Mercoledi Notte

It's amazing how every Wednesday night I come home feeling completely invigorated.  At times I feel like a new person with a new goal in my life.  This is mainly because my final class on Wednesday nights is taught by an amazing woman with a wild unruly gray afro and delicate but dramatic finger gestures.  Without realizing it, she enlightens me on a weekly basis.  True, she's teaching a course on "Women Characters of 20th Century Fiction" and thus I am immediately intrigued being a.) a woman and b.) a writer. 

Tonight she enlightened me to a world outside of Florence.  A world full of real Italians.  She told me to go to places where I will be forced (yes, forced) to speak my horrendous endearing Italian to locals.  Hopefully they will have pity on me. 

My list of places to visit have expanded, but not beyond borders.  I want to travel to the south for sure.  I was reluctant of this at first, but I've come to understand this is where you can find authentic Italians.  Perhaps I can even find Matthew's family down there.  Morelli's not a common name here, right? 

I also want to travel to Sicily.  I was told you cannot experience real Italy without going to Sicily.  So Sicily here I come.  And apparently Turin is the place to be.  Fun history fact:  Turin was an epicenter for anti-fascists Jews prior to WWII.  Which means Turin is a double place for me to be. 

In the next few days I will update on my trips with my parents.  And maybe between now and then I'll have some deep revelation about myself.  But nothing yet. 

Ciao!

Why I Really Came Here.

Like most people coming to live in another counrtry, I, too, am running away: a confession I'm not ashamed to admit.  Some people think they're running towards the country.  Towards the parties, culture, or family.  But doesn't running towards something inherently mean you're leaving something behind? 

Don't get me wrong, my life back home is nothing to scoff at.  I have a loving and supportive family, close knit friends, a fairly sucessful academic career at a prestigious university and an adoring boyfriend.  It is generally assumed that adding these things together equals a happy life, and I'm no exception but, a happy life doesn't necessarily equal a happy person.

For the last few years I suffered with crippling insecurity.  I put my self-worth in superficial things.  My success was measured by a means so ridiculous I can't bring myself to mention it here.  (Not yet at least).  All of this meant my life back in California crumbled.  I watched as it fell to the ground and scatter around my feet.  I stretched myself far too thin.  I was working not one, but two jobs I came to resent.  I was pouring myself into my writing and other work all while grasping at the few flailing relationships I had left.  All in all, at the end of my sophomore year, I was one hot mess. 

Through the summer I tried to reconstruct myself.  I focused on very little other than my job, reading and writing.  At times things seemed to get even worse.  I was away from my support group.  Namely, I was away from Matthew (the adoring boyfriend as mentioned above).  It was like, as soon as I began to pick up the pieces of my disintigrating self-esteem, something as minuscule a gust of wind would come and level it again.  I was having a hard time thinking of the next day, let alone trying to rationalize a move to Italy. 

But the day of my flight came and went and before I realized it, I was being shoved into a taxi with a man who resembled Nintendo's Mario.  (Apologies for the stereotype, but it's the most accurate way I can describe this man).  So here I am.  A run away.  Along with hundreds of other students who also ran away whether they know it or not.  But now that I'm here, things are going to change. 

I could make this blog very generic; simply listing my activities and boasting of how many shots I can take before some skeazy native cops a feel.  But I won't.  From this moment on, this blog is not just a normal blog.  It's a sanctuary.  I honestly have no idea who reads it and I don't believe one can write only for themselves.  So I'm writing this for you.  You who question your place in the world.  You who sometimes feel darkness swirling around you, encapsilating your life.  You who wonder, when you look back on your life will you like what you see? You who are struggling with self-acceptance, let alone self-love.  This is for you, ragazzi. 

Oggi (Today)

Okay, so I planned on writing an entry today anyway, but due to a series of crazy events I was unable to until now.  And instead of rewriting it all out for you, I'm just going to copy and paste the e-mail I wrote to my parents discussing it all.  Yes, I am that lazy.

Dear Mom and Pops,

I realize you called me today, but I have an epic reason as to why I was unable to answer.  So I kind of had a very lazy morning today and didn't get up till 11.  I tooled around for a bit and cleaned up the kitchen to include disposing of the garbage.  I wrapped it up only to find that one of the girls cannot properly dispose of garbage and thus liquid was dripping from the bottom.  I didn't realize this until I had stepped out of my apartment.  So I ran back in, grabbed a second bag to cover the bottom and dropped out in the dumpster.  I came back inside I started to clean up the liquid in the hallway, leaving the door open a crack.  Unfortunately, gust of wind came in and shut the door, locking me out and everything, my phone, keys and money inside.  This is only the beginning of the story so you should sit down if you haven't already. 

After knocking on every door in the building, I finally came upon a nice Sri Lankan Buddhist who was kind enough to take me in for a few hours.  He spoke little English and perfect Italian while I spoke a little Italian and absolutely no Sinhala or Tamil.  Communication was difficult to say the least.  We tried to pick the lock for nearly an hour with two screwdrivers and another key even removing the plate the lock was on.  Let me just say, I will never worry about the security of this apartment.  That lock, only one of the seven we have, was not gonna budge.  So I borrowed some money from the Sri Lankan Buddhist (his name escapes me at the moment), and ran to an internet cafe, where I was lucky enough to find Nicole, roommate, who was in Venice online.  I explained the situation to her and she gave me Lucy (our landlord's number).  Of course, Lucy's out of town. She told me this only after raking me across the coals for locking myself out.  "Why did you leave without your keys?  Never leave without your keys.  Don't do that again."  I didn't have the energy to rehash the actual reason I was locked out, so I apologized profusely for my stupidity.    And it being Sunday the school is completely shut down on.  So no help there either, but Nicole said she would be home at 8 though so I only had about five hours to kill at this point. 

The Sri Lankan invited me back up to his house and fed me this delicious curry dish, that I have to get the recipe for, and a glass of coke.  We discussed many things to include yoga, food, vino (which he deosn't drink but hoards) and he even showed me some Sir Lankan pop music.  (Very entertaining).  He was, as he liked to put it "an honest man" (pronounced with a hard "h").  He was incredibly kind and genuinely sympathetic to my situation, but he had to go to a soccer game so I had to hit the road.

Not knowing what to do without money or a phone, I went to the Duomo.  Churches are about the only things free in the city.  There I ran into four Australians touring around Europe.  We started talking and discussing the city and rehashing our life stories.   They ended up inviting me to go with them to watch the sunset on Piazza Michealangelo, which is across the ponte vecchio up a hill and I will take you there because the view of the city is phenomenal and you can't miss it.  We stayed up there for a few hours playing cards, drinking vino and shooting the breeze.

We trotted back down to the city and caught up with a wine tasting festival going on where we parted ways.  Nicole just got home and was able to let me back into the apartment from which I am writing this email.  I'm completely fine and safe.  And despite a possibly terrible situation, this has been by far the best day I've had here yet. 

Ciao Ciao,

Elizabeth

Il Mio Primo Giorno della Scuola (My First Day of School) By: Elizabeth Whitten

The irreverent beeping of my alarm clock came far too early this morning.  I was having such a pleasant dream.  I can’t remember the details, but it was one of those dreams where nothing ludicrous happens so it seems super ultra real. I never wanted to leave the cozy world my subconscious created for me.  That is until I realized where I was waking up.  Italy. How easy it is to forget where one is, when one becomes integrated into one’s new world.  I’ve even adjusted my eating schedule.  Last night I had dinner at nine.  Nine o’clock.  Eating after Jeopardy?  The world’s gone mad.

I feel the arms of the city taking me in and hugging me to its breast.  The language is so enticing it’s hard not to “Ciao” at everyone I pass on the streets.  But there is one major difference between the city and I. 

I am the elusive “morning person.”  Now, you could assume with the world-renowned espressos and cappuccinos Italy collectively is a morning people.  Far from it.  In fact, you would be hard pressed to find a caffé opened before ten a.m.  It’s a simple case of supply and demand.  Italians don’t wake up until noon, why would any respectable caffé owner? 

When the city sleeps peaceful, I wander and really take it all in.  There’s no hustle and bustle of tourist buying knock off designer bags. No Italian man cat-calling American girls.  No vespas whizzing by.  And while Italy is not known for its subdued nature, there is a tranquility in the hush of the city streets.

My first class this morning was The Holocaust and the Christian Response.  The title is very misleading it’s more a history of Jews in Italy and Italy during World War II.  My professor took us down to the Piazza della Repubblica where the old Jewish Ghetto was.  In the center of the city there used to be an enclosed community.  The idea of the ghetto is a tough one to swallow for anyone, but what I can’t understand is that in a city gleaming with art and culture why it would force a group of people, who had nothing but to add to the cities already booming metropolis, to remain within specific confines.  Hitler actually took the idea of the ghetto from the Italians.  The first official Jewish ghetto was in Venice, but after the embarrassment of World War II, the Florentines stripped the city of the ghetto history.  There’s no trace to be found other than a lone Latin inscription on the wall of the Orsanmichele Church.  

For my second class, Current Trends in Italian Cuisine, we also took a small field trip to the heart of town.  Not to discuss Anti-Semitism (although that was mentioned), but to explore the best ristoranti, caffé, and gelaterias in the city.  Can you believe there are caffé stands over a century and a half old still in operation?  My professor, Maria Renata (a beautiful woman with a beautiful name), also informed us the more you use an espresso machine the better the coffee tastes.  Which means the youngest caffé in Firenze makes Starbucks look like child’s play.  (This coming from a born and bred Washingtonian). 

After class came my real lesson of the day: how to line dry bed sheets from windows.  I would say it was an overall success; I managed to drop only one clothespin. 

At this point I became kind of depressed and paranoid.  You see for the last few months every time I spoke of this trip I was met with worried eyes and stern looks.  And of course any mention of the movie Taken was unappreciated, but brought up nonetheless.  But after a rather abrasive pep talk from my boy back home, I put on my big girl boots, (I literally put on boots, just so you know), and marched my way back down to the Piazza della Reppublica to buy myself a nice trippa (tripe) sandwich.  I ended up passing on the sandwich, but hey I made it out through the city by myself. We all start somewhere. 

L'Arrivo

I don’t mean to make anyone jealous, but right now, I’m eating Nutella from the jar, in my adorably Florentine apartment listening to Nino Rota.  I live above a gelateria, and pasta shop.  We live next to the largest market in Firenze. (Yes, I’ll be pretentious and use the correct name).  And when I say “next to”, I don’t mean a block or two away.  I mean when I stepped out of my apartment I could smell the fresh basil.  Perhaps this is how Italy smells though. 

It’s surreal to be here.  Not because it’s quaint and charming with European eccentricities (although it is).  It’s surreal because I’ve been jet lagged for three days.  In Italy it’s almost midnight.  In Elizabeth’s body it’s three in the afternoon. 

It felt unreal when we started this journey.  (The thought of twenty hours of straight travel can be a bit daunting).  And by “we” I mean Jessica, Beatrice, Kara and I.  Four girls from Chapman.  Four girls completely unprepared for the next four months.  We began our trip in LAX.  I like to think of this as Dante’s journey through Hell.  A short jaunt to Chicago.  Then maneuvering our way through O’Hare airport.  Luckily my Eagle-Scout father sat me down to map out the Chicago airport days before leaving.  From Chicago to Zurich and barring a catty middle-aged American woman, it was quite pleasant.  Then from Zurich to Firenze.  Then came the arduous task of Italian customs and immigration. 

Our passports, with our useless visas. *Not pictured: Me*

Basically you get off the plane.  Yeah.  That’s about it, which is just super considering that amount of energy it takes to get a visa for this country.  To get my visa I literally hunted down the Italian Vice Consulate in Seattle and accosted him at his house. 

So, we get out of the airport and into a taxi.  Apparently, the four words of Italian I spoke to our rather hefty driver was enough to tell him, “we mean business”.  Now, I’ve seen ridiculous drivers; I live in California.  But this man, and all the other vehicles for that matter, had no regard for lanes or stop signs or pedestrians.  At one point we passed a bus on a one lane street (completely illegal in America).  When the bus driver flipped us off, our driver proceeded to insult said bus driver’s innocent mother.  Ah, the sounds of the city.

Not the best picture, but you get the idea.

Basically, from there we got checked into our apartments.  That night I was too exhausted to make food and too overwhelmed to go out searching for a restaurant so I just settled on gelato.  Yeah.  I settled for gelato.  This was my first experience with real gelato.  And to quote the great Gershwin boys, “how long has this been going on?”  How could I have possibly lived twenty years without this?  And now that I’ve had it, I realize those twenty years have been spent in misery.  No one should be without gelato.  No one. 

I have so much more to say.  That’s just the first few hours of being here.  Everything is so vibrant.  The shutters of the windows.  The smell of leather and basil and mozzarella fill the crisp air.  It would take me a lifetime of nothing but writing to do this city justice.  But Nino got it write with a few chromatic notes.

Let me end this entry with an apology for my avid followers.  I’ve been without internet since arriving in Firenze. Now, we have limited connection.  One girl can be on at a time.  There are six of us.  And the chord to get connected is in two of the girls’ bedroom.  It’s been an incredibly frustrating situation to say the least.  Our landlord has been so considerate and desperately trying to help us, but the people at the internet company keep telling us we need to re-configure our computers (we don’t).  Suffice to say, an Italian IT guy is about to get my American Chuck Taylor’s shoved up their -- you get the idea, right? Frustrating.

Buona Notte Ragazzi. A domani!

Elisabetta

(I think I'm taking this thing a little too far...)