My-face and Space-book...what is the world coming to?

Kids these days…we’re infamous for our narcissism and famous for our multitasking abilities. While I would hardly describe myself as a typical Millennial (I can’t text to save my life and I haven’t read Twilight) this week has convinced me that I am not entirely deficient in some of the characteristics of my generation.
The superfluity of modern communication amazes me. Email, cell phones, Skype, Facebook…they may be useful, but the intricate network of contacts is such a trap for those of us who are organizationally challenged. However, having six or seven different ways to get in touch with someone can turn out to be an advantage. Or not, as the case may be.
Where to start? This study in twenty-first century communication can only be so exhaustive…this is, after all, only a blog entry. I suppose I’ll start with when I first heard the news. Bekah walks into the lounge and tells me that Dr. Webb just called her to tell her that there’s a train strike tomorrow. My roommate and dear friend (who is named Chelsea as well) is flying out to visit me for a long weekend, and her plane is due to arrive at 10:45 tomorrow morning. Apparently she’s going to be stranded at the airport.
Well, what does every college student do in a crisis? Facebook, duh. I log on and recollect that I am friends with Chelsea’s mother. I type a slightly panicked wall post asking her to tell her daughter about the strike if she found a way to call her when she landed. Almost immediately after I finish, one of those little notification pops up: Chelsea had tagged me in her status five minutes ago. WONDERFUL! I can tell her myself…But NO! She’s no longer online. After about twelve frustrated wall posts, I finally accept the fact that I’m not going to be able to get her attention and turn to other means…I email her and check Skype. But no, Chelsea had apparently left her computer mere minutes before my barrage of wall posts, emails, and calls. I then try to Skype my family to see if they can call Chelsea’s cell phone, but to no avail…why is nobody online when you need them to be??? Everybody wants to chat when I’m working on a paper, but of course no one’s online now…
With that in mind, I open Microsoft Word and start working on my English paper. Sure enough, about twenty minutes later, my youngest brother starts chatting with me via Skype. “Hey, Chels, sorry we missed you.” I start speed-typing, misspelling every other word as the keys clatter under my fingers. My brother calls my roommate, who at the time was on the phone with her brother. After getting several busy signals, Curt finally gets through to Chelsea. We start a verbal relay: I talk to my computer, Curt listens from our desktop at home and repeats on our landline, and Chelsea listens from her cell phone…then Chelsea asks a question and Curt relays it back to me while I Google around to see if I can answer it. This sounds moderately complicated…but let me remind you that my roommate and I have the same first name. So, in other words, Chelsea (me) tells Curt who tells Chelsea (my roommate) who answers Curt who relays back to Chelsea (me). In spite of the insanity, I manage to find a bus line and an approximate time of departure. I’m normally a terrible multitasker, so I am quite proud of myself.
But wait…it gets even more complicated. I remember my frantic message to my roommate’s mother…and realize that I ought to let her know that I have gotten in touch with Chelsea and that everything was going to be fine. While I’m typing out a message to send about 4,500 miles away to Raleigh, my piano teacher, who lives down the street, starts Facebook chatting with me about whether I want to learn a Beethoven sonata or a Chopin ballade. Fortunately most of our conversation is in English…I don’t think I could have handled multilingual communication while simultaniously holding a conversation, writing a message, and searching for and listening to classical music on Youtube.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the Atlantic, my roommate has called my brother to tell him to tell me to tell her mother that I told Curt who told her about the train strike. Why she didn’t just call her mother herself, I have no idea. But it makes for a better story. Anyway, Curt hacks onto my Facebook account (my entire family knows my password…I like to think of it as a way to keep me accountable!) and then closes my chat window, realizing that this may be a bit of a privacy invasion…even for us. Back in Sansepolcro, I’m mystified by my profile’s antics…it’s acting like it has a mind of its own, freezing up and then hiding my chat window.
Curt logs off of Chelsea Stith’s profile and calls me on Skype. I ask him if we can just chat via Skype, as I’m holding several conversations at once and listening to music. He says “I know,” but I’m too busy finishing my message to my roommate’s mother and keeping up with my teacher’s comments to realize the implications of what he just said. I send the message to my roommate’s mom, and then switch over to Skype to read that Curt says that Chelsea would like me to tell her mother that she’s fine. Two seconds late, pal…I already did!
While I come away with a glow of accomplishment, I feel a bit deflated when my roommate arrives the next day safely via the train. Apparently the strike didn’t start until 4 PM, about a half an hour after she stepped off onto the platform. So the massive feat of communication spanning two continents, a cell phone, a landline, two computers, not a few satellites, and four people in a verbal relay wasn’t necessary at all.
I’ve decided I want to retreat into a world where the most advanced method of trans-Atlantic communication is a message in a bottle.

Teaching English

This past week saw the introduction of yet another new and interesting experience…I’m sure everyone else in the program will be blogging about it, but for once I have a really unusual perspective. First I have to ask a question that’s been bothering me and a few of my friends from home for a while: Would you ever expect someone who’s never been to high school to teach it?
Granted, that’s overstating the incongruity of my service learning assignment. But there is a reason that did not request to help teach English in the secondary schools. I’m sure that many (or most) of you know that I grew up homeschooled. And when I say homeschooled, I mean all the way until I got my GED just before my senior year of high school. You have no idea how much this bewilders Italians. While homeschooling is legal here, apparently very few people actually do it, and if they do it’s only through elementary school. The incredulity and skepticism that meets my description of my pre-college education is quite amusing, so say the least.
I was SUPPOSED to get the cute little kindergarteners. Classrooms full of Italian-speaking teenaged public schoolers terrify me. And really, I don’t think that’s all that unreasonable. How many of you would relish the prospect of showing up in an unfamiliar classroom to “teach English” with a teacher you’ve never met?
Okay, so I’m sure some of you would enjoy the challenge. I, however, was petrified.
Actually, once I found the instructor and started talking to the classes, it was a riot. The kids were rowdy and reticent, inquisitive and bashful by turns; in other words, much like kids everywhere. Since this was my first time in the classroom, I started by briefly introducing myself in what I hoped were slow and articulate phrases. I’ve gotten a reputation for speed talking even in the US, so you can imagine how often I hear piu lentamente or piano, per favore. Anyway, after an awkward opening, the teacher told the students to ask me the simple questions that they had been learning. Aside from the expected, basic questions such as “How long have you been in Italy,” “Where are you from,” and “How old are you,” I encountered more than a few curveballs. I was asked if I had ever been to Hollywood to see the movie stars, if I could bring them any American recipes, and if I ever played soccer. The funniest was when one of the boys asked me if I had a girlfriend, and realized what his mistake a split second too late. The entire class burst into laughter.
After that, I asked them about themselves. I explained that I had a big family, and asked them about their siblings. I asked them about hobbies, sports, favorite foods, pets, ages, hometowns… While the experience was so much more fun than I had hoped, I did have one moment of terror when the teacher left the class for a few moments. I discovered, however, that I am capable of glaring just as ferociously as if I were not only three or so years older than these kids, and that they actually shut up when I glower and say “Hey, hey, ya’ll” in a threatening tone of voice. I suppose that phrase sounds much more intimidating if you don’t know what it means.
At the end of the second class, the kids wanted to know when I was coming back, which I assume is a good thing. They may not like me so much next week, since I have to start prepping them for some English test that I’ve never heard of. I’ll let you know how that goes…

Lost in translation…

In the midst of all the Kickoff insanity, I neglected to mention that a reporter from a local paper came and interviewed about half of the students, including me. In Italian, naturally. While it was a challenging experience, I was very proud afterwards of my communication abilities. Turns out, my self-satisfaction was premature.
Before I proceed to rant about the subsequent article, I need to explain something. Accuracy has always been a pet peeve of mine; I’m sure part of it comes from studying music, but I know that my passion for particulars is a family trait. My grandfather was a “newspaper man,” and I grew up listening to his stories about investigative reporting. When he was just starting out, he named the wrong referee when discussing a controversial call. He swore he would never make another factual error; he developed a technique of putting a pencil mark over every single word after he double-checked that it was correct. His meticulous attention to detail eventually paid off...one of the articles that he worked on later won a Pulitzer.
Now, while I don’t claim to be a chip off the old block, I have picked up at least a few of Poppa’s habits. You may be able to imagine my reaction to the “quotations” that appeared in the Saturday edition of Il Nuovo Corriere Arentino. The drastic paraphrasing makes me want to laugh and cry. Apparently, I’m “una pianista famosa” and I think that Meredith is a “palestra” (gymnasium). I can almost forgive that…when my roommate asked me last semester to describe our college in one sentence, I responded “Meredith is a cross between intellectual boot camp and a big girly sleepover.” Never again will I think myself clever enough to be worth repeating. Or translating, for that matter.
And another priceless quote: “…lo facciamo volentieri perché sappiamo quanto sia importante per il nostro futuro.” Translated loosely with some help from Google, it means “...we work gladly because we know how important this experience is for our future.” Come on. I don’t speak remotely enough Italian to be THAT sappy…
And furthermore, I said nothing about speaking perfect Italian by December!!! Seriously? Chelsea Stith (yes, my name is in bold) is quoted as saying, “...a dicembre voglio tornare in America e parlarlo perfettamente.” SERIOUSLY??? I can’t imagine any halfway respectable newspaper printing such nonsense in the US. My words were not just taken out of context…they were loosely translated, jumbled, strung together, and then put in an entirely new and different context. Apparently journalists in Italy can get away with murder. I’ll read those articles about Berlusconi with a more sympathetic eye from now on.
Now, I know I must make allowances. It’s partly my fault because of my limited experience with the language. But where I come from, quotations are quotations, and for me those vital little punctuation marks mark the difference between fact and interpretation. Perhaps we ought to invent new punctuation to differentiate between interpretation and translation.

Day at the Farm

Do you smell that? That’s the smell of the countryside…the sunshiny smell of hay, the friendly smell of cows, the heady smell of fermenting grapes, the maternal smell of plowed earth, still damp from yesterday’s rain.

Do you see that? The translucent golden glow of grapes in the sun, the dusty jars of tomatoes, the pleading brown eyes of the hunting dogs? Do you see the curves of the hills cupping you in their protective palm?

Do you taste the bite of homemade cheese, the hearty taste of chestnuts? The taste of the sweet Tuscan bread and the salt of the prosciutto?

Do you feel the clinging clay of the fields? Do you feel the fur and claws of the rambunctious black kitten? The liquid, warm weight of a fresh egg, the firm skin of late tomatoes, the tickle of straw in your hair?

Do you hear the cackling of the chickens, the lowing of the milk cows? The splash of new wine and the creak of the press? The gruff yet kindly voices offering abundant hospitality?

Oh, I am such a country girl, and the city life I currently lead is beginning to wear on me. I haven’t been going on morning walks lately, partly because I’m busy and partly because it’s cold and dark in the mornings before class or early piano lessons. But a brief afternoon at the farm of a friend-of-a-friend was enough to inspire such a poetic flight of fancy. Bear with me and my rapturous praise of the idyllic. I’ve mucked enough stalls, pulled enough weeds, and picked enough laundry baskets full of green beans to have earned the privilege of nostalgia for farm life.
The farm was startlingly similar to every other one that I’ve been to, in the US or in Italia. Living close to the land tends to draw out the things that we share in common, in spite of differences in landscape, technique, and crops. A rock is a rock is a rock, whether it’s an Italian rock or an American rock, and not much grows well in rocky soil. And there are only so many different ways of separating rocks and dirt.

And the food! Something about the simplicity of farm fare makes it more sumptuous than any gourmet dish. Dr. Swab and I have decided to become Salami Snobs. I never liked the super-processed fatty stuff at home, but here, it’s completely different. It tastes like a cross between country ham and beef jerky, with a delicate flavor far better than either. On top of the traditional saltless Tuscan bread, it’s delightful. Eaten alongside homemade cheese and biscotti dipped in honey-sweet vino santo, it’s heavenly.
The farmer, his wife, her mother, and few of his brothers were all there to welcome us. Their hospitality was boundless: they told us all about how to make wine, showed us all around the farm, gave us tomatoes and eggs, fed us the most marvelous dinner, and shared stories. My favorite was one that the Nonna told about her memories of World War II. She was living farther north at the time, and she remembers when the Germans came through and plundered her family’s farm. She said that the only thing they did not take was a particularly protective rooster and his hen; apparently a few sharp pecks were too much for the soldier to handle. A few weeks later, the last remaining hen produced a flock of seventeen little chicks. The wise old cock was still keeping a careful eye on his young family, however. When the children playing in the barnyard said a few words of German, the rooster hustled his biddy and her brood into hiding. He was a heck of a lot smarter than most of the chickens I know…really, multi-lingual poultry? Perhaps American chickens aren’t as well educated.

Brace yourselves…this was the weekend when I and my redoubtable travel partner, Lauren, trekked deep into the notorious south of Italy.
Before I go any further, I must explain something. Those of you in the US may have never heard anything about the south of Italy. If you only take a quick glance in an Italy guidebook, however, you will soon understand what I’m talking about. There are a whole lot more “be careful”s and “can be dangerous”s about Napoli (Naples) than there are about Firenze (Florence). Nor is this stereotype limited to the international tourist industry. I mentioned my travel plans to a several Italians here, and the responses were “watch your bag” and “be careful down there.” Added on to all this frightening hype was the unpleasant news that there was to be a train strike on Sunday. Rather than cancel our trip, we threw caution to the winds and decided to risk getting robbed blind and, what was worse, missing class on Monday!
Even so, it was with a bit of trepidation that Lauren and I began our trip south. The actual train ride on the way down was something I’d never want to go through again…all I can say is that I’ll be buying my ticket at the desk instead of the self-service machines. I’d like to have seats for a four hour ride and avoid the “incorrect price” fine next time. However, that was the worst thing that happened the entire weekend.
Granted, the area around the Bay of Naples is certainly rough around the edges, noisy, and dirty. Catcalls abound (especially when you’re walking around with Long-Legged-Lauren), and you have a feeling that you have to be a “rough, tough, fighting dog,” like Otis describes himself to Milo. It’s said that the best and the worst people live in Naples. Perhaps we just got lucky, but I think we found the best. The owner of our B and B came out and found us when we were wandering around Piano di Sorrento trying to find the place at 10:00 at night, a courteous police officer on the metro/train found us seats without us asking, and the ladies at the tourist office reassured us that they could get us home by Sunday night.
What with good planning, friendly people, and buon fortuna, we had a marvelous trip. We went to the ruins at Pompei (If I understand this right, it’s spelled with two i’s only outside of Italy) early on Saturday morning. The excavations were so much bigger than I expected. I was thinking of a little Roman village…and boy was I wrong. The temples and villas and the giant amphitheater really gave an idea of just how grand the Roman architecture and infrastructure was at the time. The amphitheater was my favorite. Walking down the tunnel, it was so easy to imagine myself as a gladiator, steeled for the mortal combat that awaited me in the arena. Aren’t ruins wonderful?
After our tour of Pompei, we caught a bus that took us most of the way up Vesuvius. We were told at the top that the later busses had been canceled and that the last one left in an hour. Normally, this wouldn’t be much of a problem, but the hike to the crater was supposed to last 20-30 minutes. Lauren and I marched up the mountain at the double, making it in a brief seventeen minutes!!! We spent as much time as we could admiring the otherworldly scene. One could smell the sulfur on the air, see the steam drifting above the vents, and feel the harsh volcanic gravel underfoot.

I love the latent power of volcanoes. Visiting one is a great way to counteract the humdrum boredom of everyday life, although I have to admit that I don’t understand living near one. Pompei and Herculaneum are anything but Roman ghost towns; it’s ironic that the ancient disaster has fueled the current touristic success. Vesuvius is still active, however, and the ash and lava that brought dead and destruction once are projected to do so again. Really, who insures these people anyway??? I suppose it ought to say something inspiring about the undefeatable nature of the human spirit, but all it seems to signify is how stupid and stubborn we can be. WE can’t let a mere VOLCANO keep us from building where we want to build, now CAN we??? (Normally, I’d insert: “We’re CAN-DO AMERICANS!” but apparently this is an international trait. And CAN-DO ITALIANS really doesn’t have the same ring to it.) Heck, they’ll have to excavate ancient Pompei all over again. I hardly think it will improve the state of the ruins.


Speaking of the condition of the excavation, Pompei can’t compare to Ercolano (Herculaneum). Ercolano is another town that suffered a similar fate to Pompei, but isn’t as big, as famous, or as touristy. It was covered in tuff, with is apparently boiling mud, rather than the rain of ashes that fell on Pompei, which left the buildings in much better condition. Many of them have the several rooms of the second story still intact, and the frescoes and artwork are in wonderful condition. I have a weak spot for mosaics, and I really enjoyed seeing all the lovely geometric and artistic patterns that were made out of those tiny little tiles.
There were colorful marble floors as well that I thought were especially beautiful. The odd thing about Ercolano is that the site is surrounded by modern buildings. If you look up the sides of the giant excavation, you can see buildings that look like they are in worse condition than the ruins. They are the same dusty brown-gray color, and what the Roman buildings lack in intactness they make up in aesthetics. It’s one of those sights that forces one to come to terms with the widespread poverty in the Italian South.
After Ercolano, Lauren and I scored an amazing train ticket that got us from Pompei to Arezzo without changing trains. Not only did we have reserved seats, but we practically had a private compartment all the way. Yes, it was beyond amazing.

Locked in

I will never live this down. It’s simply impossible. It’s much too funny, and the least bit scandalous, which makes for the best teasing in the world. Really, I’ve gotten enough digs about my motorcycle-riding piano maestro already. And now this…
Perhaps I’d better just tell you. Why, and subject myself to more kidding? While I’d like to spare myself the inevitable exaggeration of the hearsay storyteller, the real reason is that if anybody’s going to tell this story, it’s going to be me.
I’d been busy polishing up my neglected repertoire before my teacher came, as cramming for Mozart sonatas and Ravel duets took up most of my practice time during the past few weeks. We had a wonderful, focused lesson, and we continued working even when Sara came in to pay my teacher for my September lessons. She closed the door quietly as she left, being careful not to distract us.
After over an hour of intensely re-working my Italian Concerto, my teacher nodded a “Bravissima!” and turned to go. He stopped short when the door refused to budge. As he pushed harder, I laughed. I’d been through this before. I sheepishly explained that the door locked itself if closed firmly, and rapped confidently. I fully expected that one of my classmates studying in the lounge would hear my distress signal and come release us from the chapel, as had always happened in the past when I had locked myself in. Little did I know that they had all gone off in a body about fifteen minutes before to pick up train tickets and dinner. The lounge was deserted. Dead silent. Empty.
We gave up pounding on the door after a few minutes of futile effort. I thought about hollering out the window, but I decided that we weren’t that desperate yet. I rummaged in my purse, only to discover that my cell phone was in my room, a mere twenty feet away. On the other side of the bolted door, of course. Nor did I have any of my friends numbers memorized. Fortunately, my teacher did have his cell and was able to call Sara, who called Dr. Webb, who had to leave her meeting with President Hartford to come back to the palazzo to let us out.
When he eventually stopped laughing, my teacher took the unexpected opportunity to play through the last two movements of the concerto. I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention; I was listening for some sign of deliverance rather than to J.S. Bach’s joyful flamboyance.
I don’t think I’ve ever been happier to hear the little jingle of Dr. Webb’s sliver bracelets. I couldn’t help but knock on the door again, even though I was sure she knew of our predicament because I could hear her laughing even as she came up the stairs. “This is the funniest thing that’s happened in a very, very long time,” she told us. I was laughing too hard to concur.
I ran into Dr. Hartford later that evening. Of course, the first thing she said was, “So what’s this I hear about you being “locked” in with your piano teacher? Oh, that’s just terrible!”
If italics could kill…

The Grand Opening of the Palazzo Alberti! Hurray!

When the delegation from Meredith arrived at the bus stop, we greeted them with big smiles and hugs. Among ourselves, we students have joked about slathering on the charm, but it’s impossible not to be charming to all the lovely ladies and gents that have come such a long way to get the Meredith-in-Sansepocro tradition off to a good start. In spite of a long flight, train ride, and bus trip, everyone was smiling and enthusiastic.
It was such a treat to see so many familiar faces…I’ve gotten to know everyone in the program really, really, really well, but there are, after all, only nine students. Dr. Goode brought me a wonderful set of letters from so many of my friends (THANK YOU, ladies) which made me happy and homesick at the same time.
Anyway, we whisked off their luggage and various other things they brought for us (everything from pencil sharpeners to Halloween decorations to two hammocks for our architects…one of those was my job). After helping everyone get settled, I secluded myself in the practice room for some musical cramming before everyone congregated at the bus stop again. We went up to Montecasale, St. Francis’ favorite monastery. It’s up in the mountains, and is surrounded by dogs, cats, goats, gardens, and a marvelous view. The buildings themselves are small and earthy, and the friar’s cells are tiny and beyond spare. We saw where San Francesco himself slept: it’s all rocks, and not even flat ones.
In stark contrast to the plain, Spartan setting of the monastery, the surrounding mountains and view of the valley were simply spectacular. There is a delightful and thought-provoking statue of Francis outside. He’s sitting comfortably, gazing at the view, wrapped in a kind of happy loneliness.
I’ve never seen so appropriate a tribute. It was entirely free of the ever-present, uneasy irony of Assisi, of the bitter contrast between the Franciscan ideals of poverty and simplicity and the huge, ornate cathedral, unfortunately so symbolic of the worldly power of the Church.

Sunday, the great and fateful day, arrived with surprisingly little pomp. It was a somewhat gray and quiet morning…the calm before the storm, one might say. After a bit of last minute cleaning, we went off to escort our guests to church. As I was anxious to appear competent and confident, it was a bit unfortunate that the service was not at the cathedral…and I only knew enough Italian to realize that the sign indicated that Mass was somewhere else. Fortunately, as it was San Francesco’s feast day, the natural place to look was the Chiesa di San Francesco. We were only a few minutes late, and enjoyed a glorious celebration of “the joy of contemplating the creation,” if my translation is correct. The choir, the lovely decoration and artwork in the church, and the poetic and passionate homily made for a happy experience. I was especially ecstatic because my Italian has improved enough that if I concentrated hard, I could figure out nearly half of what was said.
After church, I became acquainted with two wonderful Meredith alumnae. These adventuresome ladies graduated from Meredith in the mid-forties, and at the time were known as Double-Trouble. We sauntered down to lunch and had marvelous conversations about the music department at Meredith, the drastic regulation changes in the hand book, (Meredith students were allowed to go shopping on days other than Monday and to not wear stockings after Labor Day. Shocking, I know. What is this world coming to?) and the very first Cornhuskin’. I was shocked to find that neither of them have been to Cornhuskin’ (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, here’s the standard and much-hated-by-freshmen response: you just have to experience it!) since, and told them that they should go this year and cheer for the class of 2011.
After an extended, delicious, and very noisy lunch, we all headed back to the Palazzo Alberti for the official events of the day. There was something of a last minute scramble to insert some unexpected guests into the acknowledgments, some rehearsals of polite Italian phrases, and several deep breaths. Then everyone crowded into the stairwell to watch the ribbon-cutting (actually, more of a ribbon-trimming…Meredith is all about going green!) and the unveiling of the Meredith-in-Sansepolcro banner. I wish I could describe it, but I was off through the back door and up in the kitchen assembling plastic champagne flutes and slicing pastries before I had the chance to get a good look at it. Then I yanked off my apron, washed my hands, and began a marathon of elevator piano music, which was only interrupted by the drummers, trumpeters, and flag throwers from the Ballestra. These wonderful people quadrupled our pomp and circumstance in exchange for wine and snacks. I love Sansepolcro!
About half an hour before the open house was supposed to end (apparently it’s impolite to have an end time for Italian events, so it was only announced on the English half of the invitations), my wonderful classmates dragged me out of the chapel and proceeded to dress me up. I much enjoyed my borrowed feathers, as well as the pampering. All I can say is that it’s a wonderful thing to have one classmate who is a licensed massage therapist, one who cuts and styles hair and gives manicures of professional quality, one who is an expert on all things eyeshadow, and others who are more than willing to open their closets to a pianist who brought one dress, one necklace, and three pairs of shoes. It was slightly less wonderful to try and get dressed during an open house. When you say casa aperta to an Italian, that means that every square inch is open. We closed and locked the door and had several people rattle the door handle anyway.
After pampering, I ate a plate of leftover pasta in record time, dashed down to the church, and proceeded to try and keep my hands warm for an hour and a half. Classic case of "hurry up and wait." My maestro and I actually had a fun time, pacing around outside, nervously sharing funny stories, humming, and twiddling fingers and thumbs. After the choir finished, we played a “Mozart sandwich on Ravel bread.” Our duets (two selections from Ravel’s Ma Mère l'Oye and an early Mozart sonata)were lovely, and I made it through my Mozart Allegro assai (Sonata K 332) without any major mishaps. Fortunately, everyone had just eaten a delicious dinner and was feeling inclined to be generous with their applause. : )

Kickoff preparations!

Dear readers, the hustle and bustle around the Palazzo Alberti this week have defied even the most dire predictions. The grand opening, the ribbon-cutting, the kickoff (or “keekoff” if you want to try out the Italian pronunciation), is finally here!
While I have worn many hats this weekend, what had to be the most challenging of my assignments was cleaning the elevator. Fortunately I am not prone to claustrophobia, but while scrubbing away in that tiny box of an elevator in my pajamas surrounded by dirty paper towels and the smell of Windex, I began to have an inkling of the amount of panic a confined space is capable of creating. When I tried to wipe down the inside of the door, some sensor somewhere immediately retracted the panels back inside the wall in what I had to believe was just spiteful retaliation for my habit of taking the stairs. And really, it was hard enough to clean when it stood still…someone had managed to smudge even the ceiling. How? Don’t ask me.
We also had the dubious task of putting our rooms in pristine condition. I know college students have a bad reputation as far as cleanliness goes, but we really aren’t terribly messy. It’s a good thing, in fact, because practically all guests (and we have a lot of them) are given a tour of the palazzo, which includes our lovely camara da letto. However, “decent” (beds made, clothes in the closet, books on the shelves) is most definitely too shabby for the illustrious kickoff. The trick is, of course, creating décor that is immaculate but not quite up to the level of model home. Yes, I ironed my pillowcase, washed the rugs, and locked my school supply clutter in my wardrobe—but arranging my books according to color and size or hiding the trash can would have been a dead giveaway. It’s actually a highly amusing experience to recreate an idealistic but believable version of your own life.
Another nerve-wracking experience was writing the program for the musicale Sunday night. Creating programs is a thankless and tedious job under most circumstances, but creating programs in a language that you don’t really speak, trying to observe performance etiquette of a different country, and handling the logistical challenges of a venue you don’t really know adds a whole new level of stress to the endeavor. Thank goodness, the music department at Meredith is forward-thinking and has all the student recital programs online. So I downloaded one of those and borrowed the formatting and clip art! Ha! The international content of the programs in my portfolio will be belied by the uniformity of the squiggle/swirl/flourish that graces each one! You have no idea how much this pleases the obsessive-compulsive side of my personality. In any case, there are 125 hand-folded, beautiful, cream-colored programs with the trademark Meredith font, flourish, and flair sitting in a neat pile one Dr. Webb’s shelf.
What with my more or less simultaneous roles as porter, maid, editor, interior decorator, chef, tour guide, pampered prima donna (more on this later), translator, newspaper interviewee, student, pianista, and elevator Nazi, that of photographer has unfortunately been much neglected. So no pictures today. Or tomorrow.