. Basically, dreams within dreams and fantasies beyond fantasies. I will never forget those afternoons. Not as long as I live.

Our evening was causal and relaxing. Rain clouds had traveled from the nearby sea across our local mountains to our doorstep just in time to graduate to full blown storm factories. We were not daunted. Armed with an American football, a camera and protected by Pedro we left on an adventure through the vineyard. Still ominous in memory, the stone clouds loomed overhead as we tossed the ball back and forth intermittently jumping to catch Pedro or chase him through the rows of grapevines. The rain did not come and so our pace was never quickened. We simply walked were we desired and aimlessly chattered about the day, the dawn, and the dance. I don’t think even one of us could tell you if what we were living was real life or the projections of a mad magician artist turned screen write. My heart swells just thinking of those days.

Spirits were definitely not as light the next morning. It was our time to go and not one of us wanted it. Saying goodbye to Giuseppe was tragic enough but petting Pedro for the last time was near unbearable. The poor chap knew what was going on and was barely capable of lifting his little head. Tremendous animal. The drive back to Pisa was quiet. Our spirits were certainly not down, I mean we were on our way to visit the Leaning Tower for goodness sake, I think the weekend was just so memorable that no one could let go just yet. Honestly, I still don’t think I have been able to let go.

Pisa played to a different tune. No so big a city as Rome or even Florence, but still very touristy. Certainly much the opposite of what we had just come from. I liked it though. We got a little lost trying to find the Tower but eventually stumbled up the square. It leans just as they say and there is a beautiful cathedral and baptistery right next to it, but other than that there is not a whole lot to see in Pisa. We spent no more than half an hour clicking cheesing pictures of us holding up the tower and stuff before we felt we had seen enough and it was time to return to real life. Or as real as life can be in Italy. We gassed up the car returned it to the rental company and hoped our first of seven trains we would take to arrive home that night. A stark contrast to the freedom our little Panda had afforded us. Yet, the Panda was never meant to be for always and neither is my time in Italy, so my attempts to capture every moment are never wasted even on seven hour train trips. Roll credits.

Tuscany: By Way of Panda (part 4)

The following is a wine tasting writing exercise that I did on Fattoria Fibbiano for my Travel Writing class:

My feet sink through the worn limestone floor soothing my posture into a languid stupor. Back and forth I languidly sway to the melody of aged oak tables, tobacco smoke, and friendly mildew surrounding me. Aged electric light, exhausted by the years, illuminates a cellar of dusty wine racks, burnt orange stonewalls, and a low oak beam ceiling. Unfamiliar with wine cellar ambiance of I any kind, I at first feel out of place, then I see the antique cupboard in the corner and think it is not so different form the china cabinet in my grandmother’s kitchen.

The clear smooth base of my wine glass feels warm as I pinch it between fingertips. My forearm and bicep bow into a V to hold the glass at a perfect forty-five degree angle. Sinless, the washed white cloth draped across the oak table provides the model backdrop for my eyes to carefully inspect the golden white vintage in my glass. Dancing light is miraculously caught in its golden apple hue. Gently, I agitate the glass until the liquid leaps to life, striding in circles around the goblet track. My head dips close to the rim with my nose breaking the plain, intruding and curious. Abruptly, a rush of sweet golden apple erupts like a rocket, loud and dominate; then, trailing behind tings of spring blossoms and perhaps tangy citrus. I wet my lips, take up my breath, and close my eyes in anticipation of a sweet kiss. I am not disappointed. Apples tumble out of the glass and bounce across my tongue followed at a distance by tart lip pinching tangs and strong alcoholic fumes. The introduction lasts no more than a few seconds before I reluctantly allow the delicious stream to continue its flow down my throat, only to be pleasantly surprised by a departing gift of persistent lingering flavor and dry tongue. Now shamelessly fantasying I hastily reach for a second kiss in search of spring blossoms. Forcing myself past the attractive apples I am rewarded for my persistence by the budding presence of subtle spring flowers. This is more than I could have imagined, so I think it is best that I wash my glass and stow away my apple blossom first kiss in memory.

This first white wine was an infinitely enjoyable and memorable experience. Indeed gratifying but I am not satisfied. Waiting on the table in front of me is my next great adventure, a red. The still dark liquid pulls me from across the room. Curiosity pushes me forward till I am at the table’s edge, gazing down into the glass. I see my own arm reaching towards my desired prize, my fingers unwrap themselves, opening for one brief moment as they encircle the round, smooth bowl and then close tightly around it. With my glass safely in hand I hastily, I position it directly between the pure white cloth behind it and my peering eyes. So dark and heavy. The white cloth is invisible and all light is taken in, completely devoured by the rich earthen color. I am told Ox blood is the proper name given to such a dark vintage. I am pleased with this name. Continuing my inspection, I slowly begin agitating the glass until the tranquil red fluid springs to life, swimming in gradually faster circles around the glass. Flashes of twirling red Flamenco dancers spark from within its stride. My eyes have had their turn now my nose jumps at its chance. Exhaling, I allow all the air to leave my lungs; then lift the edge of the cup to my nose. I pull in a deep breath. Air rushes into my nostrils bringing with it all the tantalizing smells from my glass. Immediately, my mind begins to segregate and categorize the various aromas. A warm summer afternoon erupts from the glass with smells of sun warmed earth, black cherry, and light tobacco. I am mesmerized. How can a single drink contain such a diverse array of flavors? Full steam a head, my taste buds are going wild with the wait. I reward them for their patience and place the rim to my lips as I eagerly tilt the glass back. Finally, the rich drink fills my mouth. I close my eyes and allow the performance to begin. The Lead instantly captivates my attention, stealing the show with rich, earthen flavors of tobacco that linger like the smooth smoke of my grandfather’s pipe. The antagonist follows closely on it’s heels, taking the form of bold dark cherry. The two vie for power and control, much to my delight. Enthralled in the layered plot, I am find I am sad as the current falls with a swift rush of cedar forest. I am left licking each last droplet of flavor from my lips. Yet, I know this is no tragedy, for the show is not over. Indeed, a glass full of encores promise a complete performance I will not soon forget.

Tuscany: By Way of Panda (part 3)

Tami and I woke up fairly early the next morning to drive to the local market to pick up food for breakfast lunch and dinner. We saved a considerable amount of money doing so and after the decadent dinner from the previous night we were more than fine with a budget diet. Our day was busy but I took a few minutes to gaze out of our window at the beautiful day surrounding our astounding panorama. My coffee cup touched my lips, my eyes locked up the view, rolling hills covered in vineyards and olive trees in the foreground, small arching mountains in the back, and a clear blue sky above. The sereneness of the scene tasted like harmony and smelled of stillness. The only thing that could have yanked me from that coffee cup and window perch was the knowledge that I was going into all of it. We packed up the Panda with the days equipment: water bottles, cameras, and maps. Here I must pause and devote at least one short paragraph to the Joy-spring of our weekend, Pedro.

Sir Pedro has the air of a duke and truly he is he is the master of all that is Fattoria Fibbiano. Long, handsome, young with long golden hair and a slightly rotund waste line. If there is a more jubilant fellow in all of Tuscany I want to see him. Every time we left our door there was Pedro ready to greet us and inquire of our day. Master of his domain, absolute ruler of his estate and still he make time for us everyday. That’s the funny think about golden retrievers, they want nothing more than love and attention it does not matter if you are a stranger or a friend they are more than ready to make you the latter. I loved walking out of our door and seeing Pedro trot up to us, tail wagging, teeth flashing in a face filled smile. Oh my goodness how we doted over him! He might as well of been a duke. Four sets of hands clamoring to rub his ears and scratch is belly, a quartet of voices all cooing little pet names and complements. “Oh, you’re a good boy aren’t you? Yes, you are.” “You are looking a little fatter today Pedro! Did they give you extra bones? I bet they did, yes sir. Gooood boy Pedro.” He must have been in paradise and truly I know he became accustomed to the dotting because he would wait outside our window whenever we were in the apartment just so he could pounce on us as soon as we opened the door. He was my joy-spring for the weekend.

That first full morning in Tuscany’s Chianti region was spent exploring the rural backroads in the Panda and stopping at an ancient like 2,500 year old hill city named Volterra. That alone satisfied me for the day and I could have said goodbye to the day feeling more than happy. However, I did not and instead our afternoon was filled with the highlight of the weekend: horseback riding through the Tuscan countryside.

Finding our way to the horse farm was an adventure in itself. Our directions appeared vague at best and the narrow twisting mountain roads are not easily navigated by unfamiliar travelers. However, I want to be clear if I am going to be lost anywhere in the world, I certainly don’t hate being lost among tiny Italian hilltops cities, vineyards, and green pastures. I think my merry band would agree with me as well. We had the radio bumping Italian tracts, the windows down, and cameras snapping the whole way. We did however eventually find the horse farm and when I say farm I really genuinely mean it. This was no commercial operation but instead the home of Elizabeth and Mariano, neither Italian but both incredibly amiable. They had been expecting us so our horses were already saddled up and eager to get out of the stable. My stead was a large thick girl name Nikki. I soon realized she had more interest in stopping to nibble on grass and less in walking the miles through pastures, forests, and roads. We certainly had conflict of interests but I am happy to say I won out and together we had one of the fondest March afternoons I think I will ever have. Really the movie allusion does not do this justice. It was surreal. The best part was it was going to happen again the next day. With knowledge we left the farm biding our brief farewells with enthusiastic exclamations of “A domani!!” or See you tomorrow!

Giuseppe found us almost as soon as we had returned to Fattoria Fibbiano and asked us if we were ready for your wine tour and tasting. Naturally, we were besides ourselves and jumped at the moment. With more knowledge of the delicate art of wine production than I could hope to acquire in a three lifetimes, Giuseppe lead us on a tour of his massive wine vats, endless rows of stacked wooden barrels, and modern pressing machines. He concluded with an hour long tasting in the old cellar. I have written a completely separate piece on this so more details are revealed of this cultured tutorial in those pages. For now it is enough to say that the wine I tasted there is far and away the best I have ever had in my life and there were five different kinds. I doubt he knew it but Giuseppe had effectively placed a triumphant exclamation point at the end of one of the best days of my life.

Tuscany: By Way of Panda (part 2)

“Fattoria Fibbiano”, my headlights briefly flashed across the peeling white letters painted on an old white barrel as we crossed onto the dirt driveway from the main road. Even in the dim night light I could make out tall, spindly ever green trees, fancifully my memory played through stored images from Gladiator and old paintings of these quintessential Tuscan trees, they lined the entire path. Our Panda’s voice dipped from a peaceful hummmm to a low growl reminiscent of my dog Jasper threatening an passerby as he would stand over his raw-hid bone. We were climbing uphill, so I downshifted to second and squeezed tighter on the accelerator. Climbing, winding, finding that we were surrounded on both sides by rolling hills blanketed in vineyards and olive tree orchards. It’s these moments that you bite your tongue to make what you are seeing is real and not a movie. Little did I know my movie life was hardly beyond the opening credits.

The top of the driveway delivered us to the Vineyard villa estate of Giuseppe, our gracious host for the weekend. Five foot, five inches, gray haired, well dressed, and confident with the new addition of the character the plot begins to take shape. Giuseppe had his wife show us to our room. We followed as she led us to a beautiful, weathered stone building with dozens of green shutters and deep grooved wooden doors. Through one of these thresholds we passed and entered our weekend apartment. I remember thinking how absolutely ideal it was. Full kitchen and dining room, couch, a spiral cast iron stair case to an open bedroom loft, stone tilled bathroom, and ample space in the master bedroom complete with king sized bed and full wardrobe. I might as well had stepped out of it into Narnia, it was that dreamlike I think. No sooner had we dropped our bags off and drooled over our accommodations than we were given directions to the next hill town where we would find a restaurant expecting us for our welcome dinner. We were all too obliging and sped off in the Panda.

Terricciola, “la citta’ del vino” read the sign as we passed into the city limits. Translated it means the city of wine, not to difficult, but this had to be the place. We parked the Panda, pulled open the door to Susanne e Massimo’s and awkwardly told the first person we saw that we were sent by Giuseppe for a welcome dinner. We were returned with an understanding nod and asked to wait a moment. The restaurant was empty except for one other table occupied by an elder priest and his friend. We were seated and immediately shown the best service I have had yet in Italy. Susanne was our host and her husband Massimo was our chef. Together they furnished one of the best meals I have ever had. Susanne served us far too many baskets full of bread as we greedily gobbled each one up, soaking each bite in most delicious olive oil I have ever had. She brought us a bottle of wine and as she poured each glass she explained that it was from the vineyard just down the hill. Of course it was. I can remember looking around the table and seeing John then James then Tami all with the same look of disbelief mixed with ecstasy on their faces. No doubt I mirrored the same. Our first dish was a savory gnocchi dish wish creamy pecorino cheese sauce. One of the finest I have ever had and still it was only the start. Second plate took a little longer to prepare but we were in no hurry and Susanne brought us a second half liter of the delicious vintage. When it did arrive though, I actually began to think thoughts like I don’t deserve anything like this. I am a simple college student, abroad, and on a budget. The most amazing pork cutlet I have ever tasted and roasted potatoes filled our plates. Truly, the pork was so tender and flavorful I thought I was eating a Fillet minon. Susanne told us how desert was simple and that Massimo had just whipped it up that evening. It was all I could do not to accidently laugh in her face. Simple!? I had my doubts to say the least. Sure enough the delicious Dolci she produced were all in elegant Champaign flutes and tasted anything but simple. Sweet whipped cream on top of a chocolate mousse with traces of egg nog, all on top of a soft cake. In typical Italian fashion we had a strong espresso shot to settle our meal. Our friendly chatter was insatious. We oozed over our good fortune and the magic that was surrounding our trip thus far. We had not seen anything yet.

Tuscany: By Way of Panda (part 1)

If living in Italy has taught me one thing it is that there are two ways to experience travel: one is to default stumble between the tourist map landmarks like there is some hidden track under it all to which people innocuously attach themselves; the second to freehand your own map, burn the rail tracks, and drink in the moment. My weekend on the Tuscan hillsides was a lesson in the latter.

Travel companions are key and I had three stellar ones along for the ride with me: John (the Desert Violinist), James (the Boston Heartbreak), and Tami (the Toledo Artist). Our journey began early Thursday morning with a casual train ride to Siena. One of the more interesting things about Italy is that at one point in time many of the great cities we know today were actually the crown jewels of powerful regional kingdoms. Siena was at one time the capital city of these ancient kingdoms, this fact was made perfectly clear from the moment I stepped into the city. Crumbling walls surround a proud city boasting Europe’s oldest bank and one of Italy’s most extravagant cathedrals. Yet, as beautiful as Siena was this was only a pit stop on our Tuscan tour. We jumped back on the train and made our way to Pisa, home of the world’s most famous tilted tower.

Conveniently, the Pisa Central train station is not far from the city airport which was our next destination. We needed the airport though not for a plane but in fact a plain old car. Earlier in the week we had been told that our weekend accommodations at the Tuscan vineyard farmhouse was not accessible by public transportation. So I had arranged for a rental car in Pisa. When we picked up the car we were met with a little disappointment. I had found a good price on line but when I went to actually rent the car the people told me that they would charge us an extra fourteen euro a day because I was not twenty-five and on top of that we had to pay a lot of money for insurance. So we swallowed the bitter pill, grabbed the keys, and climbed into our little compact Fiat Panda. The drive that followed was unreal. I was the only one that could drive stick, although Tami could but she did not have her license, so I just enjoyed cruising down the autostrada and gliding, winding, swerving along tumbling Tuscan hillside roadways. Honestly, in my opinion there are few more liberating experiences than sliding in behind the steering wheel of a car all your own with the full knowledge that boundaries are now a laughing matter to which my voice ignites and bursts into bouts of hilarity. Acculturate in 1st, hear the engine wind and drop it to second, pull tight and tighter still till the wheels whimper a bit and I know its ready for 3rd, once comfortably in third I instantly begin itching through my skin for the freedom of a faster 4th, it’s easy my foot punches the clutch with a simultaneous pull of my arm and the road knows no rest. 5th is for the weak of heart and this was a rental so needless to say the upper gear was ill thought of and seldom used. I was almost sad when we reached our destination that night. Well that is until I saw what we had arrived at.

Carnivale

Shoving, pushing, tripping through the myriad of masked faces filling constricted streets and arched canal bridges. Human bodies stacked and pilled forming chokepoint damns in a city bursting at the seams, ready to implode from the inner pressure of so many people filling such little room. Such is Venice, Italy in March and such is Carnivale, the word’s most renowned masquerade party. I spent two days in this city turned circus drinking, eating, soaking up ‘La Dolce Vita’ in age old Italian fashion. For me it was impossible to separate the city from the party because they appeared to me as one. The costume adorning, street perfuming masses lived aloud Carnivale every moment I witnessed, and I lived with them. The very streets, buildings and canals brimmed with party delight and seemed to wear the colorful people that covered them as their own festive costumes. I have never seen anything to compare it to. There is for me no city to match.

A Broken Plan Made New (Cont'd)

The bus pulled away leaving us in Tarquinia, but not next to the sea. We could see the water, but it looked pretty far off… apparently Tarquinia isn’t exactly on the water but atop a mountain close by. Examining the bus schedule, we determined there should be another bus that would carry us to the beach arriving in half an hour. My watch face sneered 2:30 and by this point and not one of us had any more patience for buses. As an alternative we asked the kind looking Italian man nearby if it would be reasonable to walk to the coast. To this day I am not sure if he actually knew what we were asking, yet he assured us twenty minutes, twenty minutes. That was all we needed to hear. We started down the hill, chattering about how wonderful our morning in Tuscania had been and own memorable our afternoon on the beach was going to be.

Forty-five minutes and more than a handful of miles later, we did not appear to be any closer to the sea than when we had started. It’s hard in these moments to not doubt your luck and if you will ever actually arrive at the desired end. Walking was clearly a bust so Jack had the idea to just post up at a roadside gas station and wait for the next bus that came along. Fortunately, we did not have to wait long. Eight outstretched, flailing arms must be pretty hard to ignore and I am glad it is because the blue bus that came rumbling down the street stopped next to us. The sea was our question and the bus driver nodded her head. We were once again in business.

This time the bus left us next to the sea and sand and under a beautiful sun filled sky. For any traveler that moment is something to savor. The feeling of arriving at your desired destination is one of sweet with success. We grabbed a quick, surprisingly sub par lunch at one the sea side restaurants, all pulled out our wallets and paid, and then kicked off our shoes. The blackish gold sand filled the spaces in between my toes as we strolled along the beach. Pants were rolled up to our knees, jackets were tossed indiscriminately to the side, and sun glasses pulled over eyes. Exhilarated by the smell of salt water and by the warmth of the sun we let the time sail by unchecked. We were random and haphazard. From photo shoots to obscure songs we made enough fun to fill a dozen days. Once finally exhausted, we lazily folded into sun chairs, dozing in the closing minutes of sunshine. Almost with painful desire did I want to stay right there to be spectators as the sun performed it finally spilling of purples, oranges, and passionate reds across the horizon. But alas the responsible thing, or so we surmised, would be to try and make our way back while we still had light. Begrudgingly, we tore ourselves away from our hard earned beach and walked towards the bus stop. We had not be traveling more than three minutes when Jack stopped, grabbed both back pockets, and gazed out sick with horror. In panic pitch his words rushed forth, “I forgot my wallet in the restaurant…”

Next thing I knew, Jack was sprinting down the sidewalk towards our lunchtime restaurant. I felt for him. The realization of losing your wallet is one of most stomach wrenching feelings a man can experience. Yet, there was not much we could do for him except wait there, hoping he found it. Several minutes later he was again walking towards us, but even from a distance his hunched posture betrayed his defeat. On the bright side, just as he arrived next to us a bus came rolling down the road. Just like earlier, we hailed it down and confirmed with the driver our destination. We pulled away with the beach behind, and the sun performing in even greater grandeur than we had imagined.

The mood was somber as Jack explained the restaurant was closed but he was sure that he had left the wallet there. He had assigned himself to making the return journey to Tarquinia the next day just to recover his wallet. Certainly not a pleasure trip, but absolutely necessarily considering his bank card and identification were at stake. The bus dropped us off close the town center in Tarquinia. We all marveled at the beautiful ancient seaside city. However, we all felt ready to return home. Inside a nearby information office we inquired of the receptionist when the next bus to Viterbo was. From under the desk she produced a schedule and pointed to the Viterbo time block. The final hour slot read 5:20. Glancing at my watch, my eyes logged 5:50… though in the moment for some reason it did not register that we had in fact missed the last bus. I thanked the woman with a smile, to which she returned a puzzled, almost distraught gaze. It wasn’t until after I had turned around and taken several steps towards the door that I it hit me: there were no more buses going to Viterbo. At least not that night.

Thankfully, the information desk lady was absurdly helpful and spoke perfect English. She explained that our best chance to return to Viterbo that night would be to take the 8:30 bus to Vetralla, a small city about 12 kilometers from Viterbo. It was our only legitimate option so with more than two hours to kill we decided to return to the resolution of Jack’s wallet predicament. She had already been more than helpful so we decided to tap the nice receptionist lady for more information. She turned out to be a wellspring. Not only did she call the restaurant and speak to the owners in perfect Italian, something we never could have done, but she even verified that the restaurant personnel had indeed found Jack’s wallet and were keeping it safe for him. The next few hours jogged by and before we knew it we were on the bus bound for Vetralla. Marco, one of our program directors, assured us that there were an abundance of buses running from Vetralla to Viterbo. Sure enough upon arrival at the former it was not long before we were on another bus bound for the latter. A chilly Viterbo evening greeted us along with our friends Karl and Jordan. We told them about our jouney to which they declared they were planning on visiting Tarquinia the very next day. Quite a stroke of luck if you ask me. Moments later Jack had a wallet recovery plan worked out with Karl. One which did not involve his making the return trip. Understandably, it was the cap to a incredibly fun and memorable day. Sometimes when traveling things run a muck, but I will ever live by the mantra there are no mistakes in the world of travel, just divergent means to arrive at something new.

A Broken Plan Made New

Sometimes, the best plans are those that receive an unforeseen twist of fate, a tweak from poor timing, or just flat out go wrong. Miss Morningstar, my high school art teacher, always smiled even when I glazed my pitiful clay pot the complete wrong color. She would habitually reassured me there are no mistakes in the world of art, just divergent means to craft something new, perhaps something a meticulous, chained mind would never explore. Four years removed from those drawing lessons and still her proverb rings in my head, moreover it unexpectedly crops up in diverse episodes of life, persistently lending itself to my experiences, with the most recent being a day trip gone askew, not wrong, just askew.

9:52 Friday morning, the pizzeria woman and her pizzeria husband hand us our slices of pizza while simultaneously making Italian small talk. Returning friendly chatter between bites, I was actually quite taken back. My two roommates Jack and James were I think as surprised as I was. We had often frequented this exact pizzeria and the owners were never so friendly. In my head I briefly hypothesized how it could be so, concluding they must simply must be morning people and we had always caught them in the afternoon, past their peak cordial hours. 9:56 pushed us out the door as we smiled our “grazies” and “ciaos” through pizza sauce smeared lips. My mind quickly switched to the task at hand which was to accomplish our predetermined plan of meeting our friend Tami at the bus stop by 10:00. Yet, at the time it seemed to me and I think also to everyone else an arbitrary moment, because none of us for sure knew when the bus left. What I did know for certain was we were bound for the Mediterranean coastal town of Tarquinia, also the pizza in my mouth tasted really good. Together these two things are by nature not meant to be rushed so naturally we sauntered the through the Viterben streets.

10:05 and Tami comes into view at the bus stop, she was smiling but not because she was happy. Tami just always smiles. In fact she continued her courageous smile even as she told us that the bus bound for Tarquinia had left at 10:00 sharp. Ouch, it stung and the pizza taste turned bitter in my mouth. The situation grew sour and the irony even thicker as she explained, still smiling, that the next bus was not for two hours. Momentarily, I cursed our carelessness and that stupid, delicious pizza. It was a brief moment though because I think then that Tami’s perpetual smile reminded me of my high school art teacher smiling and telling me there are no mistakes just divergent means of creating something new. It was my turn to smile and I did as I walked over to the map of the local area and began crafting something new. My finger moved East from Viterbo to Tarquinia. Along the way was the small town of Tuscania, the schedule said the bus for Tuscania departed at 10:30, something beautiful was forming. We would go to Tuscania, because there really is no going wrong when it comes to exploring random Italian countryside villages, and then perhaps we could catch a bus from their to the coast. Fifty minutes later, the bus was pulling away, leaving us standing beside the medieval walls of Tuscania.

The next couple of hours slid past unnoticed. Tuscania enchanted us and I think all her visitors with quant colorful houses, rolling hills, and impressive cathrials. We filled her streets we listless chatter and goofy photo shoots. Before long we had happily seen all that we desired and my thoughts again turned to Tarquinia. 1:30 it was still early and we all decided to give the coastal trek another try. Not knowing when a bus would come or even if it would come, we placidly waited at the bus stop. Jack and I had our head phones in, Tami was sketching, James was… well I don’t really know what he was doing, but I think we were all content in our circumstances.

“Tarquinia” flashed in button light bulbs above the bus windshield as it pulled up to the stop. Excitement burst inside of me, but I immediately doused it with a hefty serving of salt so as to not set myself up for what could easily be a let down. My Italian was shaky as I asked the driver if he was indeed bound for Tarquinia. Wouldn’t you know he responded in the affirmative. I smiled and thanked him before waving the others onto our ticket to the sea. It was not the route I had in mind when the morning started, but we were going to the coast after all.

(To be continued...)

The Sky’s Falling, I’m Not Surprised. (part 5)

It has been a fun tale but this is the conclusion and it made the whole trip worth it for sure.


From that point on, absolutely everything fell perfectly into place. The bus dropped us off literally across the street from the ski resorts and the mountains themselves. The lift tickets and rentals were cheaper than we had expected and the weather conditions were ideal. Crystal blue skies washed in sunshine and 45 degrees. And the snowboarding… wow. As long as I live I do not think I will ever experience a better mountain. It was the most fun I have had in a very long time. The final chapter of my story will be spent attempting to translate exactly how I felt on these mountains and then I will lay this tale to rest. Memories should never be exhausted; they can lose their charm. It is well.

The snowboard dangled casually at my foot and my legs swayed listlessly to and fro as the ski lift swiftly carried our merry band over trees and brush, past drifts and slopes. Mitten clad hands lay carelessly in my lap and my covered head jostled faintly for the lack of taut neck muscles. The sky shone a crystal blue and my eyes, through the orange tint of my goggles, marveled within its purity. Our conversation glided back and forth like languid moonlight tides. My senses were elevated and I thought I experienced epiphany, revelation. In that moment the world became simple and I had everything all figured out. It all boiled down to a snowboard and a chill slope. That’s all I needed in life. Happiness leapt in my soul at ever drift cut. Joy welled up and burst forth in giddy laughter as my board skimmed the weightless, porcelain powder. Yes, life was about being young and my mind bathed in the invigorating simplicity. Until that is, the lift delivered me to the summit. Then I was provided an unhindered view of the Italian Alps. At that moment my careless demeanor felt like sacrilege and my listless laughter like ignorant irreverence. I felt mind and body fold, overwhelmed by what spread before me. Breathtaking majestic mountains whose very site silenced my flippant mouth and tamed my juvenile soul tumble across the panorama. Their serrated stone peaks split the same crystal blue sky as regal as kings; frosted pine forests spread like robes at their feet. All around me the picture was the same. Minutes passed and I only stood there lost in awe. Finally made aware of how small I was and that life was not so simple. I could not even begin to comprehend the scene before me, how then could I make sense of the universe? This beauty was beyond me such that I could not hope to understand. It was good not to understand and I prayed in that moment that I never would. This brilliant splendor became my portion for the day. Not the snowboarding. An odyssey was required to finally reach this pinnacle, but I promise it is one I would happily make one hundred times over.

The Sky’s Falling, I’m Not Surprised. (part 4)

(Feb. 14 is the start to this tale)

We made that corner stop at the top of the street in the middle of downtown Torino our home for over three hours. If the occasional bus did happen to roll along it was never destined for Candiolo. We were told time and time again that the next bus would be for Candiolo. It never was and the bus trip actually never happened. It was now almost 11:00 pm and we had had enough. Maddie hailed the next available taxi and we piled in. We had assumed that a taxi would be to expensive, that is why we had not taken action sooner. However, at this point I think we would have paid anything. The alternative was sleeping on the streets. Out of town indeed, our taxi carried us past the cities limits, down winding country roads whose only population was fields and abandoned factories. Approximately twenty minutes had elapsed when my eyes beheld a site I genuinely had not believed they ever would: a blaring neon sign for the Hotel Del Parco. The taxi man asked for thirty Euro which was actually not that bad especially split four ways and then dropped us off. We had finally made it. There were no Nigerian prostitutes in site.

The inside of the hotel was actually very clean and welcoming. There was a quant bar and restaurant staffed by the nicest of people. I think it was a family run establishment. However, this was the extent of my observations because once we received our rooms keys and I found my bed, there was nothing else my body would stand for other than a good nights sleep.

My spirits were high as I awoke early the next morning. I had a clean shower, a very delicious complementary breakfast, and the horrors of the day before seemed like nothing more than a distant memory. The receptionist told us that we could actually catch a bus right outside the hotel that would carry us the two hour trek into the mountains to Sestriere, which happens to be the site of the 2006 winter Olympics as well as some of the most renowned skiing destinations in the world. I was beside myself. Nothing could go wrong and our plan looked like a cinch. Our merry band skipped out to the stop and waited there for our 7:45 am bus to paradise. The conversation was giddy as we discussed how epic the rest of the day was to be. The anticipation and optimism continued to build right up until 7:50 when a bus bound for the stop right before Sestriere come barreling down the rode. Yet, it never stopped. Actually, my mind likes to tell me the driver accelerated past our stop. I don’t know why. Every soul in our merry band was crushed. There were no other buses scheduled to come until very late in the morning and by that time it would be too late. We were stranded in the middle of nowhere; starring off into the distant mountains with no means to get there. I think our moral plummeted to an all-trip low at that point and if you remember the events of the day before, that is saying something. I dragged my dejected body back into the hotel and pulled my head of my chest just long enough to ask the receptionist if there was any chance there was another bus coming. She said she did not know but she could try and check. I had zero hope but mumbled a thank you non-the less. A few clicks on the keyboard and a couple minutes later she triumphantly announced that she believed there would be another bus at 8:15. As much as I wanted to I could not allow myself to believe her so I just courteously smiled and thanked her as I shuffled back to the bus stop. The dejected band took the news with a grain of salt and the consensuses was to wait till 8:15 not because we actually thought a bus would come, but because we had nothing better to do than kick stones around the parking lot.

I was silently planning a way to get home that day and end the misery once and for all when out of nowhere a large blue bus sporting a sign reading ‘Sestriere’ came chugging down the street. It was 8:15 on the button. I was astounded and for half a second could muster neither motion nor sound from my body. Then I victoriously shook off the chains of despair and jumped around waving my arms like the freed prisoner that I was. The others acted in a similar fashion such that this time our flagging would not be ignored. Simultaneously, the doors swung open and the tires stopped moving. Still a bit dazed, I asked the bus driver if he was indeed bound for the ski slopes of Sestriere. You know what he said? He said he yes and we better get on because he had a schedule to keep. I leapt for joy, at least my inner self did. I was vindicated. We victoriously claimed our seats as if we were conquering heroes taking our thrones. In all my days to come, I don’t think I will ever see a merrier band of vagabonds.

The Sky’s Falling, I’m Not Surprised. (part 3)

This is the third chapter in our ridiculous story.

The flight was actually largely uneventful and I even slept most of the time. I had an incomplete idea of how we were to get to where we wanted to go. We were flying into Milan airport and then we were going to take the supposedly one hour train ride to Torino. That is really as far as I had been able to plan it out. The flight only lasted an hour so our spirits were high as we exited the plan and entered the airport. Naturally, I assumed this was THE Milan airport, however, my suspicions were raised when I kept on seeing Bergamo on all of the signs. I had to be sure so we found an information desk. I asked the women if this was in fact Milan. Our course, she answered NO. We were in Bergamo which is about and fifty minutes from Milan. So defeated and yet not surprised. Of course Ryan Air would land us in the furthest most airport still legally allowed to be called Milan. We purchased bus tickets which would deliver us to the famous Milano Centrale train station where we could hop a train to Torino. If that sounds far away from our final destination it was. More than you can know.

From the window of the double-decker bus which speedily carried us along the Italian super highway, I noticed that northern Italy was much different than were I lived. The hills and fields of Viterbo were replaced with sprawling factors and snow capped peaks. Smog hung thick over the entirety of the region. Vagabonds and slums were prevalent. If this was Milan I was not impressed. We finally arrived at the train station and it actually lived up to its reputation. The structure was enormous and very ornately decorated. I am sure at any other point in time I would have been far more appreciative of the spectacle; however, I was tired, hungry, and frustrated. I cared only about delivering our little band safely to our hotel in Torino. We bought our tickets and waited about forty-five minutes for our train to arrive. Once were on the train we were made aware that the duration was in fact two hours instead of the one hour we were lead to believe. Time was compounding on itself. I felt like I was in a time warp stupor. Little did I know the truly mind-boggling was still yet to come.

The train was slow and made frequent stops. Darkness had descended and promised to make our already obscure path even harder. I did not know where the hotel was located nor by what means of transportation we could reach it. We had hurriedly scribbled down the contact info that morning so I figured I would just call for directions. How naïve I still was. Nothing on this trip could be so simple. The Torino train station was right in the middle of the city so I figured we must be centrally located to our hotel. Once there I tried to call the number on our scrap piece of paper. No dice. I tried every way possible and was only met with an Italian operator likely informing me that I was to dumb to know how to use a telephone. I was really stumped this time. It was past 7:00 pm all the information booths were closed by this point. With nowhere else to turn we made for the closet familiar face we knew: the Best Western Hotel across the street.

I felt foolish and more than a little touristy, but my options were extremely limited and the people behind the counter seemed to have kind faces, so I crept over and sheepishly lifted the tattered piece of paper into the women’s view. At first she just looked confused as if the scratches were from another planet. Ellie’s handwriting is pretty bad, so I deciphered the message to which she said, “Candiolo? Why would you ever want to stay there? That is very far outside the city.” I crumbled head, over hands onto the counter and wept. Ok not really but I felt destroyed inside. All I wanted was for our little band to reach our Torino hotel safe and sound. That did not appear to be happening anytime soon. The woman pulled her colleague over and explained our situation to him. He spoke extremely good English, definitely a relief. Mr. Nice English speaking hotel man plainly stated that the sole purpose anyone frequented this town, Candiolo, was for its renowned prostitution ring. Nigerian prostitutes to be specific. Yes, he was serious and I was laughing, hysterically. It was one of those chuckles that is somewhere between laughing and crying as if the emotion can’t make up its mind so your body just gives up whatever comes first. Thankfully, it was just a few giggles and genuine ones at that. I was ready to pull my hair out. The nice man said he would find a valid number for us and get us directions to the hotel. Of course I was thinking should we really go to this hooker hotel in the middle of nowhere? But we had already made the reservation and they had our credit card number. We would be charged either way so I determined this last leg of our journey was a necessary one. The hotel man explained that a bus would stop at the top of the street and could take us very close to our hotel. He clarified how we were to go about purchasing the needed tickets and then all we had to do was wait. Oh, wait we did.

The Sky’s Falling, I’m Not Surprised. (cont'd)

(The following is the second episode of a story I am gradually telling. Feb. 14th is the first installment.)

At this point we had no more than ten minutes to catch out train, this was no time for fashion or pretense. We slung our bags over our shoulders and began sprinting across town. My thoughts began pillow fighting in my head, going back and forth, trading blows to the tune of, “are you really running across town right now to catch a train that you probably can’t make which leads to a plane for which you have no ticket?’ Then optimism would slug back with, ‘Run faster! The train you will catch will carry you to the mountains you love. It’s worth it.” Is it me or is optimism the underdog more often than not? The pillow fight went on pause just then because Maddie had stopped running. She placed hands to knees and began heaving heavy labored breaths through wheezing lungs. I had forgot she had Bronchitis. I didn’t know how to help so I grabbed her bag and encouraged steps even if they were walking. What a trooper. She ripped a deep pull off of her inhaler and took off again, uphill. There we were three ridiculous Americans loud, rushed, and clearly out of shape. I hate reinforcing stereotypes. Finally, the station pulled into view and low and behold the train was still there, for the moment. I have run up to departing trains before. It is quite demoralizing to say the least. This was the home stretch so we gave it all we had. Our other travel mate welcomed us aboard and handed us our tickets. We had made it.

The two hour train ride was refreshingly uneventful, however I knew as soon as we got off the rat race would begin anew. We had just under and hour a half to the get to the airport with only vague second hand directions guiding us. With no time to lose we ran to the Rome metro B line buried beneath the city. It carried us to the central hub known as Termini. There we switched to the A line and rode it fourteen stops to the end of the line. I was sweating bullets the entire time. I was thinking the metro could not go fast enough and there was no way we were making our flight. Finally, the line ended and the doors slid opened releasing four frantic Americans. We scampered out of the station and hailed the first taxi we saw. I said, “Vai a Ciampiono, velocemente?!” He nodded and before you could say smelly cab driver we were speeding, weaving, and winding through chaotic Roman traffic. All the while we just kept on repeating to each other what kind of a miracle it would be if we actually caught this flight. After what felt like hours of roasting on a timed turkey spit, we paid the drive is due, fourteen Euro, and bolted for the airport entrance. We had half an hour till the flight left.

Blaine had the good eye and quickly identified the Ryan Air ticket counter. I still had no idea what we were doing there without tickets. I had remembered reading somewhere that if you failed to print off the boarding pass than the airport could do it… for a fee. Our approach was met with languid grins from the staff persons. I hurriedly explained that three fours of us did not have boarding passes and asked if it would be to much trouble for them to print them off. The man calmly said it would not be any inconvenience to him. Relief swept my mind and I thanked the kind gentlemen. To soon, unfortunately, that was not all he had to say… He went on to clarify that the inconvenience would be all mine and I would be charged an automatic printing fee. 48.00 Euros or roughly $70.00. I was appalled. Yet, what choice did I have? We were directed to another ticket booth where we could offer our blood sacrifice. I remember really wanting to hurt someone at this point, but I refrained and rallied my emotions for the task before me. I shook off what looked to be a drug deal going on behind the counter and after paying received only a receipt for a ticket and not the ticket itself. Of course. I was then directed back to the Ryan Air counter where they finally gave us our boarding passes. Although that was one huge hurdle cleared I knew we were not out of the woods yet. The security line was wrapped through the terminal like a menacing Amazon python. We had one shot to actually make the gate on time; we rushed around the line to the very front where we tossed any semblance of pride along with our fate at the feet of a hapless security guard. We showed her our tickets and how our plane left in twenty minutes. The flocks of Italians behind her were non-to pleased as she reluctantly let us through to the front. A small victory, but hugely important. Once through the metal detectors we did not even stop to put our shoes back on. So with bags slung on shoulders, jackets half on, and shoes in hand we sprinted to the big board were we identified our flight at gate 13. Upon arrival at unlucky number 13 hour hearts were finally crushed and our spirits crumbled. Not a soul was present, not even a stewardess at the counter. This could not be right! We had ten minutes left! I lunged for the nearest staff person and blurted out my desperate inquiry. Had the 1:30 flight to Milan in fact already departed! The dude simply shrugged his shoulders, thought for a second, and then pointed across the terminal saying, “No, your flight leaves out of gate 22 and it’s late.” The joy that overcame my body at that point was so powerful I almost broke into song and dance. But I didn’t and instead we all breathed a collective sigh of relief as we filled into the back of the line. We had made it. At least this far.

The Sky’s Falling, I’m Not Surprised.

Ok, so I am going to do something new over the next few days. I know it has been quite some time since I have posted anything, that is because I have been working on a really long piece describing my surprise filled trip to Torino a couple of weeks ago. In fact its so long I am going to post it in installments over the next few days. So the idea is today I will begin the story and continue telling it over the next few days so stay posted!!!


Everyone has witnessed those poor souls wildly sprinting through the airport. We all understand they are desperately try to catch a flight and secretly we are glad we are not in their shoes (or lack there of, as you will soon learn).One might indulge in a muffled chuckled at the spectacle. It’s sick but you know its true. I know have. However, after this past weekend I am quite certain I can never allow myself the enjoyment of such cheap entertainment again. Empathy does not have a sense of humor and my heart goes out to those sprinting souls because I was one of them for a day and it was enough to make me want to irrationally grab the nearest Italian bureaucrat by the collar and scream some hysterical stream of profanities into his face. Something to the tune of, “Don’t you see that there could not possibly be a less efficient way to do what your whole country is doing and the criminal truth is you have been doing it for a thousands years.” I digress. Allow me to retrace my sprinting steps to the start.

Ryan Air offers European travelers incredible deals on cheap flights within the continent. Their secret to such discounted prices is they quietly attach small clauses to the ticket contracts, which place the bulk of the work, basically everything aside form actually flying the plane on the customer. One such catch is the traveler is required to print of his or boarding pass no less than four hours before their scheduled flight. Admittently, this is by no means an outlandish request and even appears pedestrian in nature to the most casual of readers. However, if one lives in a foreign country and has less than limited access to a printer and his flight leaves the next morning, it may actually prove to by quite the prickly thorn. I dearly wish this was not a biography but the truth is in my case it was a great big stake through my heart.

I awoke Friday morning with a jump in my step and a song on my lips. I had two hours to catch a train to Rome and then a flight north to go snowboarding for the weekend in the infamous Italian Alps. I was ecstatic because not only is snowboarding one of my favorites activities, but I was going with three of my friends and we had booked a nice cheap hotel in Torino. It was the infallible weekend. Oh, not so fast buster. One major obstacle was keeping us from jumping directly on the morning train. As previously mentioned, I had to print out my boarding pass for the flight. Two of my other friends had to also. It is worth noting that we do not possess printers here and if we want to print something off we have to go to an Italian Internet point in the city. The only such internet point I was aware of opened at 9:00 am, so I had the two other girls, Maddie and Ellie, meet me outside ten minutes before open. I should also mention that Italians are never on time and that includes business hours. This morning I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that they would not actually going open at 9:00 and we would be hung out to dry. Sadly, my gut was right. 8:50 quickly turned into 9:25 with neither sight nor sound of the shopkeeper. My nerves were beginning to fray and our journey yet to even begin. Time pressed down on us with the foreboding knowledge that our train left at 9:50 and our flight departed from Rome at 1:30. Desperate people make irrational decisions and so I bailed on the Internet point, if they didn’t want our business it was their loss, or so I told myself. Evidently not all nonsense is folly especially when fortune stretches out a helping hand as it did to us, revealing a formerly unnoticed hole-in-the-wall printer-fax point right down the street. I howled aloud for I saw our fortune taking a turn for the better. (I must have been blind or just painfully naive.) We pilled through the door and with broken Italian asked the only women present if we could print something off of the Internet. She said we could be we had to wait till she finished working on some brochures. Meanwhile, the clock spun past 9:30. This has more significance than just the fact that we had twenty minutes to catch our train, which was on the other side of the city. I will expound shortly. Eventually, Ellie got on the computer and printed off her boarding pass without a issue. By this time you may be tuning into the stories reacquiring theme and you should ask yourself was there a catch? Of course there was. The website would only print off our return passes. Frustrated, we could not understand why. Then the tragic realization dawned upon us. As previously mentioned, Ryan Air requires its clueless passengers to print off their boarding passes four hours before their flight. No less. It was 9:35 and the flight was at 1:30. I will spare you any patronization; the math is not difficult. I was livid, but had no time to fret so we paid the indifferent Italian women and bolted out the door, pass-less.

Don’t Stop to Think, Walk.

I walked under a fading sun, though there was enough light to show me no one walked at my side. I spoke silently, if there had been someone next to me I surely would have spoken aloud, but I was alone and I was content to share with myself. Indeed, I gave thanks for the peace and solitude. My smiling face confirmed this inner sentiment. On this particular stroll, my feet played guide and led me about because my mind was not committed to the path, but elsewhere. There was no errand nor destination just a free moment to wander within.
I pulled the collar of my pea coat close to my neck and shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets; protective measures against the piercing night breeze. The echo of my footsteps against hard, uneven cobble stones filled the silence, but that was all. At the time my thoughts were general and painfully practical. Where will I eat dinner? Did I turn off the kitchen light? How long did it take to set each stone in its place for the cobble stone street upon which I trod? To this point my head was down with my chin buried into my scarf to collect heat. I don’t know what prompted me to lift my head and gaze upward, but I did and in that instant the trigger pulled. A gun sounded, though not audibly. A previously cluttered thought process became almost instantly blank. I say almost blank because there remained one single, yet profound thought lighting up my brain like a Vegas casino sign: I live in Italy.
Profound might be a slight reach but truly up until that point I don’t think that realization had laid root in my mind. I had taken up residence in Viterbo, but Viterbo had not yet moved into my conscience.
My nostrils burned and my lungs swelled as I took in generous servings of the brisk evening air. Air lets one know he is alive and that reality is speaking for itself. I understood the importance of absolute reality only because I had watched “Inception” the night before. Great flick. I was fascinated with my new found revelation and basked in its truth. I walked ancient streets which were much older than anything my former American life had offered me. This was the country of my peasant immigrant fore fathers and I felt at home.
Origin, for some unknown reason, means the world to me. I have to know where something or someone comes from. This might be why I love maps. An hour bent over a map, following rivers and roads, streets and streams is an hour vanished in seconds. I loose myself in origin and in thoughts of origin. I felt original as I walked the Italian streets. A pleasant mist floated down at a leisurely pace and dusted my coat but did not chill my skin. Not noticing the rain, my skin remained indifferent, whereas my nose jolted alive at the fresh, pure smell of the sifting dew. I drew another deep breath, this time focusing on the acute scent filling my sinus cavity. If Italy was to remain home, I was happy it smelled good.
I was now nearing my door and my steps grew shorter until they stopped altogether, short of the doorway. With head tilted back and feet together, I determined to bind all of it up in my heart; the smells, the cobble stones, the silence. I knew that I loved Italy like an estranged aunt if for no other reason than it is in my blood. The desire to tattoo the memory across my memory for a very long time rose within me, though only briefly. Then I remembered hearing tattoos hurt so I decided to just write it down instead. Rain began to collect on my face; I shook off the wet beads and stepped through the threshold, shutting the door behind me.

Miss Florence, the Pleasure is All Mine

Florence stole my delight. This is no small feet especially considering ,as a rule, I do not dole out such praise without unique prompting. Yet, prompt this city did and more. My weekend centered around our two day trip through its busy streets, though not so bustling as Rome, and exploring its many Renaissance sites. A fairly large group, around 20, made the surprising long five our train ride from Viterbo. We left early Saturday morning so we could get there with enough daylight to explore that day. The hostel we stayed in astounded me. It was as large as any hotel boasting no less than five floors of large, albeit dorm stile rooms, that were well cleaned and neatly decorated. The basement had its own restaurant/ bar that doubled as a dance club at night. A full indoor pool and sauna just sent the place over the edge! Outside the hostel walls were the handsome streets of Florence herself. In my opinion she offers her visitors such a diverse experience like no other city can. It’s a large metropolitan area, wonderfully preserved historical museum, and quant Tuscan hill town all wrapped into one. Everywhere I looked I found myself floored by numerous massive 14th century cathedrals, but simultaneously charmed by the simple town home style buildings stacked up and down narrow cobble stoned streets. Add the fact that the city rests in a valley surrounded by solemn rolling hills of villas and vineyards; is it really any wonder I fell under Florence’s spell, hopelessly enchanted. Ill post a few pictures of the views from the tops of these hills and then I hope you will catch a glimpse of what this city does to naive tourists. Il Duomo is one of the largest cathedrals in the world. Its namesake is derived from its enormous dome which, from a distance utterly dominates the city skyline. Of course the statue of David by Michael Angelo resides in one of the dozens of historic museums. I did not pay to go in and see it this time, but I can surely see myself doing so in the future as I will definitely make it a point to find my way back to this city. Now, I don’t want to unfairly paint this as heaven on earth because without doubt Florence has her flaws. Loud tourists swarmed the streets like witless ants upon a dirt mound and one certainly pays for the experience as those swarms of tourists allow for unreasonable price hikes. Yet, to steal a line from the brilliant Oscar Wilde (I have been reading quite a bit of is stuff lately), “If a woman can not make her mistakes charming, she is only a female.” And if a city cannot make its flaws attractive then it is but a destination. Bravo miss Florence, you stole my delight and you did so with mysterious imperfection. What other city makes me smile on its deficiencies as silly charming quarks? Remarkable. Well done Miss Florence, well done.

Perspective Meets Apartmental Living

The following is taken from a writing exercise for my journalism class:

Honestly, what similarities can exist between a stereotypical college frat house and a 12th century hospital turned apartment building? In every sense of the expression, the two stand worlds apart. Yet, if I have learned one thing from behind the walls of higher education it is that every reality is governed by one nagging, cliché law, perspective. Somehow and in every way there is always an exception to be voiced by another cultured intellectual with a more diverse background that somehow affords him an infinitely more enlightened vantage point. Reality and only sometimes beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And in the case of said frat house vs. the aforementioned ancient apartment my eye revealed just one single commonality, me. A college frat house and an ancient Italian building could not be more different, but they both happen to be a part of my world and thus I am their link. I bridge the gap.
I have never walked up to my fraternity house and at once been halted mid step by what stood before me. But something very similar to this happened the first time I walked up to my apartment building in Viterbo, Italy. Truly, the title apartment building cannot do the structure justice. I suppose in this case words fail. Perhaps something like an ancient castle the likes of which my mind can only attach to images I have seen in Braveheart might be a more accurate description. I just stood there gaping in awe at my new home. Everything was different. As I climbed the worn stone stairs towards my third floor apartment, I felt a peculiar cold wrap itself around me; one unlike any I had ever experienced. It seemed an old cold. As is if it had lived there for a very long time and my body heat disturbed its age old environment. This deep cold had a friend, the dark. I think these too often run hand in hand. This dark was also formed in ages past and now stood guard over the rugged stones and heavy oak doors. I walked with reverence as a stranger and guest in another’s home. Everything seemed odd to me. I stepped through the threshold of my apartment door and looked into a much larger room than my imagination had previously created. Modern art hung on the walls. My fraternity house has not one piece of modern art. Here the art fits though because the ambiance of the place is utilitarian and industrial. Chairs and tables are practical not comfortable. Lamps are cold stainless steal and the floor is hard ceramic. I think the landlord tried to make the room a little more homely by leaving a couple old books on the shelves. I read the titles, “Death of President” and “Spontaneous Healing.” I appreciate the gesture. Thanks but no thanks.
Our bedrooms are very similar to the common room. Tall ceilings, small beds and sensible furniture fill the space. The dark did not follow me into these rooms. Large windows full of light made sure of that. However, the cold was there and still is. We are no longer strangers and I would say much more than acquaintances. Indifferent neighbors that are used to each other’s existence would probably be the most accurate description.
I wish we had a clothes dryer. I am still trying to get used to laundry hanging to dry all across the house. It looks terribly unkempt. I would hang it out the window, but I would have to make my own clothes line and then I have this fear that I would not do it properly and one day I will return to find some but not all of my clothes scattered on the street. People would take the good things like jeans and shorts and leave the rejects like socks and underwear. I think I will learn to accept the hanging laundry in the house.
There is one final difference that never seems to escape me. In fact in follows me everywhere I go, not just my apartment. The voices are not the same. If there is one sure reminder that I am not home it is the voices. No one speaks my language here. Shocking I know. But you may not know how odd it is to listen to the street voices outside your window and night and not know a single word. It is definitely hard to feel at home in those moments. Alas, this place is not at all like my fraternity house, but if I am to be their only tie than I relish the chance to combine my two worlds. Perspective, it's so much more attractive when it’s positive.

A Quiet, Sunless Day

It took about a week or so of getting acquainted with my little Italian city before I could bring myself to go out and explore alone. Fear or inhibitions were not holding me back, rather the constant serge of people in my everyday life. Time away, time alone has been rare thus far. Today was my chance to seize some of this precious commodity. The morning saw me waking up slightly later than I had wanted yet I have still managed to do all that I had planned, as I lay in my bed last night waiting to fall asleep. As an aside, I really have come to like my small Italian bed. The sheets are from home and still smell as such so this familiar comfort has made the acclamation easier. The comforter insists on sliding off most nights, much to my disdain, but I have faith that my tiny bed and I can work it out and come to some kind of mutual truce. Perhaps, it just wants to be pushed up against the wall so as to feel more secure and in return the blanket will rest safely against said wall instead of sliding off onto what is currently a shamefully unswept floor. Note, I should brush up the floor today. End aside. A quiet, sunless day continued… The list grew in my mind as I waited for sleep. Things like what would I do for breakfast, when should I do my homework, should I go to the Blitz café to use the Internet or just go to school?? Evidently, I do not believe I succeeded in establishing a set plan before I fell asleep. I can know this because when I awoke this morning I really was lost unto myself and had no mission for the day. All my hard hammered out night contemplation had been spent for not and now I was facing my day without a plan and with very little motivation. Note, lesson learned; stay motivated even when tomorrow does not have its own plan already in place. Truly, I am being a bit dramatic much to my own delight and entertainment. In reality I woke up and almost immediately decided to run to the corner market and purchase a small loaf of fresh Italian bread. Then I committed the next half hour to making and subsequently eating an egg and prosciutto breakfast sandwich. It was a screaming success. Once nourished I felt encouraged from within to wander about the streets of Viterbo, alone. Again time apart from others has not been bountiful so I relished the opportunity.

Stepping out into the street, I immediately sensed a quiet that had I taken the same step out the exact door one day before, would have I think felt very much different. For yesterday unlike today was beautifully sunny and bright. The usual Viterben clouds had gone on a day trip, probably to London cause they knew they would have friends there, and all that was left in the sky was our sole radiant sun. Yesterday was a bright and happy day. Today on the other hand is quiet and it would seem the sun has taken a leave of its own. Indeed, as I walked through the streets I knew it was going to be a somber stroll, but definitely not sad. I am by no means melancholy, simply introverted for an afternoon. Reflection requires an introvert’s company, or so I have observed. I walked. I walked for a very long time. Probably like two hours. The bag slung over my shoulder was heavy and uncomfortable. Yet, my burden did not hinder my journey. I roamed and explored narrow streets and busy intersections. Snapped a couple pics and thoughts more than a couple thoughts. Then I was tired. My thoughts were interrupted my nature, for my body is pesky about its wants and truly is very needy, I am afraid. Body would not allow thoughts their privacy and space until body had a rest and some quality time sitting on a bench. I was in no mood for a grouchy inner battle so I succumbed without so much as tousle. I traveled to grassy green park populated by miniature black lampposts that reach only to my shoulder as well as half a dozen old stone benches. This is where I find myself now. In the little park, parked on a stone benched, and probing the panoramic view before me with scanning eyes. The park is on one side of a valley and part of the town is spread out beneath me. On the other side of the valley, up the hillside, rests the huge papal palace of Viterbo. There is a large clock tower that catches my roaming eyes each time I raise my head up from my computer. It is much taller than everything else and has faded black and white horizontal stripes painted upon all sides. It’s still sunless but not so quiet. There are a couple Italians in the park now. Their chatter has broken the silence. I don’t hate it though. Because I think I have filled my alone time desire and now I think I will go to Blitz café and see what friends I can find. I think there is only so much quiet, sunless, alone time I can stand.

So Tech in a Non Tech World

I have previously mentioned how Italians do not really use the internet that much, at least not nearly as much as we do. So I think it must be peculiar to them that we sit at their cafes for hours just to use the internet. But there is just so much I want to do! So I don't really feel bad. I am currently toying with the google pic application Picasa which should allow me to post whole slideshows of pictures up on this website. I am having trouble now and I would love more time to work it out but of course time is not on my side here, just to much to see! Yesterday was my first class in Travel writing and Intercultural Communication. I am really excited about both actually. The Comm prof is Irish and just very cool. My travel writing class is the one that i am most excited about though. My teacher made quite the first impression. She is American but has lived in Italy for 22 years! My initial impression of her is she is tough but still nice and VERY knowledgeable. So it seems the class will be tough but I think i can learn a ton from her! Who knows maybe she will be a major keystone in my quest to improve my writing. I hope so. Life continued... we spent the weekend in Rome which was of course completely amazing! Still my favorite city in the whole world. I might be going to Florence this weekend so that is great. I have not mentioned my roommates yet. I live with Jack, John, and Karl. They are all ultra cool guys. We have a great apartment and all cook together and hang out and just get along great which is a huge blessing! Jack and i share a room and John and Karl have the other. I wish I did not always feel so rushed on these posts but I just want to get some thoughts down while I can. I think for my next entry I will just budget the time so that i can construct it exactly how i want.