Venezia

Centaurs, fauns, and mermaids have always held the fascination of spinners of tales. Venezia is the intersection of city and sea, part-land and part-water, with all the seductive charm of the half-man creatures that people the ancient myths. She, like the mermaid, is beautiful, ancient, and noble, but never innocent. Her sly mystery, however, does not frighten. It beckons.
Forgive me if I wax poetic. It’s really irresistible when talking about a city where half the streets are canals and people still hop into boats to go about their daily business. The siren song of the city of masks, glass, and gondolas can go to your head pretty quickly.



If you ever get the chance to visit Venice, try not to go on a Saturday. We walked through the old (oldest, actually) ghetto but not too much was going on, naturally. Interestingly, the word ghetto is Venetian dialect for foundry, since the neighborhood was on the site of an old foundry when it was designated as the Jewish quarter 1516 (according to one of the books I’m reading for class, Benevolence and Betrayal, by Alexander Stille). Even though we didn’t “do” anything, I still think that I “got a feel” for the place. The atmosphere was surprisingly free of bitterness. I was expecting a kind of half-resentful memorial of past wrongs (heaven knows that the Jews would be justified) but I didn’t see anything of the kind. It was peaceful, at rest.
After lunch we took one of the vaporetti (boats that work like buses) to Murano. Again, since it was Saturday, we didn’t get to see any glass blowing, per se. We did, however, watch several artisans working on small figures. It’s kind of a cross between welding and clay modeling; they can make the most amazing things. The most impressive was a spiderweb, complete with captured flies.



After shopping around Murano, we went to San Marco’s (a requirement, according to Amanda). I found the piazza more interesting than the cathedral, partly because mass was going on and we could only see the entryway. The golden mosaics were lovely in the afternoon sunshine, but that wasn’t the only sparkle: the firemen (and firewomen) were giving a brass band concert at the other end of the square. I think the announcer said they were playing a Shostakovich waltz. I don’t know why, but the circumstances struck me as being hysterically funny. I’m so used to seeing conductors in tails, or at least a tie, that the big fireproof jacket and yellow reflectors just made me laugh. At least he wasn’t wearing his hat.
I know it sounds cliché, but riding in a gondola actually is a delightful way to appreciate the city. While the entire experience is somewhat contrived, the water-garages, the doorsteps leading into the canals, and the posts and hooks to fasten boats to let you know just how practical that particular mode of transportation used to be. And the long, black, sleek lines of the craft make you feel as if you belong in the water. It’s almost like taking a ride in an antique limousine.
And our gondolier…yes, ladies, I know you’re curious. No, he did not spontaneously burst into song. But he had the good taste not to wear the embarrassing beribboned hat and striped shirt that most of them sported. He did tell us about the flow of the Venetian tides, how the gondola used to be his father’s, and the best way to go under bridges without bashing your head.



I learned a lot about waterway traffic…it’s polite to holler something before you go around a blind corner, that motorized traffic is limited to 2 km/hr, and that gondolas pass each other on the left. The right side of a gondola is shorter than the left, giving the entire boat a slight starboard tilt which compensates for the weight of the gondolier. The asymmetry has other benefits as well. To maneuver a long craft with a high prow and stern underneath Venice’s ubiquitous bridges—especially when the water is high—the gondolier takes a step or two to the right and the boat tips sideways. Just keep your fingers crossed that he doesn’t lean over too far…

Verona

Guess what? I survived our first travel break! Not without a scratch, but I’m in one piece. Three of my friends and I headed off to Verona and Venezia over a three day weekend and had all sorts of adventures. After conquering the automatic ticket machines, backpacking all the way across Verona, and climbing a giant hill to check into our hostel, we saw Juliet’s house (or the house of some family that had a name that sort of sounds like Capulet…close enough for me) and saw the famous balcony of “The Balcony Scene.”



There’s a lovely statue of Juliet in the courtyard, and tons and tons of lover’s graffiti everywhere.
In fact, there’s lover’s graffiti all over the town. Most of it is variations of “Te amo so and so” but some is a bit more original, if grammatically—shall we say—inventive: “I’m gonna love you till the star fall from the sky for you and I” and “Mi piace tu, mi piace tu, mi piace solo tu” give an idea of the multi-lingual hodge-podge that is scrawled all over town. It didn’t bother me like most graffiti does; Verona is a lover’s town and is romantic enough that one can smile, shrug, and sigh…and harbor a secret wish that some young Romeo would scale a wall with a can of spray paint and pledge eternal devotion to me.
That afternoon we discovered a garden. The first section was all symmetry, boxwood, and Grecian sculpture. Behind that, there was a pretty little English cottage garden with a wild profusion of different colored flowers. Beyond that, there was a hidden path winding between trees and ivy that led to a rose colored portico and a long arbor. Going on, we found a tower with a spiral staircase that took us up to another garden on the top of a wall. The succession of unexpected new landscapes was lovely, but nothing prepared us for what we found. The rooftops of Verona were spread before our feet, with the sky just beginning to get peachy in the prelude to a sunset.



Some genius of a gardener planted tall evergreens and some creeping Alpine-blue flowers, giving the impression that I really was on top of the world. “Further up and further in!” was all I could think of…read C.S. Lewis’ Narnia books if you don’t know what I’m talking about. Anyway, I learned two good traveling tips: look up often and follow signs, even if you don’t know where they lead. Unexpected treasures seem to enjoy hiding in plain sight and other obvious places.
The morning after our day trip to Venezia (see next blog), we stopped by a park, since the name (literally “Park of the Wall”) had me curious. An excavation of a massive ruin of a Roman muro was circled by a nice little park with benches and iron railings and picnickers. We threw ourselves headlong down a precipitous drop and scrambled over, under, and around the white arches surrounded by ivy, mountain mint, and brambles (which account for the scratches on my ankles). It’s interesting how much more fun you have when getting to something seems like a major accomplishment. However, always, always, always pack good shoes. You want to be ready for that almost-inaccessible Roman ruin when it comes.



Then we dashed to the train station and had an instructive and interesting experience trying to figure out how to get home. Train schedules really do seem arbitrary at times. But we made it back in time for the 17:30 bus! You can’t imagine how much I enjoyed dropping that backpack as soon as I got to my room.

Weekend in Firenze

I’ve just returned from our first travel break! We went to Firenze (No, I refuse to tell you the English translation. Google it yourself.) and had a delightful time. The city certainly lives up to its reputation as a living museum. Which is both a good and a bad thing.
Museums are constantly full of visitors. Most of them usually enjoy themselves, in spite the gloomy staff. The restless pacing of the crowds seems static when compared to the dynamic timelessness of the exhibits. That is Firenze: swarms of roving pilgrims seeking to be changed by the unchanging past. All of which makes it a fascinating place to visit…but I would never want to live there. Those that do looked about as happy as bored, cynical museum guards at the Uffizi. However, if you are a museum buff like me, three days in the Renaissance capital of the world will fly by in a sort of exhausting ecstasy.
Friday night we went for a walk on the Ponte Vecchio—the only bridge that was not blown up when the Germans retreated late in WWII—and basked in the sparkle and glow of the goldsmiths and jewelers that took over the area after the Medici’s kicked out the butchers and other plebian shops because of the smell. It was a lovely setting, but a bit contrived. However, one little bit of sentimental urban legend really touched me. It’s said that if a couple writes their names on a lock and attaches it to the railing on the bridge, their love will last forever. I don’t know where the story came from, but it was very romantic to see all of the different locks hanging in heavy clusters from the wrought iron.

The next morning Lauren and I forced ourselves out of bed early and attacked the Uffizi. If you want to understand just how intimidating this museum is, think about this little tidbit: the Uffizi is the biggest art museum in Firenze, which has much of the art of Tuscany, which has much of the art of Italy, which has almost two-thirds of the world’s art (according to La Bella Figura, one of our books on Italian culture). That’s a lot of art. And I mean a LOT. We beat what I hope was an honorable retreat just before lunch, having seen hundreds of Madonnas, thousands of crucifixes, and simply billions of Annunciations. Oh, and more nude people than I ever plan on looking at again in one morning. The funny thing was that no matter how famous they are, the masterpieces somehow escape becoming cliché…Venus, especially, was stunning. I’m no art critic, but that indescribable something that makes art great was oozing all over the place.
To regroup and recover from our serious art overdose (too much Renaissance paint, I suppose) we hunted all over for the Leathermaking School of Florence. It was in a beautiful, peaceful former monastery, far far away from the tourist hordes, and had a wonderful display of bags, wallets, change purses, coats, jewelry boxes, and anything else that can be made out of leather.
After that, it was time for our second foray; this time we had to scale a giant cathedral. The Duomo is another of those eternal masterpieces that crowd this city, but it’s so darn huge that it dwarfs everything else. My favorite little bit of Duomo trivia: the original architect, Arnolfo di Cambio, drew up the plans for the enormous dome knowing that it was impossible with the current technology, and fully expecting that somebody would figure out how to build it by the time the cathedral was done. Sure enough, two hundred years later, the duomo was finished using a technique invented by another architect, Brunelleschi (complements of my Let’s Go guidebook). We got a firsthand view of his innovative idea; when we climbed the Duomo, we went up right past Michelangelo’s fresco, in between the walls, and in the cavity inside the double interlocking dome. We climbed 463 dark, dank, claustrophobia-inducing steps and emerged on top of the world.


That night, to finish up our conquest of Florence, Lauren and I went to a performance of La Traviata (apparently the inspiration for Pretty Woman). I’d never studied or seen the opera, and was very excited that we were able to get tickets the morning of the performance. It was in a small church, which made a beautiful and acoustically perfect setting. The audience was small but enthusiastic, and the performers excellent.
Now, I must admit, I’ve never found opera particularly powerful. Listening to elaborately costumed virtuosos warbling in a language I don’t understand, while pleasing on the aesthetic level, was too much of an artificial experience for me to connect emotionally. I bought my ticket partly because I knew that I would like listening to Verdi, and partly because I knew that I ought to, sad as that may sound. But Saturday night, something finally clicked.
When the lovers are reunited just before the heroine, Violetta, tragically dies (really, now, did you expect a happy ending?), instead of embracing his love, the Alfredo draws out the moment by beginning a gorgeous aria. When the couple finally stopped singing and kissed, I thought about how satisfying delayed gratification can be. The romantic climax of so many movies never touched me in the same way…who wants to see these people smooching for minutes on end anyway? Song, on the other hand, was somehow a better expression of the passion of the moment. Anybody can kiss, but only the hero can sing like that.
After wandering around for a little on Sunday morning, we finally decided to go to the Academia and “see David.” He was more intriguing than I had hoped. Also much bigger than I expected. When I first walked in, all I could say was, “Oh..there he is.” He is colossal, and, on first impression, a bit cocky. But as I walked around him, I realized that his sassy stance wasn’t sassy at all. He’s poised, tense, stretching his sling across his back. When you finally get around to where Goliath would have been, David’s over-the-shoulder glance morphs into a menacing, deadly stare, zeroed in on the giant’s forehead. I wouldn’t want to make this shepherd boy angry.
Lining the hallway leading up to the giant-slayer is a series of half-finished sculptures, Michelangelo’s “Slaves.” Of all the sculptures I saw this weekend, they were my favorite. Their half-formed shapes emerging from the marble looked just how I imagine Adam looked when God was forming him from the dust. Scholars still debate whether these were intentionally left unfinished. I think their magic would have been lost had they been completed…and Michelangelo knew what he was doing. The energy of arrested creation seemed locked inside the stone; the slaves have not been freed from their marble prisons.
During our morning wanderings, we stumbled upon an unexpected gift. Perhaps blessing would be a better word. Mass was being celebrated in one of the cathedrals (S. Michele) that we passed, so we slipped in and stood at the back. It was the first time that I’ve ever heard the Greek and Latin phrases that I’ve studied so much sung in the context that they were meant for. The Kyrie and the Credo, the Sanctus and the Gloria…it was as if I was finally hearing them for the first time. Every church I had visited before had seemed somehow empty. I think that I had been trying to imagine plainchant reverberating within the cold stone walls without realizing it. The unearthly beauty of the actual sound is something that I will never forget.

WWII "Mud and Misery" Overdose

Since it’s the middle of the week (okay, not now, but it was when I wrote this…our internet is still acting up), not much has been going on besides classes. We’ve been reading a rather hefty book, Italy’s Sorrow, which is about Italy between 1944-45, and the sheer volume of the suffering that it chronicles has begun to get to me.
I never read much about the German occupation and Allied invasion of Italy. Most books and history courses tend to focus on other places of conflict: London during the Blitz, Dresden, Midway, Stalingrad, Hiroshima, and Normandy, and perhaps a brief mention of Monte Cassino.
It’s unnerving to read that in spite of the horrific reprisals against civilians and the concentration camp roundups, the Germans were often more conscientious soldiers. Much of the rape and pillage was behind Allied lines. Is shooting a woman so much worse than committing an act that destroys her life? In Italy’s Sorrow, a British intelligence officer, Norman Lewis, witnesses the plight of a young girl who had been gang-raped and was unable to walk because of her injuries. Instead of being supported by her community, the girl was declared insane by local police, who tried to commit her to an asylum. Lewis calls it “a fate worse than death.” The irony that the “liberators” left so many ruined lives behind them is painful.
But when I sense the indignation that the Italian soldiers and politicians felt when they were brushed aside by both Allied and Axis forces, I become irritated. Really, now…they expected to just switch sides just like that and be treated as equal partners? To be able to run their country just as they liked when more than fifteen different nations were sacrificing lives and pouring resources into liberating them? What was left of their military was offended that they were not immediately placed on the front lines…is it not understandable that their former enemies would have some misgivings about fighting alongside them? An aggressor expecting to sue for peace and instantly be on an equal political and military footing in their alliance with their former enemies seems arrogant, to say the least. Had Italy ended up like Poland, I could understand the complaints…but Italy became an independent democratic republic fairly quickly after the war ended. While the suffering was intense enough during the simultaneous German occupation, Allied invasion, and Italian civil war, the country was not horribly crippled, oppressed, or humiliated after the war.
There seems to be a price to be paid when a country tolerates a dictator. Endurance can become tacit consent; what would have happened if the German people had resisted the “final solution” openly and vigorously? A country’s people are represented by their leader, whether they like it or not, and it is the people who are called to account for their government’s actions. I don’t think that it is right for the many to atone for the sins of the powerful few, but it seems to be a consistent reality.
All I can say is that I agree with Sherman: war is hell.

The Balestra!

It finally happened! This big event that I’ve been promising to write about for weeks! But I’m afraid you’ll just have to come to Sansepolcro yourself, because I really can’t do the Ballestra justice.
For once, the event actually started on time. I was expecting the usual Italian lack of punctuality regarding the 17:00 time printed on my ticket, but I came a few minutes early anyway and was glad that I did. The respective courts of each side had already marched in, and the procession with the Ballestra banner started just as I sat down. Then, after a ceremonial exchanging of gifts—a decorative plate and some kind of artwork in a frame that I couldn’t see well—and lots of speeches, the archers from Gubbio marched in wearing purple tunics and looking very imposing. Then, after more speeches, the Sansepolcrans strode in looking like they owned the place (well, they practically do). And then came a bunch of Belgians. No, they aren’t a normal part of the tradition, but they had come along to watch and I think the tournament heads wanted to give them a warm welcome. Privately, I think they thought that their own tunics and tights would look better next to the Belgians’ top hats, epaulets, and white gloves. As it was, the contrast had me in stitches.
All the archers lined up, and the champion of each side took an opening shot. Then things got a bit chaotic, as there were six crossbow stands. Each man balanced the front of his crossbow on a post and the back of it on his shoulder, took a very long, very, very careful aim, and pulled the trigger. Sounds simple, right? Not with six men shooting at a time, and not when the little target about six inches in diameter already looks like an overstuffed pincushion. Sparks, feathers, and often entire arrows flew after many of the shots. Near the end, a little boy who was maybe seven or eight got up with his dad and aimed his tiny little crossbow at the target. I was really hoping he’d get to actually shoot a miniature arrow, but I’m not sure that it would have made it all the way across the piazza.

Once every man (and one little boy) had taken his turn, the judges took down the target, hemmed and hawed, marched the thing around the piazza, and then disappeared to deliberate while the crowd was entertained by more drumming and flag-throwing by Sansepolcro’s and Gubbio’s teams.
My favorite was the crazy guy who had a flag in each hand and twirled a third with his feet and knees. Another man had also brought his son along; the little guy was wearing the same uniform, waving a pint-sized flag, and taking three steps in his little boots to his father’s one. It was also interesting to watch the archers. One younger man from Sansepolcro came over and was talking to his wife and son…he looked so excited and optimistic. Most of the men who compete are in their fifties and somewhat stoic, so it was sweet to see this guy giving his family a thumbs-up sign, a shrug, and a smile. (People say that Italians talk with their hands, but that’s not precisely true. They talk with their hands, elbows, shoulders, and faces too.)
When the judges came and announced the winners, happy-family-archer-guy got third place and about burst all the buttons on his tunic. I think that second place went to Gubbio, and first to Sansepolcro…but everybody was hugging everybody else and hoisting people on their shoulders and jumping up and down so it was hard to tell.
And then…did you really think it was over? The drummers and flag-wavers marched around the city for the third time that day. And after that there was one last triumphal parade of the champions and the target with the three winning arrows and the drummers and flag-wavers again and every archer that had competed and all the court ladies in Renaissance wear and the Belgians for good measure.
And next week everyone starts practicing for the spring competition in Gubbio.
I really think these people are nuts. AND I LOVE IT!

You don’t have to live in a college town to know which team you love to hate…

The Ballestra festivities have continued through this week and I’ve made it to a few performances. And yes, I promise to stop talking about this at some point. But when your entire town is wrapped up in a centuries-old rivalry and makes this much fuss about it, it’s hard not to notice.
For those of you who have no clue what I’m talking about, here’s a little synopsis. I don’t know much about the history of the Ballestra, mostly because the books written on it are in Italian. But I’ll tell you what I know. The main event is a crossbow-tournament-contest-shootout-whatshamacallit between Gubbio and Sansepolcro. It occurs twice a year, and is hosted by Sansepolcro in the fall and Gubbio in the spring. Now, I don’t know how much hoop-la goes on over in our rival town, but here the tension is comparable to Duke-Carolina basketball game meets Renaissance Faire. Before the main event, there is a major parade, demonstrations of traditional arts and crafts, a scrimmage, and a Shakespeare play.
On Wednesday, the crossbowmen here had a shootout against each other to see who qualified to shoot on Sunday. Of course, to make it more interesting, two sides of the town compete against each other so everybody can enjoy the satisfaction of shouting insults at someone other than their next door neighbors. There are four main gates in the city walls, and the two most important are the Porta Romana (which leads to Rome) and the Porta Fiorentina (which leads to Florence). I’m an all-out Porta Fiorentina girl, in case anybody wants to know. Each man gets a single shot, and the teams alternate who shoots first. Their accuracy was astounding…target had to be at least thirty yards away, and no one was more than three inches off. Which is a very good thing, because somebody would get sued over the lack of safety precautions if this took place in the US. The stands (lists is probably more accurate) line the range, and many spectators couldn’t have been more than twenty feet from the target.
It’s really funny how much the contest was like any other modern sport. There was a marching band, referees, and cheerleaders. Never mind that the band wore livery (and some serious boots), the referees were dressed in capes instead of stripes and carried battleaxes instead of whistles, and the cheerleaders outfitted with trailing brocades. Is nothing new under the sun? They even had even trash-talk. Two heralds went up to the microphone and started—in slightly modernized plainchant, mind you—to insult the other side and to let them know just how impossible it would be to beat his own. Translation was entirely unnecessary.
The similarities don’t stop there. When a crossbowman prepares to shoot, the opposing crowd starts hollering the Italian equivalent of “Hey batter batterbdbdbdbd” and tries to make as much noise as possible. After each side has had a shot, the referee takes down the target and adjudicates the winner. Another herald marches out, waves his sword around a bit to draw out the suspense, then points it at the winning side. He might as well have signaled “touchdown!” Porta Fiorentina won 6-5 on a tiebreaker!!! Do we rock at archaic crossbow skills or what???

"Stupid stuff!"

I apologize to my non-musician friends and family (and faculty) but spending three hours every day practicing does tend to produce a lot of impressions about music. And not a lot of pictures. So bear with me: I promise some outstanding entries after the Ballestra on Saturday.
In the meantime, let me muse...(and procrastinate...I've had enough of that WWII book for one afternoon).
Now that I’ve gotten back into practice and have had two lessons, I’m starting to discover the quirks of playing piano in Sansepolcro.
I find it amusing how universal the experience of a private piano lesson is; although I’m sure there are a few general cultural differences, the interaction is so individualized that it really depends on the personality of your maestro. Mine seems to enjoy turning things upside down, and sometimes quite literally…he told me to flip my Bach score over and play it backwards and upside-down, and I’m a little scared to try it. He was shocked that I didn’t know I could do that…it never occurred to me to try that with anything other than tabletop duets. His notes are even more "copious" than Dr. Lyman’s: he hasn’t written a word yet (sorry, it’s an inside joke). He said today that the opening of Beethoven’s Fifth was “stupid stuff.” While he was making a valid point that the best composers take simple ideas and expand them, I’d never heard anyone express it quite like that. We’ve had a few funny moments trying to work around the language barrier. While his conversational English is excellent, non-standard musical terms and descriptors are posing a bit of a translation challenge. When he gets excited or has trouble translating, he usually gives up and starts speaking Italian, waving his hands around, and humming, which oddly enough, I usually understand better than anything else.
Our lounge—and favorite study area—is directly outside my little practice chapel. My fellow studentesse are already acquainted with my practice habits. While it was unnerving to sneeze alone behind a closed door and hear three invisible people say "salute," it was even more disturbing to discovered that they listen when I talk to myself. I’m inclined to forgive any teasing, however, because the wind has a tendency to blow the door shut. I know that when compared to most natural catastrophes this seems rather innocuous, but that darn door has no inside handle and a highly effective bolt. While that room is often a sanctuary in a small palazzo inhabited by ten young women, it can assume an awfully prison-like guise. So when an eavesdropping ragazza becomes an angel of deliverance, I accept any digs about my either exasperated or rapturous monologues in rueful silence.
Fortunately--no one seems to mind the racket I make. In fact, I was even told that a lady who lives across the street mentioned that she likes the afternoon music...although my initial efforts at a few of these pieces hardly merit the word. I love how our neighbors here are not only aware enough of what is going on in their town to know that a pianist has moved in somewhere on the street, but they even know which house. It's perplexing that, so far, everyone has found the drills and repetition that drift out my open window beautiful. While the constant street noise gets on my nerves, I'm beginning to understand that it's possible to enjoy, even revel in it. Whether I'll ever get to that point, I don't know. But at least I understand that not everybody gets irritated when they can hear the Vespa motors, the shower running in the next palazzo, every word of every conversation three floors down...or the ragazza americana who plays the pianoforte for three hours every afternoon.

Renaissance Rebirth!

I've discovered that I like spectacle. Especially when I get to be in it.




Saturday night was simply amazing. It looked like about half of the town had dressed up, and many were showing traditional arts and crafts, from soap to leather goods to falconry. There was a parade, a dragon on stilts, a sun-goddess on Pegasus, a flaming sword fight, a good old fashioned tug-o-war, dancing, and fire-breathing, with lots of drums, fanfares, and banners. The women sported fantastic hats and flowing skirts, the men striped tights and chain mail.

It was such a funny situation when we went to get dressed. Nobody spoke English, and our Italian is still rudimentary. The best way to get your point across was to gesticulate and shout. Which looks really, really funny in puffed sleeves. Anyway, our group was labeled "Americani!" after about two seconds, and I think the entire town must have heard that the American students from Meredith were marching along and participating in on of Sansepolcro's traditions. As soon as we flattered ourselves that we were blending in quite nicely, "RAGAZZI AMERICANI! QUI!!!" would be hollered in our direction and we would dissolve into giggles.

The only drawback was that they had us march all around town (twice) until about 1 in the morning. I slept like a log in spite of the chaos in the streets. *yawn*

Anghiari

Readers, forgive me, for my posts are rather non-chronological. But it really doesn't matter, does it? This is Italia, and the conception of time is somewhat different from what we have in the US of A.
Before heading out to Arezzo to gawk at Guido the great, we stopped in little Anghiari, a beautiful city-on-a-hill. You can tell the inhabitants by their calves: I kid you not.



After puffing up the big hill, we got to meet the mayor (second one this week! This one was actually a student of the first one.) and peeked into his chambers. The lucky guy gets to work in a room with fragmented frescoes all over the walls. We also stopped by a lace-maker's shop. This traditional craft is surprisingly alive, and the handmade pieces are exquisite.



Oh, and we got a peek at the local Communist headquarters. Not something you see every day.

Arezzo...as in Guido de Arezzo!!!

Guido, what's up? It's amazing to be so far away and seeing things that I learned about in a Meredith classroom. The names of places always come alive when you go there, but reading about Guido de Arezzo and taking his picture are two very different things. (Granted, he's been dead for centuries, but his statue is still pretty cool.) Well...here's Guido and me hanging out on his street. His hand was rather unremarkable, and he refused to demonstrate "ut re mi" for me, but I wasn't disappointed. He's probably sick of hearing about it anyway.
(Editor's note: If this seems merely absolute nonsense to you, then you should have been a music major. If you are one, pay attention in music history class.)
Believe it or not, Arezzo does have more than statues of music theorists, and--which is harder to believe--I actually went to see some of them. I especially liked the archeological museum; I could tell the difference between the Roman and Etruscan pottery without knowing much about either. Some of the glasswork was astounding. I'm always shocked when I see these little test-tube looking bottles alongside clay lamps. The best part about the museum was its setting, which is right alongside of a Roman amphitheater. The glass case and the windowpane housed very similar artifacts, making you understand a bit more about the context.
And the cathedral!!! It's situated on the very top of the hill and looks a good bit like a castle. I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to take any decent pictures because of the lighting, but the sun shone through a stained glass window and fell on a massive Gothic arch, reflecting up to the Old Testament scenes on the vaulted ceiling. Boy, am I a sucker for those pointed arches.

There was a lovely antique market beside the cathedral, and I had a very hard time not buying anything...a sextant, old telescopes, and entire suit of armor, LOTS of old books, teapots, TVs from the 50s, artwork old and new, a mysterious musical instrument (it looked like a cross between a clarinet and a piccolo, anybody know what it might be?) and a veritable warehouse of furniture were all beyond either my budget or the capacity of my suitcase.

Oh, well. Someday I'll come back and buy that suit of armor and set it up by my front door to hang coats on. And I'll get that three volume set of Longfellow's poems and read them curled up on that Victorian looking loveseat. And I'll get one of those TV's just for the heck of it.

Renaissance Parade!

Added note to the last entry...
Okay, so Renaissance Faire fans, don't hate me...but the Ballestra here is purty darn awesome--and the accuracy of the scenery beats out NC any day. AND tomorrow night I'm dressing up and strutting around with a bunch of Sansepolcrans, checking out the historic crafts, and watching dances and drummers and processions. This is me trying on my costume...I can't wait!!!!!!!!
Oh, and I had my first Italian piano lesson this morning! It was really funny how sometimes my teacher wanted to suggest something but he couldn't express it in English, and usually I knew what he was talking about, but I certainly couldn't say it in Italian. I wish we could just skip linguistics altogether and communicate through music!

Notes on music

So I know it's a bit lame to go 4,500 miles away and eat at McDonalds, but I hope you'll forgive the musical equivalent (okay, so jazz is much better than fast food). I got to go listen to an outdoor concert of a jazz band, and I certainly wasn't going to pass it up. The group was excellent (especially the guys on saxophone and bass) and they played some of my favorites...I got so excited when I recognized Charlie Parker's Anthropology. They must have listened to a lot of Bird as well as older standards, since it was a funny combination of bebop and blues, with a bit of an Italian twist thrown in. As much as I enjoyed the taste of home,I had to keep my eyes closed. With a cathedral on one side, villas on the other, and cobblestones underfoot, the music was just too much out of context if I paid attention to my physical surroundings. When I forgot where I was, I felt the way I do when I'm at home all by myself: completely and utterly relaxed. I wonder if Italian opera seems just as out of context in the US... Right now, I want to say that the evolution of jazz was so intricately intertwined in American history that it lacks the trans-national appeal of a throwback to ancient Greek tradition. I'd like to know what the Italians think...
The citta itself is so musical; I love the ringing of the bells (they ring each hour and half-hour, and before every church service, which makes for a lot of bell-tolling) and the doves. They only coo in the early mornings and you have to go and find them, but when you do, it's almost magical. I've heard a few people practicing, humming, or whistling, but the constant hum of Italiano that floats up through the windows provides the real accompaniment to birds and bells.
And it is so delightful to hear my music vocabulary in action. Piano (translation: floor, not an instrument) has been my favorite. Piano e piano is the Italian equivalent of "step by step" and makes a great name for method books. Fermata is almost as much fun.



Yesterday the mayor of Sansepolcro came to our class and told us a bit about the history of the lovely palazzo that we're staying in. He was a sweet, unassuming man with a touching fatherly pride in his son (who lives in NY). We got to see the angel fresco for the first time as well...I ended up with a few kinks in my neck. Frescoes anywhere are lovely, but I prefer them at eye level.
It was wonderful to hear that this place has been a home or haven for artists and poets for centuries. I feel like my little piano in the chapel is adding to the historical artistic community, but instead of painting frescoes or writing poems, I'm making music!

I’m getting to know this little borgo fairly well. It’s wonderful how knowing a little history can help you put down roots in a new place. Even though not knowing fact from fiction often irritates me, the intertwining of legend and history is at least poetic, if not accurate.
Signora Andreini, our Italian history/culture teacher) gave us a wonderful little overview of the history of this place since prehistoric times. Apparently there used to be a settlement here way before the Etruscans were around. The town itself is said to be founded about 1000 by two relic-bearing pilgrims from the east (Egidio and Arcano—see the picture of wooden heads on a door—were apparently on the way back from the Holy Land) who received a divine sign that this was where they should build a chapel to house the relics. It turned out to be a convenient place, since Sansepolcro (short for Santo Sepolcro…can you guess what that should be in English?) is right on the Tivere (Tiber), near the intersection of the borders of Toscana, Umbria, Marche and Emelia Romagna, and at the intersection of the trade routes that went from the Mediterranean to the Adriatic and from Firenze (Florence) to Roma. Really, these guys needed a sign from God? They really should have figured it out themselves.
Because of its strategic location, the town got taken over by pretty much everybody else at some point or another. The initial power struggle was between the Church and the wealthy families of the town. They built competing structures (a cathedral and a tower) and eventually the Church won out, since the tower was blown up by the Germans during WWII. It’s a bit ironic, if you want to get analytical and intellectual about it, which my nerdy self usually does. Nazis blow up the tower of “mammon” but leave the cathedral untouched… but I digress.
Anyway, in 1441, the Florentines took over, and the artistic and cultural community soared to giddy heights in this little town. Pierro Della Francesca is the biggest name, but there were lots of other intellectuals, artists, mathematicians, and scientists. The Florentines also had the walls rebuilt to solidify their new acquisition; it’s amazing to walk along lovely old stonework that was designed to keep people with swords and crossbows from marauding and rampaging. The feeling of primitive danger and generally un-civilized behavior makes a simple walk down to the supermarket quite exciting. Look out! A Renaissance bandit might jump out and take your groceries at sword’s point!

Now that classes have started in earnest, I don’t have quite as many entertaining things to write about. However, I have been faithfully going out on the adventuresome treks every morning and seeing new parts of the city. We visited the local graveyard a day or two ago in the early morning, and I found it thought provoking.
The happy solemnity of a place where I loved none of the names on the headstones allows indulgence in a bit of superficial sentimentality. Hundreds of bouquets, cold marble, black and white photographs, and the neat gravel underfoot cleanse death of stink and the humiliation of defeat. The inscriptions and monuments speak of the desire to create something lasting, in death, if not in life. I find the ponderous iron and marble a cold symbol of the forgotten. The carefully tended plants, fresh flowers, and burning candles speak more of the legacy of life. Whoever cares for them must have loved and have been loved very much.
John Rose has been telling me that I ought to write poems in Sansepolcro, because it is such a poetic place. While the muse has not presented herself before now, I think that I’ve scraped something together. (Hopefully it will make up for the lack of pictures…sorry, my batteries died!)
the vault is empty, cold, and blank
i wish no death of time
a monument enduring dank
my legacy of life?

put flowers in the simple ground
ephemeral but bold
with lilies of the valley crowned
returning to the home

the graven stone will never see
the river that I cross
die to live, commanded we
why idolize the loss?