notes--musical and otherwise

The Ballad of a Sculptor Pianist

2010-04-30T19:27:00.000-07:00

It’s me again!
Finally, you might say. And I would agree. Unfortunately, schoolwork takes precedence over pleasure. But tonight is an exception. Tonight, anything that provides a bit of stress relief is my homework.
Tomorrow is the big day! My junior recital!

I’d like to chronicle the experience of preparing and giving a full-length solo recital. It’s something I’ve never done, and it’s something many of us will never do. It’s always nice to know that your subject matter isn’t something that your readers are likely to know more about than yourself.
Of course, it all started at the beginning of the semester, when my teacher and I worked out a program. Most of the choices were fairly obvious, since I’d been working on them enough to have a decent start. First in the lineup: the first movement of Bach’s Italian Concerto. Next, all of Mozart’s Sonata in F, K. 332. Then, a set of short character pieces by Debussy, and then, the grand finale, Chopin’s Ballade no. 1 in G minor.

Now, that’s only 38 minutes of music, which isn’t terribly ambitious. And most of the repertoire is “doable,” as my teacher so aptly describes it. However, I’ve been hearing mixed results about the ballade. One lady who was waiting in the hallway asked me when I angrily burst out of the practice room if I was a graduate student. Frustrated that my practicing wasn’t going as well as I liked, I laughed and told her “Good heavens, no! I’m getting ready for a junior recital, and it's not even going all that well,” and she looked agreeably impressed. On the other hand, I heard three phenomenal performances of the ballade by high school students during the Chopin Competition (one of whom had only been working on the piece for three months), which made me feel most disagreeably inadequate.

So…ambitious or not, I was in for it. And I had no idea what I had gotten myself into during those last months in Italy. My Italian maestro was very enthusiastic about the piece and told me I was making good progress, but all I really managed to do was get some really good groundwork again until I was back to my usual structured semester at Meredith.

So I began pounding away in earnest in January. The Ballade is fifteen pages of stormy lyricism; heartbreaking and breathtaking when played well, and unbearably showy and self-indulgent when played poorly. Chopin himself wrote that it was his favorite of all of his compositions, and many agree that while it may not be his best writing, they still love it best of all. That’s a high standard for any piece, but for one that is so technically demanding, it’s nearly impossible to live up to such expectations.

I quickly learned which sections needed lots and lots of drilling. So I did just that…slow and fast, with and without pedal, staccato and legato, as written and with rhythmic variations, loud and soft, hands alone and hands together, but mostly just slow. Over and over and over again. Usually, with enough drilling, there’s one day when I have a sudden breakthrough, when everything just “clicks.” Not with the ballade. I felt like I was at the foot of a giant rock, as big as the Great Wall of China, with a chisel, making tiny dents here and there when I pounded mindlessly and getting nowhere at all when I threw all I had into it.

Of course, I kept up with my other repertoire. But those pieces progressed fairly steadily, with some bumps in memorization and some technical issues. For the most part, however, they were “doable.” Chopin was proving intractable. Nothing provided the impetus, the final shove, not even hearing Walter Hautzig’s stunning performance (and powerful story about the piece: the ballade, in a way, saved his life by getting him a job with a conductor who was willing to get him out of Austria during the early years of the Third Reich). While I was personally mightily inspired, my playing didn’t reflect it. My teacher patiently gave me comments and practice techniques week after week, reminding me that sometimes pieces just take time to settle. Finally, however, he told me that we would have to reschedule my recital.

Of course, I was disappointed. I was much more than disappointed, I was furious. Anybody can get a recital together in three and a half months! People do it all the time! Why couldn’t I? I sure as heck was practicing enough! Faculty members had taken to greeting me as they left in the evenings with “Why are you still here?” and “Go home!” What was wrong with me? Why wasn’t my drilling and drilling and drilling making any progress?

I stormed around in a dark, gloomy, frazzled mood for the two extra weeks before my rescheduled hearing. The dent in the Great Wall of a bolder was growing slowly, but was still just a dent. At some point, I gave up on the chisel and started using my head as a battering ram.

Then the Monday before my hearing, it happened. I looked up, and the rock was gone. In its place was something entirely different, something beautiful. Granted, it was rough around the edges, and there was still lots of rubble that needed clearing away. But I felt like there was no need to bang my head against it anymore. I wondered if that was how Michelangelo felt when he finished David.

I had a piano lesson the next day. My teacher told me that we would treat it just like the hearing (which I interpreted as him trying to scare the heck out of me so I’d be mentally prepared for playing for a committee of three piano faculty), so I played through my entire program. He didn’t say a word until I finished the last note of the fifteen pages of ballade. When I finished, he told me, “You deserve a hug for that.” When he told me I was definitely ready, I had to take a deep breath and try not to cry.

I should stop and explain. The concept of “tears of joy” never made sense to me. When I’m happy, I laugh, I smile, and I talk a lot. I don’t cry. Seeing tears as a good thing is new for me.

In the two weeks following my hearing, I’ve tried to connect to the Ballade on more of an artistic level, now that my technique is at the “doable” level. A ballade tells a story; this type of composition takes its name from literary ballads. What story, I wasn’t sure. I knew from my program notes research that it was supposed to be a lament, but a lament for who or what?

I’ve told many stories with the ballade. I’ve been Ophelia, losing her sanity over her fickle prince. I’ve been Buttercup from the Princess Bride, bitterly vowing to “never love again” after Wesley has died. I’ve been myself, beyond frustrated with the monumental task I have set before me. Regardless of what story I choose to tell, the passion and desperation of the music will make any narrative a poignant one.
I wish I could say I’ve literally poured my blood, sweat, and tears into this performance. Actually, it wouldn’t be that far off. Substitute chipped fingernails and sore wrists for blood, and you’ve got it. I’ve spent my fair time sweating under the stage lights. I’ve cried of exasperation, exhaustion, and exhilaration. Tomorrow night, I hope you cry too.

It may sound like a bizarre wish. But it really isn’t. I hope, if you happen to hear me tomorrow night, that Chopin’s ballade will bring tears to your eyes. Because that means that my rock will have been sculpted into something wonderful.

Chopin Festival at MC

2010-02-27T20:57:00.000-08:00

Okay…I know it’s been forever since I wrote anything. And I don’t really have time to write now. But the Musical Meredith team has just made it through the most amazing (and most exhausting) week since I’ve been here, and I’m on a post-performance adrenaline high. And since my roommate isn’t here to absorb my over-communicative tendencies, the rest of ya’ll are feeling the repercussions.
One of the things I’ve learned this week is how to send cheerful emails that encourage people to do the stuff that they said that they would do. Every morning at about 7:20, I’d send out a reminder to our amazing SAI chapter saying who was recording and who was helping with receptions that night. Apparently our wonderful music librarian has been so impressed with my organizational skills (HA! Those of you who know me well understand what a joke that is) that she thinks I should take over Operation Iraqi Freedom. Right, Ms. Benz. In fact, I’ll take care of the entire Middle East, if all it takes is a few spritely, enthusiastic emails.
I’ve also learned how be significantly sneakier than I’ve ever been before. In case I haven’t forced you to listen to my pastiche saga, here it is. Dr. L, if this is how you find out, I ought to be sorry, but I actually think it would be the funniest part of the whole thing.
It was a Friday afternoon couple of weeks ago, and I was too worn out to do anything productive and too bored to take a nap. Earlier that week, my piano teacher had made a joke about somebody composing a version of Happy Birthday in the style of Chopin for the festival, so I decided that I’d go ahead and take him up on it. I basically stole the ostinato from the Barcarolle in F-sharp major and put a 6/8 version of happy birthday on top of it. Having done it mostly as a joke and spent a grand total of two hours working on it, I wasn’t particularly proud of it as a composition. I was reluctant to put my name on it, and then I realized that it would be much more fun that way around. I printed it off without a name and stuck it in my teacher’s mailbox.
Two weeks go by. I’ve checked to make sure that it’s not in the mailbox, but I haven’t heard a word about it. Then, it’s Wednesday afternoon, and I’m sitting outside Dr. L’s studio waiting for accompanying class to start when I hear the first line of the Barcarolle and then Happy Birthday. When Dr. L came to the door to let us in, I couldn’t keep a straight face while he asked everyone in the hall if they knew how had done the arrangement, so I pretended to be digging around deep in my backpack for something absolutely essential. It must have turned out to not be so important, because I never found it.
A few days later I screwed up my courage and mentioned the piece in a postscript in one of my many emails. Dr. L said that he was considering playing it himself, if he had time to work it up. Considering that he’s hardly had time to eat lunch for the past month, I didn’t have very high expectations.
On the opening night of the Chopin Festival, intentionally planned to coincide with Chopin’s probable birthdate, I was turning pages and stage managing for the concert. I overhead Dr. L and Dr. P planning some surprise for the end of the program, so since I was stage managing and ought to know everything that was going on, I asked about it. Dr. L asked, “Haven’t I told you about this?” and proceeded to explain that he'd tweaked the Happy Birthday by Mr./Ms. Anonymous and was going to pretend it was a recently discovered manuscript and make everybody sing along. I asked if it was in a decent key for singing, and he said "F-sharp major!" (which, of course, I knew) "Perfect! We usually sing Happy Birthday in F!" (which I did not know). Then he asked again if I knew who'd done it. I told him that if they'd wanted him to know who it was, they'd have put their name on it (which was true...I wanted him to have to figure out who it was).
At the end of the concert, Dr. Page got up and just started the usual thanks-for-coming-the-reception's-in-the-lobby-please-recycle-your-progra ms speech, when Dr. Lyman ran in yelling "Wait, wait! Look what I found in my box! It's an undiscovered manuscript! I think it's a posthumous note from somebody we know. Perhaps we'd better play it." He sat down at the piano and played the introduction to the Barcarolle (which I hadn’t included, but I thought was a very nice touch). "I think I've heard that before..." at which point all the music nerds in the audience laughed. Then he started playing the melody, and everybody in the audience laughed. The second time around, he made everybody sing it.
Afterwards, several faculty members asked, "That was you, wasn't it?" and I smiled and said, "Don't tell Dr. Lyman." I'd mentioned it to one of my friends earlier in the week, and she had told somebody, who told most of the students. So now...just about everybody in the department knows who Mr./Ms. Anonymous is...except for poor Dr. L. The next day, I said that I'd heard through the grapevine that Mr./Ms. Anonymous liked his improvements on his/her arrangement (which was meant to be a pretty obvious hint) and he said, "I still have to find out who that was..." in a very unsuspicious and slightly stubborn way.
It was so much better than I’d imagined it. And for the rest of the week I've been enjoying listening to the festival regulars joking with him about it..."Are we going to sing Happy Birthday again tonight?"
And even better…it got into the CVNC review! http://www.cvnc.org/reviews/2010/022010/MeredithChopin1.html
One other thing I’ve learned this week: don’t try to push a Steinway D around single handedly in heels—in front of an audience. It doesn’t end well.
Favorite quotes from this week:
Shaking hands with Richard Reid while still getting over post-performance jitters: “My, you’ve got a quite a grip.” Ooops. Sorry…didn’t mean to get the whole death-grip/strangle-hold thing going on…
Walter Hautzig during a masterclass: “This is not a circus where you show off how well you can play. You want to make music.”, “It’s exactly like an improvisation—except it’s all written down.”, and a quotation from Arthur Rubenstein on fingering: “I don’t care, play it with your nose if it sounds good.”
Dr. Lyman talking about a late-night group practice session in Carswell: “I didn’t have the heart to come in there and kick ya’ll out so I could lock up.”
Me asking Dr. Lyman if it was alright to practice in Carswell: “But there are people in there, and I don’t want to bother them.”
Dr. Lyman: “Don’t worry, as soon as you start playing, they’ll go away.”
Mr. Lambert, planning to review a concert I played in: “It’s not often I get to review a critic.”
Dr. Page: “Let’s have a Liszt Festival next year! HA! Yeah, right.”

Snow Day at MC!

2010-02-01T05:15:00.000-08:00

For ya’ll relocated Yankees out there: I know you think you’ve begun to fit in, that your accent is softening up a bit, that your driving has relaxed, but we’ll always know who you are. When the word “snow” is accompanied by a shiver of disgust or an eyeroll, you give it all away. Native North Carolinians may be completely helpless about driving in the snow, but we haven’t forgotten how appreciate it.

Take sledding, for instance. Lack of sleds doesn’t stop Meredith students from hurtling head-first down the slopes. Actually, we like to think of it as a challenge to our creative and problem-solving skills. Cardboard is the most popular solution, but trash bags and binders work well also. Plastic boxes can be pretty funny to watch, but trash can lids are excellent, even though they tend to get damaged during repeated use.
There are some excellent slides on campus, but my favorite would be next to the stairs that I take every day to get to the music building. The man-made, sharp drop is difficult to walk up (even without snow on it) without using your hands and knees. There is a row of holly bushes at the top, which is inconvenient but better than them being at the bottom. Just to shake things up, there’s a lovely young ginkgo tree at the bottom, with a dedicatory plaque that has rather sharp edges. Keep in mind that steering when on half a cardboard box is not an option, so you must choose your trajectory carefully while trying not to slip and fall down the hill or into the holly bushes. Also, there are two small speed bumps near the bottom, which are enough to get you airborne if you’ve kept your feet off the ground.

For some reason, the only people who responded to my Facebook call for sledding were Honors students…I’m not sure if that means that nerdy brainiac people just don’t have enough excitement in their lives, or not enough common sense to come in out of the cold. I’d rather think that we are young at heart, but it’s probably just that willing to get out of bed before noon on a Monday when classes are canceled.
At any rate, I had a marvelous time yesterday “recycling” cardboard boxes, getting snow down my back, and zooming down the hard-packed icy slopes head first and completely out of control. I had so much fun that I’m doing it again this morning. Care to join me?

Why is she still writing again?

2010-01-12T11:57:00.001-08:00

I have been requested to explain the inexplicable. Why in the world is Chelsea going on and on about herself, now that she’s back from ancient and exotic places and is not uploading lovely pictures of sunny Italy or regaling us with hair-raising (okay, maybe not) tales of her exploits? Honestly, she’s back home to tell her stories in person now…why would any of us check her blog? As my brother put it, “It looks like you haven’t figured out that you’re not in Italy anymore.” Guess what, Dorothy?

I’m sorry, but I can’t help myself. I’ve discovered how terribly convenient it can be to skip publishing altogether. Anybody, it seems, can write a book now-a-days (and no, that was not intended as a comment on Going Rouge, I promise), and anybody, it is certain, can start blogging. And, if necessary, delude themselves that the world really wants to hear about the minutiae of their everyday lives.

In some moments—perhaps those less clairvoyant—I like to tell myself that I have no such delusions, that I understand that there are more than 6 billion people on this planet and all of them are quite busy enough chasing around their own hearts and thoughts and juggling their own responsibilities. I like to tell myself that I recognize the fact that very few people, if any, and genuinely interested in what I have to say because of the merit of my words. What’s more, I can’t even pretend that the recognition bothers me. Really understanding others’ joys and pains is too overwhelming.

In other moments, I like to regard this as a challenge. Now that the excitement of traveling is gone, now that I have no postcard-worthy shots to upload, now that I am something of a prophet (or scribbler) in her own country, can I compel you to listen? Can I make you smile? Can I make you pause for that second of reflection and insight that so often comes to me when I’m reading writers that I love?
I plan to stick to my resolution not to write as if in either a ship’s log or a diary—chronicling activities without insight is insufferably dry, and inflicting what ought to be private venting on cyberspace is hardly charitable. Hopefully there is a happy medium to be found.

This won’t be a traveler’s diary. I don’t promise to take you to magical and faraway places, but I do promise to try and make you pull out your imagination and dust it off in order to see the magic in your own life. The ordinary, the day to day, is a neglected frontier for exploration. George Elliot writes: “If we had a keen vision of all that is ordinary in human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow or the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which is the other side of silence.” While I can’t hope to offer a “keen vision,” perhaps a vague glimpse would be refreshing without being overwhelming.

And hopefully it won't kill anybody either.

Christmas Tree Chopping

2009-12-15T20:30:00.000-08:00

Christmas tree shopping is one of my favorite parts of the season. It’s something of a kickoff for the holidays and a fun family adventure. The past few years, however, have been less of a walk down Memory Lane in a Winter Wonderland. No simple shopping trip for the Stiths. None of the wandering excitedly through the tree lot, smelling the wonderful Frasier fir smell and judging height and fullness—we’ve done it enough times already. We picked our tree(s) out of the yard and chopped it down then and there. Not that the experience was traditional; even the Stith’s clichés tend towards the unorthodox.
All of us traipsed down across our muddy driveway in the damp drizzle to take a look at the Virginia pines that line the edges of our saturated soccer field. Each twisted, short, blue-green needle had a bead of water that glinted silver under the gray sky—ready to fall off en mass to drench any curious tree hunter armed with murderous intentions and a saw. The growth pattern of Virginia pines in their natural habitat is anything but regular, unfortunately, and we found ourselves faced with the disappointment trees that looked full and beautiful in the pine grove and lopsidedly scrawny out of context.
We compensated by choosing a few young trees with the intention of somehow tying them together. Rather than pulling them home on a sled over lovely fields of snow, the boys picked them up like battering rams and charged towards the house over the mud puddles in our sloppy yard.

Next followed our yearly hunt for the tree stand. This is one tradition that we are perfectly consistent in our observance of—somehow the rickety, many-times-repaired, fourlegged red and green apparatus always disappears into the great unknown of the basement storage and turns up in some dusty, unexpected corner. My mother is the only one who ever seems to be able to find it…she says it’s one of those special gifts that come with being a mom, like having an uncanny ability to know what's going on behind your back and knowing how to make the best hot chocolate around.
Our lovely Moravian star gave a bit of unforeseen trouble. We’d carelessly replaced the light bulb last year, partially melted our tree topper and nearly burned the house down. I’d forgotten all about this incident—fire safety in our house tends to center on controlling flying sparks from the wood stove and keeping Tiffany away from candles and matches. While I repaired the yellowed (and, in some cases, blackened) points of the star and found a bulb with less pyromaniacal tendencies, Daddy and the boys pulled out their drills to try and screw our tree trinity together. Currently, it’s wired to the wall to keep if from falling on anyone, which would be nothing short of a catastrophe…because that triple tree is tall. I’m guessing fourteen feet. The vaulted ceiling in the living room offered little restriction, so we went for dramatic. I had thought we’d made a rather conservative choice, but everything always looks smaller when it’s outside. Every time I walk into the living room, I feel like I ought to throw my ballet slipper at the Mouse King and dance off with the Nutcracker through swirling snowflakes.

Decorating it proved to be another challenge. Many of our Christmas parties over the years have included some element of ornament making. It’s truly amazing what people will come up with, given pipe cleaners, styrofoam balls, felt, and sequins. Actually, some of them are quite lovely, but some of them are more than a little ridiculous. There’s the Peace Tank, Michael Jordan (complete with pinhead eyeballs and festive green hairdo), the NY Yankees (made by a Yankee friend and always relegated to the place of shame in the back of the tree), Mr. Heat Miser and Mr. Snow Miser (if you don’t know, don’t ask), the Roofcrafters Snowman (complete with caulk gun and tool belt), the Christmas Tree Eyeballs (my favorites), and many, many others. None of your tinsel and popcorn strings; I get to put up the helicopter this year! Factor in the rickety ornament hook attachments and the height of our tree, and you got quite an adventure on your hands. We used ladders and broom handles, but even so occasionally had to resort to the most exciting ornament hanging technique of all: toss and cross your fingers. Fortunately styrofoam and felt don’t shatter (usually) when they hit the floor from fifteen feet.

After our labors, we drank hot chocolate with whipped cream and sprinkles and watched It’s A Wonderful Life.

Basketball Culture Shock

2009-12-09T16:37:00.000-08:00

It’s now been two days back in NC. Today I ventured out of the house for the first time since getting in from RDU. I was expecting to be bowled over by the differences between Italians and Americans, but nothing doing. Either three months in Italy isn’t enough time to give some perspective on twenty years of America and I just need to pay more attention, or they really aren’t all that different anyway. Right now, I’m inclined to go with the latter. Watch the referees…they talk with their hands. Listen to the crowd…they are just as noisy as the 2 am passagiata crowd on the weekends. People are people, are they not?
One would think that a high school basketball game in Alamance county would be about as un-Italian as it gets. Really, though, lots of homeschool families screaming together in the gym of a Baptist church isn’t exactly something that I encountered much in Tuscany. However, I ended up being more surprised by the similarities of the experiences rather than the differences. Listen to the names…they’re surprisingly similar. Practically everybody in Italy is named after a saint: Francescas, Micheles, Chiaras, Andreas…the list goes on. Homeschool kids have to compensate for a preponderance of biblical names: there were two Micahs, three Jacobs, a Christian, a Daniel, and a smattering of Matthews, Marks, Lukes, and Johns on the court. Sitting next to me on the bleachers—Mary and Elizabeth.
Now, none of this is to say that Italy and North Carolina are the same. Nothing of the kind. For one thing, seeing one, two, or at most three children in one family for months isn’t good preparation for homeschool clans of five, six, seven, or even ten. One of the things I love best about such large, tightly knit families is seeing the sibling interaction. Watching a baby sister imitating the team’s warm-up stretches or a little boy high-fiving his teenaged big brother every time he jogs around the court is sweet, but it’s even more meaningful to see that the big brother doesn’t roll his eyes or brush off the reverential attentions of his little siblings. While the Italians excel at intergenerational interaction, it’s tough to beat these Alamance Eagles kids when it comes to brother-sister relationships.
Of course, here’s where I start over-thinking...but I’ve spent an entire semester desperately trying to pick up on cultural clues, to understand the unwritten rulebook of Italy. As far as watching basketball games goes, I’m out of practice. The controversial calls mystified me, the language of the court and the bleachers fell on unaccustomed ears, the etiquette of good sportsmanship seemed elaborate and puzzling. I suppose you could say I was going through basketball culture shock.
I’d love to be able to give you a funny, insightful laundry list of all the unusual things Americans do. I’m afraid, however, that won’t be happening anytime soon. I can, on the other hand, call things as I see them, but you’ll have to be patient with me. This whole reverse-culture-shock thing is almost as complicated as it was cracked up to be. But hey, I’m glad to be back in a country where they sell index cards.

Coming Home

2009-12-09T16:36:00.000-08:00

Tuscany Girl is no longer in Tuscany, and is not sure whether to laugh or cry about it. When we landed in Washington I was perfectly ready to hop on a plane heading back across the Atlantic (as much to avoid customs as to get back to Italy). Once I got off the plane in RDU, however, I discovered the joys that the familiar always hold, even in an airport. I just about waltzed up to the big flat-screen TV to give Greg Fishel a hug, I was so happy to see his quizzical face behind those round glasses. I also have a new appreciation for the good old South. Strangers smiled, people held doors open, and two guys offered to help me with my luggage. And of course, the accents. Just about everybody has one!
Christian nearly had his head squeezed off when he found me with my forlorn pile of luggage. On the way home it was hard to imagine that I’d been away for more than a week or so. We got home to the end of a riotous Christmas party (which was supposed to be over by the time I got there, but thanks to standby I made it to NC at a reasonable hour). I don’t believe I’ve ever hugged so many people in such a short time in my life. Everybody vanished fairly quickly, for which I must admit I was grateful. I hadn’t slept in a bed for forty hours, more or less, and was beyond frazzled. After that I had a little time to digest how much was different. The living room was painted a gorgeous golden color, the library furniture rearranged, the floors refinished. I’m still discerning how my family has changed…all that’s obvious right now is that Curt has grown a few more inches and that Tiffany has become outrageously articulate for a three-year-old. Suddenly I felt as if I’d been gone for three years instead of three months. Nothing has changed, but everything is different.
The next day I began to really appreciate home. We ate a marvelous breakfast of pancakes and sausages and eggs, and I thought I had died and gone to heaven. I love feeling the warmth of the wood stove on my back with my cat on my lap, listening to the rain drumming on the green tin roof, or singing along while other people play music. So much of home I didn’t even realize that I missed!
After living so long out of a single suitcase, the abundance of everything astounds me. I literally fell over laughing when I opened my closet. I couldn’t have been happier had I been given an entire department store. And our library! The shelves are crammed with books in English! All my favorites are still there waiting for when my system adjusts to the time change and I am awake enough to spend my evenings by the fire with Jane Eyre or Jean Valjean or—as the days count down until Christmas—Ebenezer Scrooge and Bob Cratchit.
I’m expecting to have a bit more trouble with reverse culture shock when I actually get out of the house, but for now, the Stith home is a great place for a little cultural decompression—and soul food!

Packing List

2009-12-04T23:23:00.000-08:00

It’s that time of year…and it’s beginning to look a lot like chaos. The oft repeated refrain “you can buy it over there” is sounding less astute than formerly. This calls for strategic planning, for a swift and decisive course of action that will include whatever Ziplock bags I still have and lots of shoving.
This is my packing list. I don’t think much of this will fit in my suitcase, but I intend to carry it with me anyway.
I’m taking an awful lot of memories. There’s a few less not-so-pleasant ones in the mix, but I’m keeping them for a while. I suspect they, like wine or cheese, will taste better with a little time. I also think they will be much easier to get through customs.
I’m taking a new appreciation for my own country. Really, the US is a wonderful place to live.
I’m taking a laundry list of vocabulary and a good start in a new language.
I’m taking recipes for pasta, techniques for olive harvesting, and a delight in blogging.
I’m taking along a taste for new olive oil and for sweet sparkling white wine (which I’ll have to keep packed up for a while once I’m home).
I’m taking habits that are going to be hard to break, such as having a long, leisurely practice after lunch, kissing both cheeks to say goodbye, waving my hands around, and automatic use of “si,” “va bene,” and “ho capito.”
I’m taking a lot of questions about myself. The older I get, the harder they seem to answer. Study abroad has only made things more difficult.
I’m taking some side-splitting stories. And I can wait to tell them…

I’m leaving my naïve, romantic expectations of Italy behind. They took up far too much space on the way over, and I can’t fit them in with my new appreciation for Italia.
I’m leaving many friends. Several of them are two years old and some of them are in their sixties and seventies and most are somewhere in between, but none of them fit in my suitcase (in spite of the teasing of my host family, my piano teacher has expressed no interest in stowing away in my luggage.)
I’m leaving two high school classrooms full of kids who know more English than before I came and whose faces I know will light up with a smile if I ever see them again.
I’m also leaving about five inches of my hair…don’t be too shocked.
I’m leaving my fear of independent travel. It was too heavy to carry and got lost somewhere in one of the many Trenitalia stations I passed through.
I’m leaving a list of places that I wished I could have gone to. They’ll still be here when I come back.

Alright, everyone. I'll be home soon. Thanks for following along on my Italian adventure, and thanks to the wonderful people of Sansepolcro who welcomed me with open arms! I'm off to say my goodbyes and to see how much more I can fit into my suitcase...

Finding Friends

2009-11-29T07:59:00.001-08:00

Some of the most special moments during my time in Italy have not been related at all to the sightseeing that I’ve been doing. I’ve found new friends in unexpected places, and now that I’m looking at how many dinner-before-you-go invitations I’ve gotten for this next week, I’m realizing how hard it’s going to be to leave them behind.

Of course, there is my wonderful host family. Mr. and Mrs. Tanfi are simply amazing. And they have a good right to be: they’ve been hosting Meredith students for about as long as I have been alive. Hannah and I go to their house for dinner every Wednesday, and there is always something to laugh about on the way home. Mrs. Tanfi speaks about as much English as we speak Italian, which is perfect. Hannah and I try to use as much Italian as we can, but sometimes it’s very helpful to be able to switch to English to try and explain something. Mrs. Tanfi keeps an Italian-English dictionary on the table while we eat, which is usually in near-constant use all night. Every time we’ve gone, Mrs. Tanfi has served up a marvelous four course meal (last week she made the homemade jam I brought her into a cake) while Mr. Tanfi keeps us in stitches with his mischievous pranks—he insists on calling wine “Coca-Cola,” for one. The entire family has taken us in. Their son and daughter-in-law live in the upstairs half of the house with their four year old son, Andrea, and always eat dinner with us. We’ve seen baby pictures, wedding albums, and have been promised a home video next week.

Another wonderful experience was one that I had only yesterday. One of my students from the high school invited me to her house for her family’s celebration of Thanksgiving. Both of her parents are American missionaries, and her family is planting an evangelical church in Umbertide. It was such a wonderful experience to be with a big family again; she has a sister and two brothers, and they had invited two other couples with two little ones each. I was amazed at how well they had recreated an American atmosphere…everything from the pictures on the wall to the food on the table (green bean casserole!) to the toys that the kids were playing with. They and their guests welcomed me with open arms…and I needed it after a Thanksgiving away from my family.
Last week was our last time helping teach English in the local schools. Lauren and I were both touched on Friday (I think the only thing that kept both of us from crying was the thought of standing up in front of a classroom of high school students in five minutes) when our teachers produced a Christmas gift bag with gifts for us in it. Our high school is similar to a magnet school for arts and crafts in the US. Our teachers had asked the jewelry making instructor to make us something. The two of us now have gold honeycomb heart charms that were uniquely handmade, and a wonderful remembrance of our “student teaching” experience.

Italian Cookery

2009-11-29T06:49:00.000-08:00

Finally! We have been begging for cooking lessons for months, and Friday was finally the day! We learned to make tagliatelle and gnocchi from scratch…delicious is an understatement.
I’ve never had an official cooking lesson before. However, I must say that Patrizio is quite the instructor. He conducted the lesson with the despotic tyranny of a true chef—which he is. Possibly that afternoon was the only time that he got to boss his father-in-law (his assistant), his wife (powerpoint manager), and nine American college students (chefs-in-training) around at the same time. We all enjoyed the bossiness…especially because he wore his entire chef outfit: high collared white shirt, crazy patterned pants, apron, hat and all.

First order of business: dump a small package of flour onto a wooden board, fluff in a pinch of salt (un pizzico di sale) with a fork, make a well, and crack a dozen eggs into it. Patrizio graciously allowed Gigi, his assistant, to crack in the last four. Gigi decided to get flashy and crack them single handedly, which gained oohs and aahs from his impressed audience until one side of the well gave way and the eggs threatened to spill all over the floor. Patrizio took over again with an amused eyeroll and started mixing in the eggs with a fork until he could knead the mixture with his fingers. Then he asked Lauren to take over the kneading for a while. After that, he showed us how to roll a portion of the dough out with lots and lots of flour, fold it up, and then slice it thinly. I got to try my hand at it…I still need to work on my flour-flinging technique, but I picked up on the rolling and the slicing pretty quickly. I think that my recent pie dough making experience helped a lot.

While the rest of us took turned finishing the tagliatelle, Patrizio started the gnocchi. They had already boiled potatoes for us, so we peeled them and ran them through a ricer.

Then simply add more flour and salt, knead, pat until it’s about as thick as biscuit dough, and slice. Roll the slices in more flour and chop them up, and toss them in boiling water until they float. Patrizio took them out and cooked them for a few more minutes in a saucepan with ragu, and then did the same with the cooked tagliatelle.

The best thing about the fresh pasta recipe is that it’s easy to do lots of different things with it. You can slice the dough in different widths, use it for cannelloni, or even ravioli, if you brush the dough with beaten eggs, put little lumps of whatever filling you want to use, and then fold and cut out the squares. Apparently it works for tortellini too, but that is a bit beyond our skill level at this point.
Anyway, I can’t wait to get home and see if I can make it again…I think I won’t miss Italy as much if I can have my own homemade pasta for dinner.

Thoughts on Thanksgiving in Italy

2009-11-29T05:22:00.000-08:00

I have finally learned to make pie crust.
Don’t underestimate the importance of that statement. Homemade crust is an art form. While my mom is a fantastic cook and has taught me lots of tricks of the trade, pie crust was one of those things we never had time to do. Spurred by my prolonged absence from the kitchen, I recklessly volunteered to “help with the pies” and found myself in charge of the part that I know the least about.
After referencing multiple internet sources, a few friends, and my mother, I dived in to flour, butter, ice water, salt, and sugar. While I meant that figuratively, I was covered enough of all of the above ingredients that the metaphor is a bit too appropriate. Cutting in butter is always a challenge to be creative with method and utensils…I used a fork, butter knives, cheese grater, and my fingers at different points in the process, much to the amusement of our program director. Since all the recipes called for good old cups and tablespoons and teaspoons, I used a teacup and just guessed at most of the measurements. Since I had to make six, some turned out better than others. By the time I got to the last one, I had my technique down pat. Then I got to line the pans, crimp the edges, and then turn my crusts over to Amanda and Dr. Webb in the filling department and then on to Vi for decoration.

The dinner itself was a tremendous success. Our guests came like the Magi, bearing gifts of wine, chocolate, and flowers. Since sweet potatoes were absolutely nowhere to be found, we compensated with a delicious pumpkin soup; the lack of cornbread stuffing was made up with polenta, which is the closest thing I’ve had to grits in what seems like years. The colossal turkeys were astounding, the cornbread a hit, the pumpkin pie with mascarpone at least a curiosity, if not exactly a universal favorite. I was determined to like it—spending an afternoon with flour up to my elbows has got to have some reward—and I succeeded quite easily. Torta di zucca (dolce, mind you) was just a little odd for the Italians, but most of the Americans were more than happy.
As Meredith is one of those colleges where you do something once and it’s a tradition (“First Annual” is a term we should feel no compunction in using), we felt justified in creating something that I hope will be a lasting ritual for Meredith in Sansepolcro students and friends. As a reminder of what the holiday is really all about, we wanted to both remember what we were thankful for and thank all those who helped get our program off to such a wonderful start.

I’m sure that at some point during their elementary school experience, my American readers have made a hand turkey (tacchino di mano is the newly-coined Italian phrase). I couldn’t help but laugh when I introduced my high school students in the English class that I work with to the technique. They were perfectly mystified as I traced my hand on the board, but broke out into giggles as I added a beak, an eye, and two turkey legs. On Thanksgiving, we asked all fifty-something of our guests to make their own hand turkey, cut it out and decorate it, write something that they were thankful for on the palm, and hang it on a little tree in the center of the room. Some perfectly serious adults have surprising artistic talents that appear when they are handed a sheet of blank paper and a handful of crayons. When we went through the pile of thankful hand turkeys, we found several that were works of art and several with really sweet and thoughtful things written on them. And then again, a few were not quite as touching. Not one, not two, but three of them got right to the point: “Thanks for American girls.”

Cinque Terre

2009-11-29T03:15:00.000-08:00

Dear readers…if you’ve been checking up on me regularly, you may recall that a few weeks ago I was prevented by a pleasant surprise from testing my solo travel skills. This was the weekend when it finally happened! My friend, David, is working in Holland this year and we’ve been trying to meet up somewhere while we’re both on this side of the pond. Projected destinations ranged all over Western Europe, but reasonable flights helped narrow the choices considerably.
As it turned out, Friday afternoon found me on a train heading north to Cinque Terre, the famous little group of seaside cliff towns. No journey is entirely free of minor hitches; this time they were alarming but not serious. My first train was late, and while I did make it to the next, I don’t think I’ve ever dashed across the Firenze SMN station so quickly. The second moment of minor terror was when I realized that I couldn’t call David’s phone—the mysteries of international cellular calls are far beyond my comprehension. Fortunately we both arrived without too much damage, which was more of an achievement for him than for me. He brought along harrowing tales about the autostrade just outside Milan at rush hour…in a brand-new, but not particularly powerful Smartcar.
We went to dinner and I discovered that I have not been properly appreciating my after dinner espresso...David turns drinking coffee into an art. We talked about “shoes and ships and sealing wax, and cabbages and kings” until the waitress started to glare at us and yank off tablecloths and close doors, and then returned to the hostel to find our roommate already asleep.
In the morning, we stopped for a very Italian breakfast of cappuccinos and pastries, and I again realize the unexpected advantages of eating out in Italy with someone who has actually taken classes on making and drinking coffee, and hiking around a bunch of ports with a yacht designer. We stopped by the marina and looked at the pretty, colorful little fishing boats, and then headed down to the water. We found a little rocky cove and hunted for beach glass, waded around, skipped rocks, built miniature monolithic structures out of rocks, hunted for interesting rocks, and drew pictures on rocks with other rocks.
After trying (unsuccessfully) to take a midmorning nap (on the rocks) we headed for the trail proper. The first leg from Riomaggiore to Manarola, the Via dell’Amore, was actually a bit disappointing. More of a stroll than a hike, but with a pretty view. The next part of the walk was a bit more challenging; the trail was full of—yes, you guessed it—rocks. We stopped in Corniglia for lunch (tasty gnocchi and pesto!) and then accidentally climbed down three hundred sixty-something steps and discovered that there was nothing to do but climb all the way back up again. Once through Corniglia, the way to Vernazza was the most beautiful yet. We meandered through olive groves, past gorgeous seaside vistas, by old stone walls, and, shockingly enough, over more rocks.

In Vernazza we watched the sunset over the Mediterranean with a cone of gelato in hand.
After taking the train back, we finally met our roommate, who turned out to be a wonderfully friendly young lady from Australia. She’d been working in England and was doing some traveling before going home for Christmas. The three of us talked about everything from travel to world-wide differences in English slang.
The next morning I got my own introduction to the terrors of the Smartcar…I’m not sure if it’s more petrifying on mountain roads, or on the highway, or when trying to find a parking space on the bumpy cobblestones in Milan. We stopped in La Spezia and walked around the harbor, then headed north. We had a few hours in Milan, which was enough to make me realize how un-cosmopolitan and down-to-earth everywhere else I’ve been in Italy is. My my…I haven’t felt that much like a country bumpkin in a really long time. Even though the people, the architecture, and the atmosphere were beautiful and sophisticated, I think I prefer the rugged coast of Cinque Terre.

Matera

2009-11-24T02:13:00.000-08:00

Next stop on our trip to the deep-dark-but-sunny south of Italy! We stayed for two days in Matera , which is slightly north of the arch of Italy’s boot. Matera is a city of white stone; some of it is carved out of the very rock. It looks oddly like a Bible picture book. The silhouettes of the buildings pile up on one another as they rise up on the hill, and without the artificial lighting and the occasional cathedral, it doesn’t look like much has changed since Roman times. The very first night, we wandered up and down the steep staircase-streets until we got completely turned around, then went back for dinner. We ate at a quiet pizzeria that our bus driver, Marco, picked out. He said he liked it because the atmosphere wasn’t “freddo.” I thought it was interesting that the chilly formality of the other place we looked at was a serious restaurant flaw in his mind. The first thing on my mind when I’m going restaurant-hunting is always food, but Italians seem to care more about the entire experience. I also love it when figurative phrases or ideas translate literally into other languages…“cold” really is the perfect word.
The place where we were staying doubled as a hotel and a hostel, so all nine of us were in one big room with lots of bunk beds, and a loft with a spiral staircase. I have to say that I have never been happier to stretch out on such a terrible mattress and drop directly off to sleep.
The next morning we were able to see the blinding white of Matera in the sunshine before we headed off to Aliano. On the way we stopped and bought several bags full of oranges and clementines from a roadside stand and began what was to become an entire weekend of glorious citrus gorging.

Aliano was completely different from anything in my experience. The town was a place of “forced residence” during the rise of the Fascist regime: dissenters would be sent down to dead-end towns in southern Italy to live under close surveillance. Oddly enough, it ended up being the best thing that ever happened to the town. Carlo Levi was one of the “exiles” to Aliano, and he immortalized the suffering and hopelessness of the inhabitants of the town in his paintings and his book, Christ Stopped at Eboli, and dedicated himself to improving the conditions as much as he could. It was absolutely amazing to see Levi’s words come alive, to see his vibrant paintings after seeing the faces of the descendents of the people who were his models. When his description of the village and the surrounding areas is surreal, but somehow perfectly accurate as well: “At every turn there were steep slopes of white clay with houses hanging from them as if they were poised in the air, and all around there was still more white clay, with neither trees nor grass growing upon it, eroded into a pattern of holes and hillocks like la landscape on the moon. Almost all the houses appeared to teeter over the abyss, their walls cracked and an air of general fragility about them.”

While it was wonderful to see Levi’s world come alive, I have to say it’s kind of pitiful that a town’s claim to fame is the fact that it served as a place of “exile” for political prisoners. I can understand why the people of Aliano are so grateful to Levi (he’s the only reason that there is a decent road up the mountain), but they market him fairly aggressively. And, unfortunately, the general air of apathy seems to have changed little since he was here. In spite of heavy investment in infrastructure, the people still seem tied down. Perhaps it’s only an outsider’s perspective that describes them as hopeless, but the stares, blank of curiosity or even of hostility, that greeted us everywhere looked anything but happy. I don’t believe it’s just the hardships of an agrarian lifestyle, either. Some farmers in the US may lead difficult lives, but their opposition to the elements seems actively stubborn, something far beyond passive endurance. It seems that while Christ has started moving south again, the people in Aliano are still waiting for a savior.

On the long, long bus ride back to Sansepolcro, I was able to sit up front and practice my Italian while keeping our bus driver, Marco, company. I went through all the subjects in which I have at least a decent amount of vocabulary (family, college, holidays) and eventually got to Christmas and Thanksgiving. I had to give up at that point and speak English because I don’t think there’s any way to talk about throwing football on a golden autumn afternoon after eating turkey and cornbread and pumpkin pie in Italian. For one thing, some of the words have no literal translation, and it’s a bit hard to describe them. Fortunately, Marco speaks a bit of English, so he listened and asked questions until we both got too hungry to keep talking about food. Then I headed back to the middle of the bus and ate more clementines.

Val D'Orcia

2009-11-15T15:01:00.001-08:00

I’ve always loved road trips. This one, however, has the makings of one of my all-time favorites. With the bittersweet awareness of our fast-approaching departure always in the back of my mind, I’ve decided to savor the last few weeks. It has a bit difficult, especially as whenever I let my thoughts wander, they inevitably turn towards home. But yesterday’s experience was compelling enough to bring my back from the future and into the past.

We’ve just finished reading War in Val D’Orcia, a diary kept by a remarkable woman, Iris Origo. She chronicles her experiences during WWII, treating catastrophes with simple pragmatism and tragic circumstances with sympathetic strength. Her household and large estate provided a refuge for children, displaced families, and escaped POWs of many nationalities. When her villa was eventually taken over by retreating German troops, she and her husband had to flee with the twenty-three children under their care to the next village, dodging German mines and Allied shelling.
One of the stops along our road trip was La Foce, the Origos’ estate. The landscape was one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, but not at all in a postcard, picture-perfect kind of way. These hills are stand aloof, the valley does not enfold you. Iris described the land as “wild and lonely.” In surroundings so subdued, it was difficult to picture the hell of war ravaging the graceful English garden, the quiet olive groves, and the empty fields of plowed earth.

I’ve always found visits to historical sites vaguely disappointing. When the narrative is confined to the pages of a book, the imagination is free to wander at will, to make men into either heroes or villains and actions into feats of valor or dastardly deeds. While some people want to see the actual places or, better yet, meet witnesses or descendants, I’ve always preferred my vague, epic notions to the commonplace but oddly pretentious relics of the past. I like my idealistic simplifications and dislike facing the reality of the past.

However, La Foce was anything but a disappointment. Iris’ simple, unemotional writing made it difficult to turn a collection of farms and a villa into a besieged kingdom, difficult to blow anything out of proportion, and impossible to vilify or idealize. Indeed, it was difficult to see how she could have done anything else under the circumstances. But now I’ve seen what she risked losing and begun to realize the vastness of the responsibility upon her and her husband’s shoulders.
Even so, I still could not imagine the menace of the Spitfires streaking overhead, the garden blown to bits by shelling, the villa ravaged by embittered soldiers. That is, until we were on our way back to the bus after a visit to the little graveyard. Walking along under the shelter of the beautiful oaks that lined the gravel road, we were just discussing how hard it was to visualize the destruction of the war when a plane passed overhead. Normally I wouldn’t have even noticed something like that, but this was the loudest plane that I’ve heard in a long time. It seemed that some airborne menace blazed across the peaceful blue of the sky. Then, and only then, could I see the destruction, feel the impact of the bombs in the earth, imagine Iris clutching her infant daughter and hustling the other children into the ditches alongside the road.

Olive Picking

2009-11-15T14:52:00.000-08:00

I spent a wonderful, thoroughly Italian afternoon today doing something that I’ve been looking forward to for a long time. It’s November, and time for the last harvest before the contadini settle down for the winter: time to go olive picking!
Harvesting the olives is not as simple as one might imagine. They can’t be picked unless they are dry, and when it’s been cloudy and mostly rainy for about two weeks, sunny afternoons like this one are precious. We all walked along the road to Montecasale and up to the grove, just across the torrente Afra. The ground was muddy, but not terribly so.
Picking the olives reminded me a lot of blueberry picking. The trees are not much taller than the bushes, and the silver-green leaves have a similar shape. Olives, however, are much easier to pick. A big mesh net is spread out under the tree and propped up with short bamboo sticks. Then you take the long hanging branches in your hands and strip off all of the olives, using a motion similar to milking a cow (although I can say from personal experience that there is a lot less squeezing involved). You have to be sensitive to the feel of the leaves and the olives, because the stems are tough and take a bit of tugging, and if you don’t let the branch go carefully, it can snap back and smack you in the face (again, this is from personal experience). The leaves have little sharp points on the ends, and all I can say is that for once, I was glad I have to wear glasses. Everyone around the tree just drops the olives and whatever leaves that come off as well into the net, which is later gathered up and the olives poured out into big oval buckets. When you crush one of the soft, purple-black fruits between your fingers, the juice is oddly wet and slightly oily.

The olive farmers were friendly, in a gruff sort of way. Working with someone seems to be the best way to overcome the language barrier, in my opinion. We also had some animal companionship in the form of a rather quirky cat. He loved sitting in inconvenient places and climbing the trees. Eventually, he got a bit feisty and started batting at our hands, which was cute until he took a swipe at Mr. Ed’s head. He attached himself to my scarf and refused to let go, and I had to practically pry it out from between his teeth and claws.

I stayed a bit later than the other students, because I didn’t have a bicycle and was catching a ride with the Bankers back to the palazzo. I was having so much fun anyway that I didn’t want to leave, which had its own rewards. Italian contadini hospitality is much like that of the American South…you simply can’t get away without eating or drinking something. Instead of iced tea, however, everyone here finishes off a long job with vin santo. This is Italy… The obvious excuse is that you need some warming up after working until dusk outside on a cold November day. But I think they’d serve vino anyway…freddo or not.

2009-11-08T05:49:00.000-08:00

Again, I know I said I wouldn’t…but it’s a gloomy November day and I’m going to indulge in a bit of complaining.
This past week, after I thought I was past all danger of getting homesick again, I’ve had a relapse. While my family and my roommate were here, they reminded me of all the little things that they were soon to go home to...but that I wouldn’t see for another month. At first, I was intensely focused on making a long-term adjustment that I never really paid attention to what I was really missing. But now, my adjusted expectations seem to suit poorly. Of course I miss my family…but that shouldn’t be news to anyone. The unexpected longing for little things is what I want to write about. They're trifles, but I took them for granted.
And on the positive side, I’m sure this little exercise in self-indulgence will be a great help when the time comes to get on that plane and leave Italy behind. I’m giving you plenty of free ammunition for when I start the nostalgic “When I was in Sansepolcro…” reminiscing. Use it wisely.
I miss comfortable and familiar things: I miss eggs and bacon, Ranch dressing, shrimp and grits, and sweet tea with lemon. I miss the clothes I left at home...don’t laugh unless you’ve ever made it through a semester with one pair of jeans and one Meredith t-shirt. I miss the dingy carpet and orange curtains of my favorite practice room.
I miss silly things: I miss having to swipe my Camcard three times to get into Faircloth, running to class in the rain trying to keep my scores dry, and walking back from the library with my nose in a new book and trying not to run into the lampposts while I read. I miss watching guy movies…the flicks that ten Meredith ladies tend to choose aren’t especially good on explosions and sci-fi. I miss hearing other people practice. I miss playing delightfully irreverent pranks on my professors, usually involving cans of Tab or a certain lime green pencil that mysteriously migrates around the music building.
I miss little rites and rituals: saying “Good night, Chels” every night, warming up before Tuesday morning piano lessons, crawling under the keyboards in the theory lab to fix the cables at least once a week. I miss eating breakfast and dinner with the crew I always meet in the dining hall.
I miss cultural things that I took for granted: the confident, carefree walk and hearty good-natured laughs of Americans. I miss seeing strangers smile and watching drivers actually come to a halt at stop signs. I miss the irrepressible optimism and the sense of pride in one’s country and (comparative) trust in one’s leaders.
And, of course, I miss people: I miss family and close friends more and more as time goes on. But I also miss people who I doubt are missing me that much…coworkers, classmates, and especially faculty and staff. I suppose that they are used to the constant turnover, to saying goodbye every December and May…but now I’m wondering how hard it’s going to be for me to leave Meredith and the teachers, mentors, and friends that I have made there.
Thanks for your indulgence…I promise to not to write again until it’s sunny or until I have a particularly large supply of chocolate.

“Independent Travel”

2009-11-03T09:55:00.001-08:00

Well, my much anticipated “finally-go-off-and-travel-all-by-myself” didn’t quite go as planned. While I did spend the entire morning in the Vatican Museums and ate lunch alone, I was not to test out my independent travel skills on this trip. After stopping by the hostel to pick up my backpack and Sara’s stroller, I walked back to Termini and headed to one of the ticket kiosks. I got their earlier than I intended, partly because the waiter actually brought me the check before I asked for it (quite rare in Italy, in case I haven’t mentioned that already). However, I’m half tempted to wonder if fate had anything to do with it.
Before I proceed, I must explain just how sprawling a place the Termini station is. When I saw my family off to the airport this morning, we had to walk over 400 meters (no, I’m not exaggerating…the number was on the sign) from where they bought the tickets to where they boarded the train. There are twenty-five train platforms, dozens of kiosks and ticket counters, at least three floors, a metro station, and a bus stop. So what followed had to be truly serendipitous. As I waited for my ticket to print, I heard a familiar voice ask, “John, what time is it?”
I whirled around before I had the chance to even wonder who it was. Right beside me were JR and the dottoressa, who, as far as I knew, had no business being in Rome on Monday, trying to figure out which train to take to Arezzo. To borrow the old expression, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Actually, I nearly fell down without any such assistance before I managed to say “Hi!” in a squeaky voice. They both looked at me as if I had dropped down out of the sky accompanied by lightning bolts and thunder; I suppose no professor expects to glance up during an international vacation trip and find one of her students toting a red stroller at the next ticket kiosk.
Why they weren’t already in Sansepolcro was soon explained: their flight arrived late, so they had spent the night in Rome rather than risk getting stranded without a bus. I had finished lunch early and was too overwhelmed by the Vatican museums to do any other touring, so I wanted to go home a little earlier than I had originally planned. Still, why we were all buying tickets at a few minutes past two within five feet of each other is still a bit mysterious.
As much as I had been looking forward to the challenge, I was actually glad to not be traveling by myself. I’m not good at doing anything alone; while I can manage to figure things out on my own, anybody with four siblings and twentysomething cousins is bound to develop a taste for constant companionship and conversation. And I felt like I had already done all the hard parts by myself…I had compared prices, knew the possible departure times, and had my bus ticket in my purse and the bus schedule in my backpack. Perhaps it was the best of both worlds…the empowerment of solo travel with the companionship of a serendipitous meeting. I was no longer following blindly, as I was the first time I traveled from Rome to Sansepolcro. I actually was able to contribute a bit and help get us home.
Perhaps a trial by fire is coming my way…but regardless of what happens, I think I’ll be ready.

Vatican Museums

2009-11-03T09:54:00.002-08:00

We’ve been in the process of brainstorming for Sansepolcro Superlatives for the Immortal Nine, as we are so fond of calling ourselves. While some of them have been obvious (Nutella Queen, you know who you are), others have been less so. I’m the resident Museum Buff…which is neither a superlative nor particularly Sansepocro-y. But it is accurate, so I’ll take it. You can imagine how very much I enjoyed my morning in the Vatican Museums.
I think every kid goes through and Egypt phase, when they read The Egypt Game, obsess about hieroglyphics, secret passages, and grave-robbers, and have occasional nightmares about mummies. I felt a strong resurgence of my personal fascination (which was not as acute as some kids I knew) when I gazed at the shriveled body in the golden sarcophagus and recalled all the gruesome details of the mummification process. I don’t care if I’m dead, I really don’t want anyone pulling my brain out of my nose. However, the slender stillness of the animal-man god images, the yellowed papyrus scrolls, and the mysterious tiny amulets still capture my imagination. But a few moments later I’ve traveled to another civilization, and am contemplating the harsh, arbitrary of Hammurabi as I look as tiny tablets covered with the little triangular marks of cuneiform. I imagine that once the archeologists figured out “death” they felt they had made significant progress in the translation. I’m curious what was on the tablets I saw: deeds, contracts, epitaphs? Oh, the useless intricate rubbish that humanity leaves behind.
My head still spinning from time travel, I turned a corner and suddenly found myself in Greece. Perhaps “rubbish” was a bit harsh. Actually, I’ll go so far as to say that I’m quite glad that humanity is able to leave something of beauty behind for future generations. The lovely, balanced poses of heros and goddesses do much towards overcoming my personal objections to their bloody and often perverse mythological inspirations. Who wouldn’t trade their jeans and t-shirt for a chiton? However, seeing all the interpretations of ideal beauty made a bit dissatisfied with the people wandering around gawking. I know we can’t all be gods and goddesses, but everyone looked so graceless compared to the beautiful marble forms lining the walls. I suppose that I, with my just-out-of-the-backback outfit, didn’t look any better. However, it didn’t make it any easier to forgive my fellow museum goers for their clumsy appearance.
Even the famed Sistine Chapel injured my faith in modern humanity. Irritated guards shushing the noisy crowds, people shoving for a place on the benches along the walls, and who knows how many ardent photographers blatantly taking forbidden pictures. I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears and just look up. Which is more or less what I did. Michelangelo’s vibrant, warm colors tend to help sooth a disillusioned soul. The Botticelli and Perugino on the walls offer a more delicate contrast when the neck and eyes threaten to give out. Even so, I couldn’t help but just lean back and gaze. I’m not even going to attempt to describe it. All I can say is that the master sculptor could paint like the dickens.

Thoughts on Traveling with a Thoroughly American Family in Italy

2009-11-03T09:54:00.001-08:00

The Stiths descended on Sansepolcro last week, amusing themselves, local residents, and my fellow Meredethenians (as Christian is fond of calling them) and venturing all over Tuscany. I don’t intend to include an exhaustive chronicle of our adventures, because they have told me that they plan on writing a guest entry for my blog. So I will try to confine myself to my impressions, and not theirs. Unfortunately, most of them were the same. But I’ll do my best.
First of all, American guys are big. Really big. My dad’s six-feet-one-inch towered, Cole’s size 11 shoeprints dwarfed, and Christian’s shoulders took up a lot more room on the bus. While I realize that my brothers are still growing, I wasn’t prepared for them to seemingly double in size since August.
Secondly, my family is big. While there is a touching intergenerational connection in Italy between grandparents and young grandchildren, I never see teenaged kids hanging out with siblings or parents. I think this is true to some extent in the US as well, but homeschoolers don’t have the option of only socializing within their grade. I never noticed it as much at home, partly because we know a lot of homeschoolers and partly because we rarely use public transportation. I think the sight of a family of seven, four of whom are teenagers (more or less…I’m 20 and Curt’s 12) getting on a bus together would be unusual anywhere, but in Italy where you rarely see families with more than three children, it’s extraordinary.
Thirdly, my family should get credit for Core 200. I was not mentally prepared for culture-shock-times-six. But with Tiffany asking “Are we in Italy, Chelsea?” Curt asking “Why aren’t the restaurants open at dinner time?” Cole asking, “Why can’t I find any wireless networks anywhere?” Christian asking, “Why doesn’t the light turn off when I click the switch?” Mommy wanting to know, “What kind of tree is that?” and Daddy wondering “Do they go the gym and play basketball?” I found acting as a culture buffer to be a bit overwhelming, to say the least. After about three days of it, I finally put my foot down and refused to answer any more questions. I had more than enough to do trying to play translator and travel agent. However, they became experts at finding good cafés, asking questions when necessary, getting on an off of busses and trains, finding a park or a piazza right when we needed to give Tiffany some playtime, and charming the socks off of everybody. I have to admit I was a bit jealous…everybody liked them all so much that I’m afraid I seem a bit boring by comparison!
One other funny aspect of culture shock was the realization that we have our own bit of culture in the Palazzo. Living with a bunch of women college students (who are, for the most part, from the South) who are all taking the same classes and going on similar trips is a recipe for inside jokes and funny rituals. We’re getting good at recognizing who is walking into the room by their step. We know who likes to study where and when, we know who will have their paper done early and who will put it off until the last minute. We know who to borrow clothes from, who to ask for advice, and who to plan travel breaks with. You can imagine how my parents, brothers, and baby sister would seem more out of place in the palazzo than at the bus stop.
Chelsea, on the other hand, fit into the Meredith-in-Sansepolcro campus like a hand in a glove. After my Meredith-in-Raleigh-roommate had gotten settled in Sansepolcro, it was difficult to remember that she hadn’t been there all along. We had so much fun catching up, cooking, and taking pictures together.
My family and I also had a wonderful time…I was actually very proud of the itinerary I worked out. They visited Anghiari on their own, and then we took day trips together to Montecasale, Citta di Castello, Firenze, and Arezzo. A “delegation” even visited Siena. Then we headed to Roma for the last few days before they flew out. We had the most unbelievable luck: we went to mass on All Saint’s Day at St. Peter’s, heard the Pope speak in several different languages (including English!), climbed the Cupola, toured the Colosseum inside and out, saw the Pantheon and the Circus Maximus, and ate a delightful dinner at a quiet restaurant in one day!
As a final note, I’ve decided to give in and include one of Christian’s observations; it’s just too interesting to leave out. He was trying to figure out why he was so disturbed at the thought of a man carrying a purse. Saying “It’s just a cultural difference” was a cop-out; he wanted to understand exactly what it was about his personal worldview that made the thought of a “man-bag” or “murse” so disturbing. He came to the conclusion that a guy should be able to get along for the day with what he can fit in his pockets. Purses, in his opinion, are for nonessentials like chapstick and hand sanitizer. He wasn’t bothered by a backpack, because he said that at that point the bag is for essentials. I’m afraid that it never would have occurred to me to try and figure out why Americans think that purses are girly. My family’s reactions to Italian culture were an excellent reminder to look more critically at difference, instead of just recognizing and appreciating it.

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

2009-10-25T00:13:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-18T11:32:00.001-07:00

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…

2009-10-16T11:20:00.001-07:00

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

2009-10-15T14:32:00.001-07:00

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.

2009-10-14T02:19:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-11T22:50:00.001-07:00

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!

2009-10-05T13:26:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-10-05T08:30:00.000-07:00

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.

Venezia

2009-09-28T13:53:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-28T13:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-24T03:37:00.001-07:00

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

2009-09-23T03:21:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-09-16T06:07:00.000-07:00

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…

2009-09-11T10:09:00.000-07:00

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!"

2009-09-09T13:50:00.001-07:00

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!

2009-09-06T06:06:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-06T05:43:00.000-07:00

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!!!

2009-09-06T04:10:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-09-04T11:58:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-04T09:58:00.001-07:00

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!

2009-09-02T06:57:00.000-07:00

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!

2009-09-02T04:40:00.000-07:00

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?

Cowboy Italiano!

2009-08-30T09:06:00.000-07:00

Well, the show last night was amazing. It seemed like the entire town turned out for it. It wasn't a horse show in the traditional sense, but I ain't never seen tricks like 'at, nor do I ever expect to again. The first act was six men and six women on horses performing a beautiful equestrian ballet (I wish I'd gotten it on film) with all kinds of complicated maneuvers. My favorite was the do-si-do, but the crisscross and figure-eights were pretty amazing too. They had one dressage act, and several Italians playing cowboy. One of them picked up a lance and went after a cantaloupe on a stick...then he pulled out his lasso...and then a short sword. Needless to say, the cantaloupe was not in good condition at the end of the night. The most impressive, however, was this crazy guy doing this traditional Italian thing...you just have to watch the video. I can't believe his horse didn't spook!
Today we went to Mass in the big chiesa. It's a bit odd: there have got to be at least seven churches and chapels in town, but only one has regular services. Anyhow, I have never seen a service that was so relaxed. The kids kind of ran wild...A quiet wild, but not exactly a calm wild. One cute little girl was playing peek-a-boo in the confessional, and another little kid followed the old man taking the offering all the way up and down the aisle. Nobody seemed to mind, and lots and lots of people came late and left early, and nobody minded that either. I'm kind of glad that things get a bit chaotic, because the service is really really boring when you have no idea what anyone is saying. I did pick up a little...especially the "Padre, Filio, e Spirito Sancto, Amen."
The best part was the sign of peace...the handshake or kiss on both cheeks and the "Pace" don't need any translation.

Tobacco Road

2009-08-29T08:13:00.000-07:00

Hello Ya'll!
I've had a flashback (have I been gone long enough to have a blast from the past of NC?) to my Southern roots...there are fields and fields of tobacco all around Sansepolcro! We went for an early walk this morning before it got too hot. We sauntered down to the Tiber (it's barely a river where we are, but all the water leads to Rome!) and skipped rocks. Then we headed to the farm of a friend of the program directors. The lady was so welcoming, even though we showed up unannounced at 9 o'clock on Saturday morning. She showed us all around, and when her husband came, he took us to their tobacco barn. The sweet smoky smell came pouring out as soon as the farmer opened the door...it made everything a bit hard to see. A log was smoldering and smoking up a storm under a metal pan of water, and you could stick your head in and look up into the semidarkness and see the hanging brown-gold--yellow-green leaves like branches on a palm tree for twenty or thirty feet. It was really really odd to see something that I associate so strongly with home in such a different setting.
We had fun on the way back, looking at all the grapes and fruit trees. There are apples, peaches, pears, plums (damson and regular), figs, lemons, walnuts, chestnuts, olives, and I don't know how many kinds of grapes in everyone's yard. After a late breakfast, we headed back out to the market and shopped around. I got two little chocolate cookies at a pastry shop and some bread for lunch.
Then it's homework time. Anybody know anything about why Mussolini left the Socialist party or how to conjugate verbs in Italian?
Tonight there is a horse show in the piazza where the big tower used to be (the Germans blew it up near the end of WWII) and I'm excited! I'll try and get some good pictures up for you guys.
Arrivederci!

Piano shopping!

2009-08-28T06:02:00.001-07:00

Today the program directors and I went piano shopping! After our Italian class, we drove to Arezzo (the drive was quite bumpy, especially in a stick shift) and went to Vieri Niccolini's Strumenti Musicali. They had a lot of brands that I had never heard of before (as well as Yamaha and Kawai), and the one I eventually picked out was a little Petrof upright. He has a nice touch, decent regulation, unfortunately no sostenuto pedal, and a versatile tone that seems to sound good with every style of music. He needs a first name (I like Petrof for the last) and I am taking suggestions. I might name him after someone in the Alberti family, unless someone else has a good idea. He's coming on Thursday, and I'll be drumming on tabletops until then if we can't get something else worked out. Our wonderful cook has offered to let me play at her house, but I don't think that will happen until next week.
I love how the community is so close knit here...I've recognized our architect and our program director around Sansepolcro, and everyone seems to know someone, and if you know someone who knows someone, then you know both someones.
We were discussing people's surprisingly fierce allegiance to their home (for example, no one from North Carolinian likes being taken for a South Carolinian, and no one from Toscana wants to be thought to be from Umbria). I like the way our Italian director expressed it; she said "I think even if I really like another country...I am still so much my country. It's-a something inside of me, my identity."

An American in...Sansepolcro?

2009-08-27T07:10:00.000-07:00

I’m here! Or there…depending upon which country and time zone that frames your perspective. I still can’t believe it’s real. It’s so lovely that it looks like a picture book. The houses are the different colors of sunshine at different times of the day, the roofs are weathered terracotta, and the fields are evergreen and golden brown. The colors are less vibrant here; they are delicate, dusty, like the rich tints of a fresco veiled by time. Every country house seems to have a vineyard and a silver-green olive grove on the back hill. I like the city, although it’s difficult to withdraw…everyone’s windows are open because of the heat, and I can hear a baby being consoled by his mother, kids shouting in the streets, the music from the next palazzo over, cars and Vespas, and lots of other unidentifiable sounds. It’s poetic now, but it might not be when I’m trying to get homework done.
I’ve read that the Italians prefer beauty to utility. Judging from the fields and fields of jubilant yellow sunflowers, I’d have to agree. They may be a productive crop, but the view must be one of the main incentives for planting these sun-turners (or followers), as they are called here. Unfortunately, we’re a bit too late to see the fields in their full beauty. Some of them are still gorgeous, but most of them hang brown heads heavy with nutty seeds.
It’s odd how out of place the bits of culture I have brought along feel. I was expecting to cling to my e e cummings and Copeland’s Appalachian Spring as reminders of home, but they aren’t as meaningful. The optimism and enthusiasm, the big skies and open spaces that I heard in the music and poetry last week are hard to find. When I close my eyes, I see narrow cobblestone streets, faded stucco, and bicycles. Even so, there’s American music everywhere! I get more irritated each time I hear English lyrics and pop tunes I recognize. Especially the Michael Jackson tributes in book and music stores! Most of the movies and TV shows playing everywhere are originally in English and have Italian voiceovers. No wonder people dislike American pop culture, since it seems to dominate so thoroughly. Why can’t we seem to export any of our real heritage as well?
All the portions are smaller here…I was expecting the food to be served in more moderate quantities, but it seems to apply to much more. I hope American consumption of toothpaste isn’t another example of our consumerism… The whole “buy in bulk”—Sam’s Club mentality is not apparent in the stores. It must be inconvenient for large families; coming from one myself, I’m used to giant shampoo bottles, jumbo cereal boxes, and big toothpaste tubes. But with the birthrate as low as it is here, perhaps there aren’t many families with more than two or three children. (Apparently the average number of kids in a family is 1.2)
We started classes this morning. Our Italian teacher is excellent; we spent most of our time talking, and I had to scramble to get my notes in. Quite a relief after staring at the ceiling during Spanish. I’m sure the smaller class size helps. Our Italian culture course sounds like a lot of fun, involving a lot of interaction with the community. It’s almost time for the literature/history class now, so I’ll sign off.
Ciao!