If my life were a play (which I'm sure one day my life story will be adapted for the stage because it's that super interesting) it would be brimming with dramatic irony.
It's pouring in Assisi today so we postponed our trip for a few weeks which for me means until April or so because every moment of every weekend from here to what seems like eternity are packed with going place/people coming to visit. Don't get me wrong, its lovely, but chaotic. Very much like Rome itself.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
That time we never made it to Assisi
Some of the most beautiful moments of this trip happen when everything goes wrong.
Today I woke up at the crack of dawn (okay, like 6:45 am) to meet Abby and her other roommate Kate at the train station right by my apartment building to go to Assisi for the day. The train, according to the website, was supposed to depart Stazione Trastevere at 7:43 and arrive in Assisi around 10 am. That was a plan but, like planed things in Italy, things quickly disbanded when the train (and we still aren't sure how or why this happened) either never came/never was supposed to come. The three of us found ourselves standing in the station, perhaps on the verge of exhausted and stressed tears, staring blankly at the train bin board.
So we decided to get on the next train leaving the station to Bracciano. The only thing we knew about this place was that Tom Cruise and Kaitie Holmes had gotten married in Odescalchi Castle which sits at the top of the hill the town is built on (that was Abby and Kate).
The three of us show up in this tiny tiny tiny little medieval town which is still clearly all asleep save for the occasional cafe and bakery. We wandered through the cobblestone streets, overrun with grass and weeds until we ended up with a breathtaking view of Lake Bracciano. Being on top of a mountain the lake was covered with whitecaps and the wind was insane but it was so beautiful. As far as you could see just tiny little houses dotting the sides of the lake and the hills went on forever.
And then came perhaps the most comedic moment of my life, which, considering my perchance for being privy to some of the strangest and odd aspects of life, was pretty wonderful. You can tour the castle which we obvi wanted to do because Kate and Abby wanted to see where this wedding had taken place and, literally, it was the only thing to do in the whole town. So we go get our tickets and the women behind the counter says to us, in English, the next tour is at 10 am, but it's in Italian, there are no English tours today. And we're all like, yeah that's fine, it'll be us and a bunch of other people so we can just stay in the back and read the signs or whatever and we'll be fine.
The tour consisted of the three of us and our lovely Italian tour guide. The four of us in a castel built in the 1400s. She was amazing though and though we didn't get 100% of the information she was giving us, she went slow enough that my half Spanish half Italian thinking brain could get most of what she was saying. It was beautiful and historic and she let us walk around the rooms behind the roped off areas because, literally, we we're the only people in the entire complex.
Though, if I was getting married in the Italian Countryside I would pick a different town to do so in. Just saying.
Then we wandered around for a bit and went in a few churches before finding the best. lunch. ever. The women who owns the restaurant basically refused to let me order the Ravioli, telling me that all Americans order either the ravioli or the spagetti in red sauce and I should branch out so I ordered her favorite dish, the mezzaluna stuffed with mushrooms.
Amazing.
I mopped up all the sauce with extra bread. That delicious. I managed to get across in my broken Italian that it was the best dish I had ever eaten in all of Italy, not an exaggeration in the slightest. I'm contemplating taking my family to this town when they come to Rome solely for the purpose of eating at this restaurant. Trattoria del Castello. Everyone should come to Italy and eat there.
So tomorrow hopefully Assisi. Train tickets have been purchased so hopefully we'll make it there. If not I could glade go back to that trattoria. It was that good.
Today I woke up at the crack of dawn (okay, like 6:45 am) to meet Abby and her other roommate Kate at the train station right by my apartment building to go to Assisi for the day. The train, according to the website, was supposed to depart Stazione Trastevere at 7:43 and arrive in Assisi around 10 am. That was a plan but, like planed things in Italy, things quickly disbanded when the train (and we still aren't sure how or why this happened) either never came/never was supposed to come. The three of us found ourselves standing in the station, perhaps on the verge of exhausted and stressed tears, staring blankly at the train bin board.
So we decided to get on the next train leaving the station to Bracciano. The only thing we knew about this place was that Tom Cruise and Kaitie Holmes had gotten married in Odescalchi Castle which sits at the top of the hill the town is built on (that was Abby and Kate).
The three of us show up in this tiny tiny tiny little medieval town which is still clearly all asleep save for the occasional cafe and bakery. We wandered through the cobblestone streets, overrun with grass and weeds until we ended up with a breathtaking view of Lake Bracciano. Being on top of a mountain the lake was covered with whitecaps and the wind was insane but it was so beautiful. As far as you could see just tiny little houses dotting the sides of the lake and the hills went on forever.
And then came perhaps the most comedic moment of my life, which, considering my perchance for being privy to some of the strangest and odd aspects of life, was pretty wonderful. You can tour the castle which we obvi wanted to do because Kate and Abby wanted to see where this wedding had taken place and, literally, it was the only thing to do in the whole town. So we go get our tickets and the women behind the counter says to us, in English, the next tour is at 10 am, but it's in Italian, there are no English tours today. And we're all like, yeah that's fine, it'll be us and a bunch of other people so we can just stay in the back and read the signs or whatever and we'll be fine.
The tour consisted of the three of us and our lovely Italian tour guide. The four of us in a castel built in the 1400s. She was amazing though and though we didn't get 100% of the information she was giving us, she went slow enough that my half Spanish half Italian thinking brain could get most of what she was saying. It was beautiful and historic and she let us walk around the rooms behind the roped off areas because, literally, we we're the only people in the entire complex.
Though, if I was getting married in the Italian Countryside I would pick a different town to do so in. Just saying.
Then we wandered around for a bit and went in a few churches before finding the best. lunch. ever. The women who owns the restaurant basically refused to let me order the Ravioli, telling me that all Americans order either the ravioli or the spagetti in red sauce and I should branch out so I ordered her favorite dish, the mezzaluna stuffed with mushrooms.
Amazing.
I mopped up all the sauce with extra bread. That delicious. I managed to get across in my broken Italian that it was the best dish I had ever eaten in all of Italy, not an exaggeration in the slightest. I'm contemplating taking my family to this town when they come to Rome solely for the purpose of eating at this restaurant. Trattoria del Castello. Everyone should come to Italy and eat there.
So tomorrow hopefully Assisi. Train tickets have been purchased so hopefully we'll make it there. If not I could glade go back to that trattoria. It was that good.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Signs
My mom just emailed me telling me she can't wait for my first novel after reading my last post (which, JJ, why after that last post? It was, like the middle of most novels, angst-y and self righteous) so I guess this is an opportune moment as any to discuss my writing in Rome.
I've known I've wanted to be a writer for a while, but I pinpoint the moment when I realized I was made for writing at sometime between the ages of 0 and 3 when I first though I was the dog Pongo from 101 Dalmatians (side note, someone on my block has a pet Dalmatian and I get all excited when I see it hen I'm walking to class). If you're reading this then you know the story but looking back on my formative years when I though I was a dog a few years ago I realized than if I could build this entire fantasy world for myself to inhabit when I was hardly forming complete sentences maybe I could somehow make other people believe in worlds I made with words.
Plus I really just enjoy words. "Perhaps" is my favorite, followed closely by "lovely". Then "Rhizome" (read A Thousand Plateaus for information on the last one then you'll love it too).
I write all the time. I scribble down bits of conversations I hear on the streets (bring in Rome makes this part more difficult as everything is in Italian, but sometimes the English I do hear makes for wonderful banter), quotes on the walls at museumes, sometimes just words I like the feel of.
But mostly I write to keep myself sane. Running is the other way I keep my brain from going too crazy but running here is harder than it is at home so writing is all I have.
Besides this blog I have a class journal I keep, my handwritten stuff, letters, email, facebook correspondences along with my usual bits of whatever I'm working in my folder labeled "Stuff that needs to be made better" which is not to be confused with my "Stuff that's been made better but still kinda sucks" and "Someone actually decided to published stuff that should have never seen the light of day" folder.
But really, I don't feel like I much writing here. Which is weird because I also feel like I spend more time chronicling this experience than any other time in my life besides NaNoWriMo of 2009. And when I do write it's specifically designed for someone, for my professor, for all of my ardent readers here, for the AmLit people. Which is unfortunate, because this city has so much to offer in the realm of storytelling. Rome is just incredibly interesting.
One of my personal exercises, especially when I have "The Block", is to make up back-stories for random people I see. People on the metro, professors scurrying to class, my cab driver, the guy playing first violin at the Kennedy Center, no one is safe from my tendency to play god and give who are probably decent, good people some sort of horrible and tragic life story that inevitably either begins or ends with someone close to them dying in some tragic way.
Tonight my upstairs neighbors got into what I presume was a fight involving several other people and several dining room chairs that were thrown at the floor. At least that's what it sounded like. Lots of yelling. And what sounded like wood splintering. Which is usually such great fiction fodder but, alas, I am writing this because I don't want to work on my two presentations for International Business tomorrow and I don't want to write in my class journal. Writing to procrastinate writing. Talk about meta.
Moral of the story is if I don't get at least a dozen good plots out of this trip it will have been a total waste.
ALSO I think I'm going to make bagels on Friday. Then off to Assisi this on Saturday with Abby to go really make my Ancestors Proud.
I've known I've wanted to be a writer for a while, but I pinpoint the moment when I realized I was made for writing at sometime between the ages of 0 and 3 when I first though I was the dog Pongo from 101 Dalmatians (side note, someone on my block has a pet Dalmatian and I get all excited when I see it hen I'm walking to class). If you're reading this then you know the story but looking back on my formative years when I though I was a dog a few years ago I realized than if I could build this entire fantasy world for myself to inhabit when I was hardly forming complete sentences maybe I could somehow make other people believe in worlds I made with words.
Plus I really just enjoy words. "Perhaps" is my favorite, followed closely by "lovely". Then "Rhizome" (read A Thousand Plateaus for information on the last one then you'll love it too).
I write all the time. I scribble down bits of conversations I hear on the streets (bring in Rome makes this part more difficult as everything is in Italian, but sometimes the English I do hear makes for wonderful banter), quotes on the walls at museumes, sometimes just words I like the feel of.
But mostly I write to keep myself sane. Running is the other way I keep my brain from going too crazy but running here is harder than it is at home so writing is all I have.
Besides this blog I have a class journal I keep, my handwritten stuff, letters, email, facebook correspondences along with my usual bits of whatever I'm working in my folder labeled "Stuff that needs to be made better" which is not to be confused with my "Stuff that's been made better but still kinda sucks" and "Someone actually decided to published stuff that should have never seen the light of day" folder.
But really, I don't feel like I much writing here. Which is weird because I also feel like I spend more time chronicling this experience than any other time in my life besides NaNoWriMo of 2009. And when I do write it's specifically designed for someone, for my professor, for all of my ardent readers here, for the AmLit people. Which is unfortunate, because this city has so much to offer in the realm of storytelling. Rome is just incredibly interesting.
One of my personal exercises, especially when I have "The Block", is to make up back-stories for random people I see. People on the metro, professors scurrying to class, my cab driver, the guy playing first violin at the Kennedy Center, no one is safe from my tendency to play god and give who are probably decent, good people some sort of horrible and tragic life story that inevitably either begins or ends with someone close to them dying in some tragic way.
Tonight my upstairs neighbors got into what I presume was a fight involving several other people and several dining room chairs that were thrown at the floor. At least that's what it sounded like. Lots of yelling. And what sounded like wood splintering. Which is usually such great fiction fodder but, alas, I am writing this because I don't want to work on my two presentations for International Business tomorrow and I don't want to write in my class journal. Writing to procrastinate writing. Talk about meta.
Moral of the story is if I don't get at least a dozen good plots out of this trip it will have been a total waste.
ALSO I think I'm going to make bagels on Friday. Then off to Assisi this on Saturday with Abby to go really make my Ancestors Proud.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Ave Maria/You Oughta Know
Yesterday was the most beautiful day in Rome. I had two friends from Florence staying with us this weekend (which is lovely because my other three roommates are all out of the city this weekend so 1. I wasn't and alone and 2. we had places for them to sleep besides our jank futon.)
But moving on.
I spent most of my time in Rome surrounded by random Catholic stuff. It's everywhere, there are shrine to just about every Saint on every street corner (except in my neighborhood, it's too new here to really have a Saint thing going on plus when they built my building Mussolini wasn't too into the Catholic thing. I mean he was, just not in that way) which is weird. My life at home is pretty infused with things of that nature but here I seem to dream about random things occurring inside of Churches, and not even churches in Rome either, last night I dreamt that we took a class field trip to see this painting in this church in DC (which I don't think is even RC in reality).
This also means my tolerance towards my guilt is rising. Which is good I suppose.
I took Kahla and Lauren to the top of Saint Peter's this weekend; it was the perfect day for it. The sun was brillant and you could see the whole city from up there; its no wonder everyone here is so in awe of the Catholics, it's so tall up there, so important looking and imposing. Then we hopped into the Vatican Museum to see the Sistine Chapel which was as awe inspiring as I remembered it. We also did the Villa Borghese this weekend which was amazing.
The ugly-ness of the outside of this city is completely made up for by the incredible beauty that seems to lie in wait in every building. Graffiti is plastered over ancient brick that hides painting that I've only seen in my De theology textbooks (Brother David would be so proud) and art history books. They don't have names or sometimes even the name of the artist that painted them but their immortal faces still stare downward at those that look upon them. When I think about how many people have looked at the same work of art as I do it's humbling.
Inside the Borghese yesterday for a moment I was alone in a huge room staring at Bernini's Pluto and Persephone. Just me and this amazingly beautiful statue. I had this complete sense of my insignificance in the world. It was like staring up into space and thinking about how we're all just tiny flecks of star dust and nothing I can ever create in my life will match the brillant and beauty of this one statue. Rome does that to you, one moment you're surrounded by grime and the next you are entranced by something so beautiful your emotions freeze. You're life is forever shifting here, one moment you're surrounded by the bustle of a modern city and the next you're lost in some other world where marble is the most beautiful medium you've ever seen.
But moving on.
I spent most of my time in Rome surrounded by random Catholic stuff. It's everywhere, there are shrine to just about every Saint on every street corner (except in my neighborhood, it's too new here to really have a Saint thing going on plus when they built my building Mussolini wasn't too into the Catholic thing. I mean he was, just not in that way) which is weird. My life at home is pretty infused with things of that nature but here I seem to dream about random things occurring inside of Churches, and not even churches in Rome either, last night I dreamt that we took a class field trip to see this painting in this church in DC (which I don't think is even RC in reality).
This also means my tolerance towards my guilt is rising. Which is good I suppose.
I took Kahla and Lauren to the top of Saint Peter's this weekend; it was the perfect day for it. The sun was brillant and you could see the whole city from up there; its no wonder everyone here is so in awe of the Catholics, it's so tall up there, so important looking and imposing. Then we hopped into the Vatican Museum to see the Sistine Chapel which was as awe inspiring as I remembered it. We also did the Villa Borghese this weekend which was amazing.
The ugly-ness of the outside of this city is completely made up for by the incredible beauty that seems to lie in wait in every building. Graffiti is plastered over ancient brick that hides painting that I've only seen in my De theology textbooks (Brother David would be so proud) and art history books. They don't have names or sometimes even the name of the artist that painted them but their immortal faces still stare downward at those that look upon them. When I think about how many people have looked at the same work of art as I do it's humbling.
Inside the Borghese yesterday for a moment I was alone in a huge room staring at Bernini's Pluto and Persephone. Just me and this amazingly beautiful statue. I had this complete sense of my insignificance in the world. It was like staring up into space and thinking about how we're all just tiny flecks of star dust and nothing I can ever create in my life will match the brillant and beauty of this one statue. Rome does that to you, one moment you're surrounded by grime and the next you are entranced by something so beautiful your emotions freeze. You're life is forever shifting here, one moment you're surrounded by the bustle of a modern city and the next you're lost in some other world where marble is the most beautiful medium you've ever seen.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
We're all Italians now (Sorry. I've exhausted my Beyonce lyric capability)
How to live in Rome:
1) Let old ladies at the supermarket do whatever they want. Even if there is no apparent rational behind their actions they are always right. Always.
2) Whatever you do, do NOT let more than two days go by without eating gelato. Ever. It's bad for group moral.
3) The H bus is more irrational than anything ever. Do NOT trust it.
I've spent most of the my free time just wandering around this amazing city. Life is hard here - make no mistake about that - but there is something about this place that I feel so attached to. I shouldn't, I've been here a little over a month (which I cannot believe. Time must be distorted here.) and Rome is becoming more like home. It is home. The people in Pong know me by my order and the family the runs the Trattoria in our building stop and talk to us on the street when they see us in passing. The man who works the front desk of my building now returns my greetings.
This past weekend I saw the most amazing view of the city, it was on my side of the river, high up on a hill and it was breathtaking. It was like seeing the city of the first time all over again. Ancient buildings covering even more ancient hills, terra cotta rooftops that put the slate roofs of DC to shame. It's no wonder poetry comes pouring out of the poets who visit Rome, inspiration flows like water.
I'll stop being moderately angst ridden now. But like I said, it just comes pouring out of you.
This week is more school then my friend from AU Kahla comes down down from Florence to visit and I'm super excited to play tour guide. I was looking at my calendar during Finance Class today and realized I have two free weekends for the rest of the semester. Two. Either I'm going somewhere or I have people visiting pretty much solidly until the end of April. My next trip is to Venice with Papa Bear at the beginning of March. I am so excited. So so so excited.
1) Let old ladies at the supermarket do whatever they want. Even if there is no apparent rational behind their actions they are always right. Always.
2) Whatever you do, do NOT let more than two days go by without eating gelato. Ever. It's bad for group moral.
3) The H bus is more irrational than anything ever. Do NOT trust it.
I've spent most of the my free time just wandering around this amazing city. Life is hard here - make no mistake about that - but there is something about this place that I feel so attached to. I shouldn't, I've been here a little over a month (which I cannot believe. Time must be distorted here.) and Rome is becoming more like home. It is home. The people in Pong know me by my order and the family the runs the Trattoria in our building stop and talk to us on the street when they see us in passing. The man who works the front desk of my building now returns my greetings.
This past weekend I saw the most amazing view of the city, it was on my side of the river, high up on a hill and it was breathtaking. It was like seeing the city of the first time all over again. Ancient buildings covering even more ancient hills, terra cotta rooftops that put the slate roofs of DC to shame. It's no wonder poetry comes pouring out of the poets who visit Rome, inspiration flows like water.
I'll stop being moderately angst ridden now. But like I said, it just comes pouring out of you.
This week is more school then my friend from AU Kahla comes down down from Florence to visit and I'm super excited to play tour guide. I was looking at my calendar during Finance Class today and realized I have two free weekends for the rest of the semester. Two. Either I'm going somewhere or I have people visiting pretty much solidly until the end of April. My next trip is to Venice with Papa Bear at the beginning of March. I am so excited. So so so excited.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
[Francesca] Interlude
I think, after all of this is said and done, I'll have earned the right to drop the word "Roma" into conversation as opposed to "Rome".
This weekend Alice and I played tourists. This was really the first weekend we had a chance to stay in Rome and not have something Arcadia related to do. Alice loves Roman history like I love Dante, so this weekend she was in her element and played personal tour guide for me (and Abby and Eric). She was an invaluable source of information for the Colosseum and the Forum. She calles me her "Catholic Encyclopedia" and I've dubbed her my "Roman Encyclopedia". She's brillant when it comes to this stuff.
The two of us could make the best tour guides of this city ever. And we're more entertaining than the old expats that usually do them.
Et en Arcadia ego. That's a classical mythology (and, strangely, the name of the university I do this program though), Poussin and Atwood reference. Get on my level, gentle readers (extra points if you can name that novel).
I also was able to see a friend from De, Rachel, this weekend. I'll have been here one month this Thursday and this was the first time I felt I actually had to see Rome. So Rachel came down from North of the Vatican and the Loyola program to Trastevere for the weekend flea market. Which was pretty cool. It's like Eastern Market on Italian crack. And then we got Pong and Rachel agrees, Pong is the best gelato in this whole city.
The rest of this week is devoted to the study part of this experience. I'm trying so hard to like my business classes, but, as usual, I hate them. Except, oddly, International Finance, which is the most interesting so far. Lame businesses classes.
This weekend Alice and I played tourists. This was really the first weekend we had a chance to stay in Rome and not have something Arcadia related to do. Alice loves Roman history like I love Dante, so this weekend she was in her element and played personal tour guide for me (and Abby and Eric). She was an invaluable source of information for the Colosseum and the Forum. She calles me her "Catholic Encyclopedia" and I've dubbed her my "Roman Encyclopedia". She's brillant when it comes to this stuff.
The two of us could make the best tour guides of this city ever. And we're more entertaining than the old expats that usually do them.
Et en Arcadia ego. That's a classical mythology (and, strangely, the name of the university I do this program though), Poussin and Atwood reference. Get on my level, gentle readers (extra points if you can name that novel).
I also was able to see a friend from De, Rachel, this weekend. I'll have been here one month this Thursday and this was the first time I felt I actually had to see Rome. So Rachel came down from North of the Vatican and the Loyola program to Trastevere for the weekend flea market. Which was pretty cool. It's like Eastern Market on Italian crack. And then we got Pong and Rachel agrees, Pong is the best gelato in this whole city.
ALSO. I finally figured out why my street is named "Marconi" and I love off the Piazza della Radio. Marconi (The man) invented the radio! What what Italian inventors. I was p proud I figured that out/remembered that bit of 6th grade history class.
The rest of this week is devoted to the study part of this experience. I'm trying so hard to like my business classes, but, as usual, I hate them. Except, oddly, International Finance, which is the most interesting so far. Lame businesses classes.
Friday, February 4, 2011
What's It Gonna Be
My study abroad is easy. I have very little to worry about in the sense that at any moment a million horrible things could go wrong.
Example A
A guy in my program broke both of his arms this week. He was walking when the little walk sign was on and a car ran a red light (keep in mind it's around 6 pm and he's sober), he jumped back and fell onto a guard rail, threw his elbows back to brace his fall and snap. Double casted for a month.
Example B
My friend Eric (along with a former housemate Eva and friend from AU Hannah) were all in Cairo this semester. All three have been safely evacuated into Turkey, the US, or, in Eric's case, to Rome. He's just bumming around Europe until his home university decides what to do with him. He got outta Turkey, went to Greece and is now in lovely Rome trying to figure out his life (He's thinking Morocco).
I joke about Italy being the only place I was allowed to study abroad half because it's the truth and half because I don't know if I have it in me to not be someplace not western. The midwest isn't exactly the most worldly place. We like life in our little bubble of Lutafisk and lefsa. I love it there only because it was the place I was raised in; it's hard not to have happy childhood memories of running around in six feet of snow and sledding during recess at school. So Rome, for whatever culture shock I have experienced, has been pretty tame.
Which is making my whole Peace Corps thing loom ahead a little darker than I want to think about it. Not in a bad way, just in a realistic way. I like to put things on pedestals, white and shining marble that never needs to be cleaned (like the Alter of the Nation). It's incredibly naive of me but I can't help it. I think it's the midwest in me.
If you want to read Eric's very interesting take (and his overall moderately pretentious view) on the revolution/life in general you can read his travel blog here. It's pretty good stuff.
Example A
A guy in my program broke both of his arms this week. He was walking when the little walk sign was on and a car ran a red light (keep in mind it's around 6 pm and he's sober), he jumped back and fell onto a guard rail, threw his elbows back to brace his fall and snap. Double casted for a month.
Example B
My friend Eric (along with a former housemate Eva and friend from AU Hannah) were all in Cairo this semester. All three have been safely evacuated into Turkey, the US, or, in Eric's case, to Rome. He's just bumming around Europe until his home university decides what to do with him. He got outta Turkey, went to Greece and is now in lovely Rome trying to figure out his life (He's thinking Morocco).
I joke about Italy being the only place I was allowed to study abroad half because it's the truth and half because I don't know if I have it in me to not be someplace not western. The midwest isn't exactly the most worldly place. We like life in our little bubble of Lutafisk and lefsa. I love it there only because it was the place I was raised in; it's hard not to have happy childhood memories of running around in six feet of snow and sledding during recess at school. So Rome, for whatever culture shock I have experienced, has been pretty tame.
Which is making my whole Peace Corps thing loom ahead a little darker than I want to think about it. Not in a bad way, just in a realistic way. I like to put things on pedestals, white and shining marble that never needs to be cleaned (like the Alter of the Nation). It's incredibly naive of me but I can't help it. I think it's the midwest in me.
If you want to read Eric's very interesting take (and his overall moderately pretentious view) on the revolution/life in general you can read his travel blog here. It's pretty good stuff.
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