A brief ode...

...in the style of Petrarch. (You knew it was coming.)

Oh America, you're full of flaws,
Strange politics, dumb drinking laws.
But when your waiters give me lip
I sigh and smirk and leave no tip.
In Italia there's no such grace,
When service people have poor taste.
The waiters argue, bitch, harass,
Change my order, drop my glass.
And I, stranded, have no choice
For if I even raise my voice
They get offended, start to pout,
Say, "Hey, we're all just hanging out!"
But when I really get the blues,
They bring me bottles of free booze.
So am I offended? Maybe not.
We'll forgive a lot for a free shot.

Okay, so maybe not in the style of Petrarch. The point is, Italians don't believe in tips, but they do believe in free drinks.

Last night, kept indoors by the heat, we broke out the pocket change and played a round of poker. It lasted for about 3 hours, but by the end I was €15 richer!

It's getting hot in here...

The killer heatwave that's covered Europe means we're feeling the lack of air conditioning even at our monastery on the hill. I've never experienced temperatures like this. At night the heat settles in my lungs and makes it impossible to sleep, during the day is leaves me nauseous and headache-y. And I'm not the only one.

Nonetheless, I've been exploring Verona, eating gelato and hiding in the shade, trying to put off thinking about this Sunday, when I will take a flight back to the United States.

All roads lead to Rome?

This weekend I did Florence and Rome, tourist style. I wandered through hazy hot streets in search of art galleries and shoe stores. I looked at Michelangelo's David, propped on a marble plinth about ten feet above my head, and I thought, A man made that?

The David was the first classical sculpture I ever saw. I was on the Internet, doing research for my art journal. The picture inspired me. I trucked in with my clipping the next day. "This is the kind of stuff I want to create!" I told Ms. Fishman, who had been pestering me (without success) to find my artistic voice. She frowned. "Well you have about ten years," she said. "Why?" "The marble dust will clog up your lungs and kill you." So I gave it up. But standing in front of the David, I realized two important things: 1) I was finally seeing one of the reasons I came to Italy and 2) It was as good as I thought it would be.

That proved the theme of my weekend. I wandered through the fragmented temples and fallen columns in the Roman Forum, I craned my neck to figure out the ceiling of St. Peter's Basilica, I tossed a few € into the Trevi fountain. The thing is, people have been looking at these same sites for hundreds of years. And I realized why. It is absolutely worth seeing every single one of them.

I skipped class and stayed in Rome an extra day to see the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel. I'm glad I did, partly because I wanted to see them, and partly because I wanted to finish seeing Rome. Carolyn and I emerged from the Vatican with two hours before our train left, and realized that we had nothing else we wanted to do. We saw every single thing we wanted to see, and I won't forget any of it, and right now I don't think I'll ever come back to Rome.

Internet again!

Last Saturday I went to Milan and, among other things, found a copy of Italian GQ. It would have qualified as soft core pornography in the States. I had to put it down, I was embarrassed enough that I didn't want the guy at the counter to see me reading it.

Right now I'm staying in an agriturismo, a tiny self-sufficient farm surrounded by vineyards, gravel roads and fields of blooming sunflowers. It really is as close to paradise as it sounds. By day I lounge at the pool and go for long nature walks. At night I'm in bed by midnight. The food (wine, honey, meat) is all locally grown, and delicious.

Big plans...

The plans for tonight include an opera and some fun times. Last time we went to the opera we brought along some red wine and prosecco (a sweet Italian white wine). We perched on the edges of the Arena seats (the Arena is an enormous open-air stadium, built by the Romans centuries ago and still intact). We skinned our knees walking up the slippery stone stairs and hurt our behinds sitting on the stone risers, but we got a world-renowned production of Aida. This week it's going to be Cavalieri Rusticana. I'm looking forward to it, if only because it's rumored to be a lot more interesting than Aida.

Tomorrow I'm going to be shopping and seeing cathedrals in Milan, fashion capital of the world (or so they claim). From there it's on to Tuscany, Florence, and finally Rome. I'm looking forward to it. Growing up I thought I was a city girl. In college, I began to think maybe I would like a small town, somewhere intimate and safe. But now, having seen several small towns in Italy, I realize I'm hankering after some time in the city. I want someplace international, where the streets are full of foreign languages and ethnic cuisine, and the public transport runs all night. Maybe I wouldn't be satisfied in a small town after all. All I know is I crave diversity. If I can't find it where I live, I want to go somewhere else. So it's not Verona's size that bothers me, it's the homogeneity. There's no Chinatown, Greektown, Little India. The boutiques sell similar clothes for roughly similar prices. I'm sure there's a thriving nightlife somewhere around here, and fascinating authentic shops, but having wandered around and talked with locals and spent time with them, I think Verona really is the small town it appears to be. And while I love the tranquility of it, the fact that after a few weeks I know the place so well I won't get lost, I'm still excited for the upcoming cities.

If I can find an Internet cafe while I'm gone I will write, but if not I'll be putting up plenty of photos and updates when I get back.

Public buses...

Don't always run where they say they will. Yesterday we took a bus to the train station (we wanted to avoid the half hour trek up the hill to the monastery) and ended up spending two hours wandering through various dark streets\alleys before we got home. Nonetheless, the odyssey was worth it: I saw yet more of Verona. That afternoon we wandered through the less-traveled streets, finding all kinds of cute jewelry shops and clothing boutiques. I returned home weighted down with jewelry and dusty from the road, which I guess isn't a bad way to return.

The Last of the Mohicans...

...what kind of a Pictionary term is that?

Last night we livened up our night by throwing an impromptu Pictionary party (first year students v. second year students). Each team chose a theme (we dressed like the '80s, they dressed up as us) and carted down our wine. Then we wrote down movie titles. "The Last of the Mohicans" stumped me for a while, but I drew a set of tepees and a few stick figures in headdresses (some standing, some down). I hope the gods of political correctness forgive me for that one.

The end of the weekend...

...meant it was time for the Italy-France World Cup Final. Italy had made it through the quarter and semi final matches, but anxiety was at a nail-biting level when we headed into town. The match was set for 8. By 7:30, all the streets were empty and the shops were closed. People huddled around tiny TV screens outside bars or restaurants. We joined them and ordered a round of beers and fries. Over the next hour and a half each team scored one goal apiece. Every time the Italians got close to the goal, the Italians in the cafes stood up, pounded on tables, and shouted "Vai, Vai!" But the team didn't take the advice. The game dragged through two overtimes without a goal. In soccer, when the game has finished two overtimes, the teams decide who wins through a shoot out. I don't know that much about it, save that each team shoots 3-5 times and the team that scores the most wins. So the 2006 World Cup comes down to a shootout between Italy and France. Italy goes first and shoots 4 times. They make it each time, the entire crammed square goes crazy. The French step up and make their first goal. They miss their second. For a few seconds everyone stares in disbelief. "We won!" this old man shouts at last, and all of a sudden people are running through the streets again, waving flags, throwing beer bottles.

Despite the mayhem and mass celebration, it was the best-behaved mob I've ever seen. No one took anyone's purse, no tourists were threatened, no shops broken into. Just a lot of lunatics running around in the street waving flags, setting off fireworks, and getting rid of nervous energy.

In the picture above my friend Cara and I are both wearing Luca Toni's jersey. (Soccer fans know Luca Toni as one of the Italian forwards, others might recall him as the half-naked man who appeared earlier on my blog. Ahem.) I jumped in the fountain in the Piazza Erbe to celebrate. People kept throwing water at each other, singing the Italian fight song (a version of the White Stripes song 7-8-9) and stomping. It was the vilest water I've ever tasted (and I ended up tasting a bunch) but I didn't care then. I didn't even care that much when I had to walk back up the miles to the Collegio in my soaking wet Pumas and dripping jersey.

Between jumping in the fountain, swimming in the ocean, and dancing in the rain, I would say the theme of my weekend has been: "wet." But I mean that in a good way.

Tennis...

...and other pleasures of Rimini beaches:
-lifeguards in fishing hats and Speedos
-good beach food (I had a salad with tuna and eggs, a popular choice)
-warm water with grains of sand floating in it

The night we arrived we went out for a midnight dinner and returned to find a group of Canadian men on the doorstep. They were in town for a weekend, as part of a five-week Italy tour. I love speaking Italian, but every time I meet someone who speaks English I feel as if we have common history between us already. (I understand how people can immigrate to the United States, love the United States, and still want to speak their native language once in a while. It's a feeling that doesn't really translate into words very well, but I'm sure anyone who's traveled knows what I mean.) Well, four of us decided to hit the clubs with the Canadians. We danced all night in the rain at "Coconuts," a dodgy disco on the beach. They bought us vodka-Red Bulls (I have yet to buy my own drink at an Italian club, and I can't say I mind so much.) and we taught them all the moves to the 80's club hits and West Coast rap playing in the disco. The drinks were strong and expensive, and when two of us decided to go home around 5 am, we wandered several miles along abandoned, rainy beachfront before we found the street where all the hotels were.

I spent the next day playing beach tennis and lounging, swimming in the ocean and walking along the sea. That night we had another adventure. Being the group's designated spokesperson (at least whenever we have to speak Italian) I asked the aged concierge where we could find some happening clubs. This might have been a mistake. He told us to go to "Prince" and offered to call us a cab. We got in (four of us again, although a different four) and headed out into the night. It was around 2 am. The driver stopped after five minutes and ran off, he said to put minutes on his cell phone. When he finally came back we were a little freaked out. Then he turned off the main roads and took us out of town, merging onto an abandoned highway and flooring the accelerator. We gripped each other's hands. "Ask him where he's taking us!" the other girls said, watching the dark highway fly past and assuming the worst. "Why did we leave Rimini?" I finally got up the guts to ask, and the driver said the nightclub was in a neighboring town. We fork over €35 when we get there. The club is at the top of a mountain, but nestled in a little valley of exotic plants, long stairwells and neon lights. It's also €20 per person for cover. We weren't having that. Depressed and tired, we asked for the bus stop. We got five different directions from as many people. We walked along the curving highway in the dark, cars zipping past us. Eventually, sure we were going to get hit, we took a cab home and went to bed.

But the almost-disco was the only low point in an otherwise exciting weekend. Rimini and Riccione (the neighboring town where the club was) have a reputation in Italy for being like Miami Beach or Las Vegas. Which makes sense, when you realize that smoky bars and dark nightclubs don't really exist in this country.

Practicing Italian...

...is more fun with Italian people. Last night a friend of mine needed a chaperone for a date, and so we all went down to a bar in the Piazza Bra. After a few drinks she started speaking Spanish, my other friend spoke Italian with a pronounced New York accent (so it was kind of like another language) and the third kept laughing. The boys we met are both named Francesco, they work at the opera theatre and they play in the same band. We talked about sports, extreme sports and music (staying away from politics, religion, philosophy - all topics that require some degree of fluency) and they walked us down to "the most beautiful bridge in Verona." I enjoyed it, even though (or maybe because) it was so awkward. They said they liked meeting tourists\foreigners because Verona is small, provincial and unfriendly. (Not in those exact words.)

Everyone laughs at my Italian accent. It started the night we met the two Francescos and has gotten out of control. Now they all make fun of the way I speak in English. "Who talks like that?" they demand, when I use a long\archaic word. "Wait, what?" they say, when I go off in Italian.

And while this trip might have made me feel much better about my language skills (and accent) it's ruined my confidence in my cooking skills. Yesterday I accidentally froze a carton of milk (apparently there's a sweet spot in our fridge and I discovered it) and started a grease fire. I have never started a grease fire before. The day before I tried to hard boil eggs and I took them out too early (not hard boiled enough.) What is going on? Have I been overestimating my skills all along?

Eat pizza...

So it goes like this: the streets full of Italians, glued to TV screens, sipping enormous beers. Tense silence. And then, around 10:30 pm, the Italian soccer team scores two goals in quick succession, beating Germany and advancing to the World Cup Final. That's great, but the amazing part is what happens afterwards.

People take off their clothes, wrap themselves in tricolored Italian flags, scream, throw beer from balconies and toss glass bottles into the streets. Honking motorcades speed by, streaming flags, speeding and swerving to avoid what can only be called a growing mob. People sing and chant. The Piazza Bra (city center) is crammed with people. A man in a Speedo sets fire to the German flag and throws it into the air. The mob cheers, they sing "Germans, eat pizza." People climb the grilles blocking off the ancient palaces (it is, after all, around 1 am by now) and scale the roof. Fans jump into the fountains, paint "Germany" on their asses and moon the crowd. Everywhere motorbikes and cars honk, speed, stop.

I have never seen lunacy like that in my life.

My Italian boyfriend...

...just kidding, he's a soccer player. But I'm about to buy a jersey with his number (9) on it (to wear to the Germany-Italy game tonight.) The real question is: is it wrong to wear another country's colors on your nation's Independence Day?

We said the Pledge in class this morning, sang God Bless America during our break, and will buy sparklers and burgers at the grocery store. Having access to kitchens and groceries has made chefs of us all: lasagna, whole wheat pasta with chicken, pasta salad with zucchini, and fettucine with salmon and cream sauce have appeared and disappeared from our tables. We even managed to make a birthday cake! With frosting!

What do you call four girls and an old guy...

We were understandably nervous about canyoning through Lake Garda's fast waterfalls and rocky streams. All I'd heard about the sport is that it's illegal in the United States, and that it involves rapelling down waterfalls and jumping off cliffs.

But after I suited up in a thermal wetsuit, a belay harness, a lifevest and a helmet, I figured even nature couldn't touch me. We started at the top of a breathtaking sheer rock face. Our guide hooked the belay rope to my waist, told me to lean back and straighten my legs, and pushed me over the cliff. When I reached the bottom, he dropped me into the cold pool. I swam out, loose helmet in hand. We tramped through flat streambeds until we hit a tall cliff. Again, I was first in line. The guide put his hand on my shoulder. "Go there," he said, pointing to the right side of what looked like a long hole in the rocks. "There" he pointed left "rocks." Then he pushed me off the cliff again. I careened through the air and landed with a splash (thankfully my aim was good and I didn't hit any rocks) in a waterfall pool. For three hours we descended the moutain like this, jumping, absailing and sliding our way over the slick rocks. I swam through cold blue-green streams, shivering. Sometimes the guide had to push me over an edge, or I wouldn't have gone. There were moments when my heart actually froze up at the sight of the cliff we had to descend. But here's the thing about canyoning: there's no way out. It's either down or take up residence permanently in the mountains. And there weren't that many injuries. A few tailbone bruises, torn nails and strained arm muscles, but no one split their skull on the rock (although I did go down one slide headfirst and nearly drowned myself.)

Our guide realized how nervous we were, so he shouted questions down after us as we went down the mountains. For example, "How do you feel about the sex?" he asked me after tossing me over the side of one particularly sheer drop. I nearly fell. Later on, "I will let you down slowly. Like when making the sex. Slow is good, yes? I am not an American boy." He was around 50 years old and apparently most of his English consisted of conversation-starters like these. On the trip back he told us he had four girlfriends, and when someone accused him of hosting orgies he replied, "No, it's love."

So it was another awkward adventure. The rest of the day I tanned myself nearly black and read John Irving on the beach. We rented a paddleboat and went out on the lake, colliding with windsurfers and savoring the breeze off the mountains. (Lake Garda is in the mountains.)

At night, we sat around a large table at our homey little Bed and Breakfast. We talked with the owners, who spoke only Italian and served us glasses of the wine they bottle themselves. They took a few of us down to a festival celebrating Peter and Paul, their patron saints. Couples old enough to be my grandparents got up and waltzed, tango-ed, foxtrotted and polka-ed across the dance floor. Some of them were good! We drank watered wine and got up the courage to join a line dance. Afterwards, one of the ancient men asked me to dance! He was a great lead, and I was glad for the salsa lessons I'd taken at Northwestern. At the end, when he dropped me back at my table and told me I was pretty good (for a tourist) I felt like the belle of the ball.

It's no Broadway...

I thought I would love my first opera. I like musicals, I've seen the musical version of Aida. But Verdi is no Elton John. Opera calls for a suspension of disbelief like nothing else. The sets (enormous and glittery) the casts (also enormous and glittery) and the scores (mainly just enormous) are often referred to as "passionate" and this is true, if passion is measured by scale.

One thing worth mentioning: you can't airbrush or synthesize a stage performer, so there's no operatic version of Britney Spears. I like this. I like that the woman who played the lithe teenage Egyptian princess was white, middle-aged and fat. And she had a wonderful voice.