!!!FALL BREAK!!!

OK, this is a bit of a slacker post...I'm going to add my piece for Creative Writing this week, because it was inspired by a party I went to with my Uncle Bob this past weekend when I visited him in Rome. I just want to emphasize: THIS IS CREATIVE WRITING, NOT AN EXACT ACCOUNT OF ANYTHING. I actually had a great time at this party, and got to meet a great girl who's doing an internship in the art-restoration wing of the Vatican, and who's going to visit me at some point in Siena! It was also just really fun seeing Bob doing what he does in Rome--I've only ever gotten to see him doing the side of his job which takes place during large family get-togethers, and isn't nearly as glamorous!

Anyways, tomorrow I head off for Fall Break! I have to give a 5-minute oral presentation in Italian class on a subject of my own choosing (which will be the TV show "Glee!"), and then I'm free! I'm having a good-bye lunch with my host fam, then catching a bus to Florence to spend the night with Erikka, and then flying out to London for the weekend! Much Indian food will be consumed, and then I will be in Dublin and Belfast for the remainder.

Tonight's Gonna Be A Long, Long Night

The doorbell sounded over the murmur of voices, and several more people trickled from the hall into the apartment foyer. It was a spacious apartment, reminiscent of a recently-converted hotel room: gold-framed watercolor landscapes broke the monotony of bland walls, and a wooden table with a vase of fake flowers sat in the entrance. The hostess fluttered between kitchen, door, and dining room, monitoring the food and the people.
The new arrivals shrugged off their coats and scanned the scene, deciding how to insert themselves. They were a mismatched group: a tall, worn-looking man with graying curls and thick glasses (who several of the guests approached with recognition), a mousy-haired woman who introduced herself with great seriousness and urgency in a heavy Polish accent, and a girl apologetically wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and an uncertain expression.
The partygoers were of a distinctly Catholic set; there were five priests in collars as well as journalists and writers brought to Rome by the tantalizing buzz of the Vatican hive. The t-shirt girl had heard the phrase ‘all roads lead to Rome,’ and saw that within her uncle’s sphere, all roads lead to the Vatican. Standing tangent to a circle immersed in theological debate, the girl assumed a benignly interested look. After twenty minutes of polite listening (and no offer of a drink), her expression collapsed from interest to boredom, and then dissolved into discomfort. She slipped away down a side hall lined with shelves of books which offered a desperately-needed distraction.
Sadly, her solace did not last.
“Excuse me- are you doing all right? Can I offer you an appertivo?” inquired the fluttering hostess, brandishing a tray of what looks like pasty grey brain atop star-shaped French fries.
The girl stepped back quickly from the shelves she had been making a show of perusing, exclaiming “Oh, thanks- um, can I ask what this is?”
“It’s brain on stars! Haha! Mother and I made them!” the hostess twinkled. She was in fact the same age as the girl, but wearing heels and popping out of a low-cut cocktail dress, and relishing the part of the benevolent hostess.
“Oh wow,” the girl quavered before taking the plunge, “Sure I’ll try one, thanks…” She slid a star off the tray and tried to balance it with her plastic cup of water. “I’m just, you know, looking at the books here…are they, I mean, do you…”she fumbled the brain-star, almost dunking it in her cup, as she struggled to figure out who exactly she was talking to. As far as she can tell there were at least three other women playing the hostess at this party. “Do you live here?” she finally blurted out, trying to maintain her cool.
“Yes, I do. I am Italian. Italian-American, actually. Of Boston.” That explained her impeccable English, but not the extremely proper diction.
The girl’s eyebrows flew up in relief, “Oh, really? Where? I mean, I’m from Boston too!”
“Hmm, fancy that. My grandparents have their property in Chestnut Hill. I summer there each year. And why are you here?” the hostess inquired coolly, glancing over her shoulder with disinterest, reluctant to join in the game of mutual knowledge. The girl was reminded again of her appearance, her clear deviance from the rest of the partygoers. “Oh, well I’m just visiting my uncle for the weekend, but I’m spending the semester studying in Siena. He didn’t tell me we’d be going out anywhere, you know…I haven’t even had a chance to drop off my stuff at his apartment,” she explained, then plunged on, still searching for some friendly common ground. “I’m actually from Somerville, right next to Cambridge, like on the Red Line? The Porter Square T stop is near my house? There’s an Anna’s Taqueria there, I’m sure you go to the one in Chestnut Hill when you’re, uh, summering. God, I miss Mexican food!” the girl blurted, immediately cringing as the G word popped out of her mouth.
“No, I don’t think so…please excuse me, I really must deal with some things in the kitchen. Don’t hesitate to let me know if there’s anything I can get for you.” She smiles indulgently, pleased by her own poise and generosity, and waltzed off with her tray of brain-stars.
The girl looked back at the shelves of books, and then into the stagnant soup of priests and journalists, and took a small, brave bite of brain-star. Turning slightly from the room, she deftly spit it into her napkin and tucked it into the empty cup. It was going to be a long, long night.

The Renaissance (condensed version)

Just got back from our first Art History field trip to the Uffizi Gallery, which was also my first trip to Florence.

Our teacher is a Florentine art historian with the best accent ever, prone to Englishisms like, "Ciao ciao, you disciples, I go to die now!" when voicing the meaning of Gothic religious artwork. The Uffizi was quite an experience--in (barely) two hours we worked our way from Giotto to Duccio to Botticelli, fighting for space in front of the masterpieces and getting shushed by an ornery German tourguide just for being American students and therefore unable to appreciate culture of any kind. After each painting, our professor urged us on with a fervent "Now we really must run very fast now!" It was completely overwhelming to be surrounded by works of art I've seen in art classes at Amherst and books on the Renaissance, and to just walk by them as we scampered to check off today's pieces from our list. Embarrassingly enough, I walked into a glass display case because my head was swiveling so fast trying to process what was on display in the rooms we didn't stop in as we rushed to finish the tour. When the closing announcements began to play, our professor actually said, "OK I am so so sorry but we have just ten minutes so we will quickly see Michelangelo and Da Vinci." Seriously? We just looked at each other and laughed with the ridiculousness of this proposition. Luckily we have more fieldtrips to the Uffizi.

After we finished half an hour late, I made a mad dash for the bus back to Siena. I ran the last couple blocks to the station, completely soaking my Keds and flipping my poor flimsy umbrella inside-out several times. It was not graceful, but it was extremely satisfying to hop into the bus approximately 33 seconds before it pulled out. Overall, quite a whirlwind first trip to Florence.

The frantic scramble of making buses and trains (and soon planes!) makes me incredibly nervous, but the sense of relaxation I get once I'm aboard is great. When you get moving towards your destination, you have a chance to process the experience you just had, and to begin planning for wherever you're headed next. These past couple of weeks have slipped by, punctuated with trips to Bologna, the Maremma, Perugia, Florence today (and Rome this weekend, and London the next!) By the time I get back to Siena from Fall Break, I think I'll be ready to settle down for a bit, and process the first half of my 'semester abroad.' I've been in constant looking-forward mode, with a new trip always lurking in the near future, and it will be nice to return from break and savor my remaining month and a half (is that really all?) at the Siena School.

And yes, I think I'll savor some winter baked specialties along with that...

Season of Gelato gives way to Cioccolata Calda

With a sudden drop in temperatures, time has started whizzing by.

I’ve been in Italy for seven weeks now. I’ve found that I can successfully buy bus and train tickets, order at restaurants (even if I’m not quite sure what it is I’ve selected), and make bad jokes to my host family (Olga, gesturing at my plate: Do you like it? Me: Haha. No, me no like, that is why I eat much a lot of it. Haha)

The academic side of my stay here has been educational in many ways—I’ve learned about the Italian “academic fifteen,” which is quite different from its American counterpart, the dreaded Freshman Fifteen. In Italy, there’s a generally acknowledged pillow of fifteen minutes (more or less) between the appointed start time of class, and when you’re expected to be there. Our Italian teachers were the ones to actually inform us of this practice.

One week ago, I was still wearing shorts and feeling slightly guilty about it. Since then the weather has turned: a fifteen degree temperature drop and spiteful wind have brutally proved to us that summer ends, even in Tuscany. Since Italian families tend to eat foods that are in season, bean soup, pumpkin risotto, and some kind of deep fried bread dish have been making appearances at the family table. The desire for gelato after every meal has been replaced with pastries or hot chocolate. We American students have been scolded by our Italian teachers for complaining about the constant cold, which has been difficult to adjust to. Apparently in Italy heating systems are regulated by the government, and so most public buildings, and many private ones, won’t be able to turn on the heat until a prescribed date in November. Which means a damp and chilly day…will be a damp and chilly day inside and out.

Yesterday Angela and Erikka and I clawed our way to the European Chocolate Festival in Perugia (catching three trains or varying lateness and battling menacing crowds of chocolate fanatics). Pergugia was absolutely swarmed by thousands of people who descend each year to taste and buy some of the best chocolate to be had in Europe. It was the coldest I’ve been in Italy thus far, with wind whipping up and a down the narrow streets and the sky grayed over with thick clouds. But there was something exciting about the onset of fall and the threat of winter in the air. The delicious feeling of a cup of cioccolate calda warming your numb fingers while you walk aisles of chocolate kebabs, chocolate French fries, chocolate covered apples and chocolate dipped bananas wouldn’t be the same in summer weather.

After a brisk walk home from the train station, I put an extra comforter on my bed and nestled up with my warm computer (for an episode of Freaks and Geeks), and nibbled on chocolate dipped apricots before falling asleep for twelve hours.

I’ve got two weeks of classes before the start of my ten-day fall break; I hope I don’t go into full hibernation first.

"The Learned, the Red, and the Fat"

Siena is clearly the best place in the world in all possible ways, but Bologna made a daring bid for the number one slot this past weekend. Angela and I hopped the early-bird bus on Saturday; it was still pretty dark and the clouds were ominous. The 2.5 hour ride lulled us into a stupor, which we immediately snapped out of when we reached our fair destination: Bologna, known for ages as "Letto, Rossi, e Grossi" or Learned, Red, and Fat.

We dropped our bags at a tiny hotel off the Piazza Maggiore, where Megan and Kelley would meet up with us later that afternoon, and headed off into the city. We weren't as captivated by the "Letto" aspect of the city, and instead pursued all things Grossi, which included two of Bologna's award winning gelaterias. And here was our first mind-blowing discovery: GELATO CON FOCACCIA. It's sort of the Italian love-child of a hot dog and an ice cream sandwich, only prettier. And minus the processed meat products. A fresh-baked, cinnamon-dusted, sweet-bread-bun-thingy sliced open and heated for 3 seconds in the microwave, and then filled with four scoops of the best gelato you can imagine. Absolute ecstasy, no joke.

After our first gelato, we explored some more and ogled the continuous overhang of porticos extending over virtually all of the city sidewalks. Everywhere you walk, a protective ceiling shades you and lovely arcades of columns extends between you and the busy streets. The longest one goes for a few kilometers and is apparently somposed of 666 consecutive porticos! Bologna would def be a good rainy-day destination, since you're always out of the elements.

The food was without a doubt the highlight of the trip. There was a farmer's market on Saturday, where a lot of the local restaurants stock up for the week. Once Kelley and Megan joined us, decided to go for the full foodie experience, and reserved a place at little place that was supposed to be good.

We arrived a little early for our 8 o'clock reservation, and were seated under the sidewalk portico. Immediately food began arriving at our table and our glasses filled with proseco; we weren't sure if we would even choose our meals or not. After the starters, the Ms. Owner Guy sauntered over and began to recite, in rapid gutteral Italian (read: incomprehensible) tonight's options. Um...could we see a menu please? We felt pretty ostentatiously American; we were younger than the other people there, and hesitant about ordering. With some coaxing, we chose pastas, and breathed a sigh of relief. Then the wine came out, and soon after our pastas, and we began to relax a little.

The next time Mr. Owner Guy came by, he didn't seem quite as intimidating, and we were able to order mains without too much embarrassment. By now it's dark, and we notice the rose petals scattered on the ground near us, and admire the enthusiastic toast being given two table over by an older man with arms extended over his head. We're slowing falling into a food coma; I can't even describe the crazy goodness of what our waitress brought out. When it's time for dessert, the group two tables down has expanded to include a deliciously quaint accordian player and everyone's singing, it's ridiculously perfect. The American couple sitting next to us pull out their camera and snap a photo, we congratulate ourselves for not giving into that particular indulgence. When dessert arrives, Angela and I are astounded to see that we have ordered what appears to be...a dish of frothy fresh-whipped mascarpone cream, speckled with shards of dark chocolate. Seriously, Bologna? Straight-up whipped cream and chocolate? This is the kind of thing that would not fly in America, but you secretly wish for.

We're pretty happy right about now, savoring the flavors and music and the sight of the owner getting steadily tipsy with the folks a few tables down. Now we're thinking it might be some kind of wedding celebration, and what do you know? Out dances Mr. Owner himself, holding the wedding cake and strutting about showing off his baby to everyone. Good thing we already had dessert or we'd be jealous!

We're waiting to be kicked out as the wedding celebration continues to gather steam, but the staff doesn't seem worried about getting us to leave. In fact, the owner (how were we afraid of him at first?!?) slips up behind Angela and furiously rubs her bare arms, chanting "Non fa freddo! Non freddo!" until he's convinced she's not catching cold. And then his pal comes around with the wedding champage, and pours a little into our reddened wine glasses, swirls it about and dumps it into the next, repeating until the last glass is full of a deep pink wineseco mixture, which he flings behind him, splattering a parked car. He then fills our glasses, spilling liberally over the tablecloth, and returning several more times. By now we're giggling and joking, and feel almost deserving when some of the wedding cake is sent over our way. (It's pure butter and pastry. Actually.) We're loving the jealous looks from the American couple next to us, who get up to leave without any cake. When we finally get our check, it's 11:30.

As we get up to leave, Mr. Owner sweeps in front of us, and pulls four long-stemmed yellow roses from the wedding bouquets, and presents them to each of us, accompanied by kisses on each cheek and hearily squeezing our shoulders (and his business card slipped into our pockets). I don't care if it's just an extremely effective business strategy, but I am in love with this place and will remember and recommend it forever to anyone in Italy. Hell, years from now I'll hunt this guy down and invite him to my wedding. Granted he'll have no idea who I am, and he'll probably be busy at his restaurant and with his life and all that...but I think anyone who considers a plate of whipped cream appropriate restaurant fare is very special.

Anyways, it was a great weekend, other stuff happened, look at my pictures on flikr, I'll post the link in a bit, blah blah blah.