Anika in Verona

A four-letter Italian word for goodbye...

2006-08-01T20:18:00.000-07:00

...reminds me of talking to the cab driver on the way to the airport. I waited for him outside the Collegio until 5:15 am, after a long conversation (in Italian!) with the sleepy dispatcher. When I climbed in I realized he was playing a Spanish song. I thought, this is my last chance to speak Italian for a few months, if not years. So I launched right in.
"Puo capire lo spagnolo?" I asked. (Do you understand Spanish?) He said sort of. I started translating the Spanish song into Italian, piece by piece. "The wounds of love..." The cabbie - who must have been 80 years old - threw me a worried look.
"Wounds caused by a boy?" he asked.
"Yes, yes, of course a boy," I said, excited that he was getting into it. "You know those things between a man and a woman," I translated the next part, since I wasn't sure how to say 'relationship.'
"How old are you, 18?" he asked. I took it as a compliment, usually people think I'm younger.
"No, no, I'm 20," I told him. He swerved to avoid a cat in the road. I went on with the song. "Why has this man told me these things that are not true? All I wanted was his love." There was a long, appreciative pause when I finished my heartfelt translation. He turned his full attention to me.
"You are young, you know," he said with a sigh. "Life is full of pain, yes, but you have your entire life ahead of you for pain."
And that's when I realized that he thought I'd been talking about myself.

That was my last conversation in Italian, which means it's time to wrap this blog up.

On that memorable night in Venice (five whole weeks ago!), someone asked me how many times I'd been to Italy. I told the barful of men "E mia prima volta." They laughed and told me that "mia prima volta" means "my first time" and usually only refers to one thing. After that, "mia prima volta" became a joke in our group of friends. Every time one of us did something we'd never done before, we said "oh, prima volta." Last summer, like this summer, I made it my goal to do something every day I'd never done before. My favorite memories of Italy are almost all "prima voltas," and I realize, looking back, why this game appeals to me so much. In the United States, I live cautiously. I don't follow unfamiliar men to sleazy clubs or bathe in public fountains or hook myself to belay ropes and sail down cliffs. But I wonder, sometimes, what I'm missing. Most of the things I did in Italy (not the things I saw, the things I did) were frightening, and I'm sure things could have gone badly. But they didn't. I didn't get assaulted, diseased, or killed. Instead, I found out what I'd been missing.

A brief ode...

2006-07-27T03:16:00.000-07:00

...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...

2006-07-26T03:06:00.000-07:00

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?

2006-07-25T03:32:00.000-07:00

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!

2006-07-18T05:01:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-07-14T04:26:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-07-13T05:18:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-07-11T04:14:00.000-07:00

...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...

2006-07-10T04:17:00.000-07:00

...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...

2006-07-10T03:56:00.000-07:00

...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...

2006-07-06T03:04:00.000-07:00

...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...

2006-07-05T01:51:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-07-04T03:31:00.000-07:00

...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...

2006-07-03T03:28:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-07-03T01:57:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-06-29T03:10:00.000-07:00

A young journalist came in yesterday to talk about differences between American and Italian culture. The one thing he said (that stuck in my mind, anyway) is that although divorce rates are much lower in Italy, the infidelity rate is around 70%, much higher than in the US. Meanwhile Indians neither cheat nor divorce (as a rule) but they often make their spouses miserable enough that divorce might almost be a relief.

I used to think that in some cultures (cultures of so-called compromise) it was more common to love someone else until the day one of you died. I guess that's not true. All the happy old couples are beating the odds.

Whine and cheese...

2006-06-28T03:30:00.000-07:00

So apparently being as slim and tan as a Hollywood actress isn't natural. Chatting with an Italian woman yesterday (she spent a year studying at Northwestern and speaks perfect English), we learned that Italian sixth-graders, boys and girls, will have competitions to see who can eat the least. When pressed she added that "team bulimia" is an even bigger problem. It seems Latin America isn't the only place on Earth where eating disorders flourish. I'm almost ashamed of admiring how in shape everyone seemed, and I wonder why we can't just let it all go.

2006-06-27T03:24:00.000-07:00

When Italy won the World Cup quarterfinal, restaurants offered patrons free pitchers of wine. Bars offered up free beer. People danced in the street. And the nice thing about it is everyone all over the country is cheering for the same team.

When in Venice...

2006-06-26T03:41:00.000-07:00

View from the Bridge of Sighs, on the way into one of Venice's old prisons

The things that stick in my mind about Venice have little to do with museums. However: the Bellinis in the Accademia Museum are amazing, many over ten feet tall and the same impressive width. The fact that one man could create so many works of art in his life amazes me.

What I remember best is that night. We spent the first night roaming the streets of Venice. We went out in search of a bar, exhausted but determined. Along the way, we met a South African soccer player who bought us a round of drinks (the second round, without asking if he could, but he seemed like a decent guy.) We wandered the curvy cobblestone streets, taking bridges over the green canals (which looked black in the night.) Around 3 am we found a Russian bartender who agreed to open his bar for us. The patrons had left, leaving only him and several of his friends. We started talking. I asked them if they had read Marcel Proust, they told us they knew Americans weren't responsible for all of President Bush's policies.

"I am an artist, a revolutionary," one of them kept saying. "We are all artistas." After an hour or so he asked us to accompany him to another bar he knew. "One of the worst places in Venice," he said in broken English, "you will love it. You will just love it." Along the way he said, "Americans are free, and this is the most beautiful thing in the world." I wasn't buying it, but the ground had started to move underneath my feet and I figured, I was better off sticking with the crew than striking off alone into the night, especially after so many shots of tequila.

We reached his bar. He needed a password to get in, and he passed the two of us off as his girlfriends. "Que belleza Oriental," one of the bouncers shouted after me. (Lit: What an Oriental beauty.) I felt weird about the comment but figured it didn't matter. When we entered, we realized we weren't in the best area of town, he hadn't been kidding. There were no other women there. The other girl I was with was loving it. I sat on the pool table, pulling on my drink and watching her flirt with the boys, wondering what I was doing there. A dim hour passed, a Moroccan came over to me. He sat down. " I love Indian women," he said, putting his hand on my leg. "You are so beautiful." I wasn't that drunk. "No, signore," I said. "What is this no, signore?" he demanded. I sighed, picked his hand up, and put it back in his lap. "No," I said again, got up and used the bathroom. When I came back he was gone, but two more guys were hanging out with the girl who had come in with me. She was loving it. "How do you say blonde hair?" She kept asking them in Italian (she's blonde.) I watched. One of the thugs cracked a joke, the artist (who was lingering nearby) caught it and frowned. "No con mi regazza, per favore," he said. (Trans: not with my girlfriend, please.) I wondered if my companion understood, but she wasn't ready to leave. I played musical tables, moving from seat to seat. The bartender (an enormous woman with dark skin and hair and a tattoo across one of her arms) kept assuring me the drinks she served were clean. I wasn't sure how to respond. My other friend was getting friendly with the South African on a nearby pool table. Finally, the artist sat down beside me.

"You know, you are so smart," he said to me. "So smart. American girls they are funny but they are not all smart. They do not all want to be so smart." He sighed and pulled out one of his pungent cigarettes. I had had enough for the night, I shook my head. "The thing is, in this country, we don't have competition in grade schools. Nothing like that we have. But you have. I have seen it in the movies. But I think you should not worry about being in the background. You are not like that. Perhaps it is because you are not originally American." I was uncomfortable with the quality of the patronage, but mostly I just couldn't handle the constant references to my ethnic heritage. Every man in the bar must have commented on it at least once. I don't think they were trying to be rude, but I've been on edge ever since graffiti swastikas started appearing on the stone walls of various Veronese buildings. The thing is: now more than ever, Italy has a huge problem with immigration. People from all over the Mediterranean arrive on the coast in boats, many illegally, many from Northern Africa. The swastikas are a reaction, a fleeting racism. When I asked the artist about it, point-blank, he looked me in the eye and said, "In Italy we don't have racism." And I thought: this middle-aged kid is either lying or totally clueless. And his nice words of earlier just seemed naive. I put my drink cup down and looked at him. He was fuzzy and obviously drunk and stoned, and I realized I didn't need any therapy from him, or any attention from the crack dealers, pimps and so-called revolutionaries he called his friends. "We're going," I told him. They all groaned as if, truly, this was the saddest thing they'd ever heard.

We left, and were shocked to realize it was already daylight again. The artist ran after us, as did the bartender and the soccer player. They insisted on buying us coffee to make up for the oddness of the night, so we sat in the breeze off the canal, took pictures and drank cappuccinos. By the time we returned to the hotel it was 8 am. I slept for an hour, got up, and went down to face the music. The program director called the three of us girls into the front room. "It's your first night in Venice and you don't come home all night?" he demanded in a fury. "What if your parents had called? What would I have told them?" He brandished an Italian newspaper. "A woman was raped in Italy last night, a tourist. They left her in a canal. Think about it." And he left us with the paper. The other two started crying, but I shrugged and went on to do the full day's program of touring and adventuring. Later I learned that a few of the other girls had come to him around 6 am, concerned about where the three of us were. He replied, "There's not much we can do about it until they turn up in the canal." Warm and fuzzy.

That night when we went out the ten of us stayed together, drinking wine and beer in the plaza, striking up conversations with wandering Americans, Italians and Englishmen. It was safe and comfortable, none of the edgy awkwardness of the night before. I sat on an old well cover and realized that I had never in my life been so exhausted before.

We saw more churches than I count, the Doge's Palace, and the shopping district. In addition to wandering around at night we went into the Dolce, the Gucci, the Zegna (none of which are cheaper here, by the way) and thumbed through the designer clothes. We visisted the Museum of Erotic Art (more of a shop, really) and bought suggestive playing cards. We sat behind at least five different stone\wood\lace altars and stared at life-size statues of a crucified Christ. I climbed to the top of a bell tower and saw all the islands around Venice, green flecks in the bright water.

Venice is cramped and hot, but beautiful beyond belief. When I try to imagine the city without tourists I see acres upon acres of carved marble and wooden pilings, sinking slowly back into the lagoon. Gold leaf and bright artwork growing green with alage, dark wooden gondolas growing soft with rot. The city is an experiment and it will be over. I know this won't happen for thousands of years, but I'm glad I saw it anyway.

I could make a fortune...

2006-06-22T03:29:00.000-07:00

A somewhat blurry photo of the gelato available in Verona's Blue

...writing a guidebook to Verona's gelato parlors. I have more pictures of ice cream than historical monuments or artwork. Combined. Verona is full of ice cream. There are ice cream vending machines in the halls. As well as print cartridge vending machines and ones that sell at least thirteen different kinds of coffee. Last night I stayed up late getting philosophical with some of my tripmates, and this morning I bought a macchiato (espresso with foamed milk) and a cappuccino d'orzo (barley coffee with steamed and foamed milk). The d'orzo tasted like barley, not as strong as the coffee bean espresso. Yesterday I had a caffe shakerato, an iced coffee with sugar and milk. Each drink tastes different, so it's fun to experiment. Besides, coffee and wine are cheaper than water.

Shopping around town yesterday I realized what I like about fashion in Verona. 40-year-old women in short, bright red sundresses walk the streets in sky-high cork heels. 20-year-olds layer ripped tees over leggings. Browsing through the beautiful, the strange, and the bizarre in Verona's clothing stores I realize that you can get away with just about anything. Blouses cut to the navel? Fine. Wedge heels laced up to the knee? Maybe not common, but no problem. Floor-length embroidered skirts during daytime? No one would blink. American fashion is generic and bland by comparison. I get the feeling (and this may just be me) that Italian women are better at understanding this about clothes: messing up (so to speak) can be much more fun than doing what you know is safe.

This weekend we're going to Venice. The slowly-sinking city built in a lagoon. What strange marvels people accomplish! And without the aid of modern science, too.

Citizens of the World...

2006-06-21T03:44:00.000-07:00

A view of Verona from the bridge

Yesterday we wandered down to Juliet's house. I'm still not sure whether this is real or a tourist trap, but apparently this house in fair Verona (of "where we lay our scene" fame...) contains the tomb of Romeo's Juliet. It's tradition that visitors stand on the balcony and then take a picture of themselves groping the breasts of the courtyard statue (of Juliet, who was 13 at the time the play takes place, so the groping might be a little creepy.) We pinned love notes to the walls of the courtyard (another tradition).

I went in search of the bathroom. I asked the woman selling tickets where it was, in my newly-learned Italian. She directed me, also in Italian. Along the way I met an elderly woman who started speaking to me in Spanish. She had an accent, so I asked her (after about five minutes) where she was from. England. So we switched to English. Then, as if this trilingual exchange wasn't enough, I headed over the market stalls and was hailed (in Hindi!) by a street vendor. He and I struck up an exchange in Hindi (which ended with him asking my friend Cara and I to come back at 8 for a date.) After speaking four different languages in only a half hour I must say: I have never felt so suave. Or such a citizen of the world.

2006-06-20T03:29:00.000-07:00

An Italian grocery store is nothing like a grocery store in the US. For one thing, a bottle of drugstore shampoo costs €2.5, or $4. That's no bargain. But more importantly, if someone were to take a plane from Jewel-Osco directly to ____ (which is where we were), it would look like the major food groups in Italy were wine, cheese and pasta, whereas the major food group in America is "prepackaged." That's not a bad thing. It seems Italian people eat much fresher ingredients, shop more often and cook more. It's a nation of slimmer people: the women are thin and tanned, and the men wear fairly tight pants (None of that gangsta-falling-off-the-ass-revealing-boxers-and-bling business. That won't fly.) There are no bars or clubs in Verona, but the coffee shops don't close until past 2 am, and the coffee is strong. Working at Cafe Ambrosia, I drank three shots of espresso in a couple hours and felt nothing. This morning I drank a cup of Italian coffee and was wired all through the morning class. And that coffee came out of a vending machine. The real thing is even darker.

At the monastery we cooperate to prepare meals. I'm going to making beef and pasta for a bunch of people. I bought a Chianti to serve with the meal and some vegetables to make a salad. I figured out the gas stove and poured everyone shots of whiskey on ice as an appetizer. I felt adult, until I stepped out onto the balcony and remembered I couldn't even read the street signs.

To attract an Italian man...

2006-06-20T03:27:00.000-07:00

You must be "like a cake, not like a lemon." So said the bus driver to one of the girls in our tour group, an outspoken New Yorker who didn't (as far as I know) take his advice too seriously.

2006-06-19T03:32:00.000-07:00

Everyone warned me about the Italian men, but no one said anything about the German women. I was thoroughly groped by an absolute stranger who spoke no English and carried a heavy black metal detector wand. This isn't that bad in and of itself, but when she asked me to take off my shirt I hesitated. Turns out my new bellybutton piercing set off the metal detector. She threw it a very suspicious look and let me pass. "This," I shouted back at her as I walked off, "is definitely not a bomb."

I live in a former hospital high up on a cobblestone hill. Half of the building belongs to a crew of retired priests, and I woke up to hear them singing Mass this morning. My broken window unfortunately afforded me no view, so while I showered I thought about the dinner I'd had the night before.
I've heard it said that wine is like sex, in that "when it's good it's great, but when it's bad it's still pretty good." In my opinion, this is not true of wine. The house red I drank last night was a hundred times better than my father's imported Merlots. The pizza had a crust as thin as paper, it tore apart when I picked up a slice.
When I got up to photograph the view, I smelled hyacinthe and pizza and shallow, muddy water. The one thing I realize, when I travel, is that the US doesn't smell like much. India smells like people and sewage and jasmine. Costa Rica smelled (to me) like fried ham and crushed guavas and wet, dark dirt. Whenever I leave the US it's as if my twitching nose is waking up from 20 years of sleep, and I'm almost overwhelmed.

2006-06-19T03:20:00.000-07:00

Stopped in Philadelphia, I called my father. He and I had the following conversation.
"Wow, take a look at this World Cup on ABC."
"In the airport?"
"Im sure someone is watching it. Listen, the US just scored a touchdown but the stupid ref took it away."
"Dad, I think it is called a goal, not a touchdown."
"What the hell do you know about it?" Talk about hitting an obvious target. "The US is wearing white, the Italians are wearing blue." I hung up and went and looked for the match, McDonalds ice cream in hand. I wedged myself in among a bunch of men holding beer. We stared at the sports bar's slick flat screen TVs.
"That ref!" One man said to me. I nodded and sucked on my ice cream cone. (Later someone explained the ref is a Uruguayan man who's been taking bribes for the past 4 years. I don't know if that's true.)
I remember when I was little and missed my family, my mom always said something cute like "Just look at the sky. They're seeing the same moon you are." Skulking around Cibo's, ice cream in hand, I think, "How cute. I'm seeing the same game my dad is." Celestial bodies, national networks, and man does the work of nature.

Before starting out...

2006-06-14T21:00:00.000-07:00

I'm going to Italy with a suitcase full of clothes, but no cell phone or laptop. I'm already feeling naked. Will this put me in touch with history? Ariella says I'm going to Italy to "drink and fuck." But really, I'm doing it for the history. Here's what I've heard of Italy's checkered past.

Imagine it's a Sunday morning in 1327. All Italy's eligible singles are packed into the Church of St. Claire. Francis Petrarch looks up from the service and catches a glimpse of Laura ___. She's only 19, but she's already married to another man. He doesn't know her name, her age, her marital status, but he's instantly in love. Over the next fifty years he writes her hundreds of sonnets, many composed after her death in 1348. Along the way he gives birth to an art form (the word 'sonnet' roughly translated means 'please sleep with me, strange woman.') Which means that Shakespeare, Marlowe, and hundreds of shady men in dark nightclubs have been following in Petrarch's footsteps (some without even realizing it.)

The Catholic church has a lot to do with Italian history. Erica Jong said, "Every country gets the circus it deserves. Spain gets bullfights, Italy gets the Catholic church." She also said, "Show me a woman who doesn't feel guilty and I'll show you a man." I've met men who felt guilty, so it's quite possible the church isn't a circus after all. This trip will be my research.

And finally: they drink coffee out of glasses. Glasses made of glass. This happens a lot in Europe, I'm told. But as many Americans tell me every weekend when I work the Saturday night shift at Ambrosia, it doesn't happen in America. In fact, coffee in glasses is un-American. Unpatriotic. Subversive, unsupportive and liberal. Hello, I tell them, at least I'm not burning flags on the lawn. What's the difference, they want to know. (All right, so maybe I'm exaggerating...)

They have statues of male genitalia everywhere. So says my friend Tara. But maybe she was exaggerating.

So it looks like I have my trip planned out for me.

I'll be staying in the North of Italy, at the Collegio.