Firenze

Im in florence
There is no apostrophy on this keyboard
My name is Giulia in Italian
Leather markets are cool
Basalmic vinegar is yummy all by itelf and apparently on icecream
Nutella waffles are heaven on a stick without the stick
I pretended to go to Pisa today
I miss my kitchen
I went up in a dome called duomo yesterday
My internet time is gone

Another List

-Today someone was playing a didgeridoo in the Campo.
-I can spell didgeridoo. I think.
-I have discovered the best thing in the world. It's Nutella.
-I ate a Nutella cake last night.
-I can finally say Trastevere without messing it up.
-I had a (really short) conversation all in Italian the other day.
-It has only rained once here. Ha. You're jealous. Yes you are.
-Dane Cook came all the way to Italy with me.
-Sometimes I walk along the Tiber. The real live Tiber River.
-Indian food is really freaking good here.
-You're reading my blog. That's pretty nifty.
-I got to see so many amazing knockyouonyourbum churches this week that I am still a bit faint.
-I get to go to Florence in two days.
-I went to the flea market again this morning and no one tried to pick my pocket like they did last week.
-I say euro correctly. Most of the time. Ayooroh. Or something.
-I bought a hundred stamps today. I'm not even kidding. A hundred.
-Mass in Italian is beautiful.
-If you ask me what time it is I will never be able to tell you. Ever.
-If you ask me what the oldest church ever dedicated to Mary is I will be able to discuss it at length.
-I like dancing, and I'm allowed to do that here.
-Italian guys are crap at dancing. It's funny.
-Sometimes I just walk around. And that is not a boring thing to do.
-Right now you are contemplating the comment you will leave me at the end of this entry.
-I am so pro at haggling now.
-I am also pro at walking on cobble stones.
-I saw a relic this week. Like Indiana Jones.
-I'm sitting in the sun right now.
-Three weeks was long and short at the same time.
-Our dishwasher is broken. I could be doing dishes right now. I'm not, but it's out there as a possibility.
-I'm gonna go get ciocolata calda right now.

Reading a Roman Portrait

I remember when Mother had her sculpture done. She spent hours making sure her hair looked just as though she hadn’t spent hours on it, choosing a simple style with no fancy curls or wire reinforcements. She spent quite a bit of time in front of the polished metal mirror simply gazing at her reflection. When I asked why she did this she told me she was making faces. There didn’t seem to be much variation in her expression from one moment to the next, but I didn’t wish to mention my observation. She said she was trying to convey a sense of gravity and sternness, and that this would come across in the lines upon her forehead and in her furrowed brow. She paid extra attention to her mouth, making sure her smile was just right. She wished to show dignity and mercy at the same time, and eventually worked her face into a curious half-smile that brought out the heavy lines in her cheeks. The overall effect was one of confusion, the upper half of Mother’s face conveying one message, the lower half another.

I have the habit of being much too curious and forward for my own good, and this usually gets me into trouble. Nevertheless, I ventured to ask Mother if she would have the sculptor make her portrait with the ears more even than her own. She has always been rather conscious of the fact that her ears are not level with each other. However, she replied forcefully that she wished to be portrayed exactly as she looked, right down to her sagging skin and the lines in her neck. She wanted no alterations or fanciful “stylistic choices.” It was a new fashion, she said, to look like a normal person in your portrait, to look as though you had lived a bit. Since Father was the most successful man in the area at the time, Mother wished to look as though she was worthy of him. The lines of her face would tell all who visited the front room, whether just to take a rest from the heat of the summer or to meet with the head of the household, that she had greeted many guests and entertained many important people in her day. The knowing half-smile would show that she was a welcoming and understanding hostess, able to balance her children and her demanding social obligations with skill.

The experience made me contemplate the preservation of my own memory someday through a funerary sculpture. Mother had thought so hard about how future generations of people would think of her, about how much they might be able to read from her portrait. We survive forever only through memory, and she wished to be remembered for her best features. But only features that she could truly claim as hers. It is difficult to imagine the people of the future looking at her carefully constructed marble face to see the person that was so dear to me. Perhaps in the future the people will look at her lined face and her sunken eyes and think her ugly or old. Perhaps they will look and think of her style of hair as odd or completely out of fashion. Perhaps they will think her overly masculine looking. Perhaps they will see her simply as a sculpture and not a person at all. But it is certain that her countenance will be contemplated, and her memory will therefore live on. And as long as there is memory, there is life.

Roman Fever

If you happen to be looking for drama, you would do better to read something by Edith Wharton than to watch, say, a modern soap opera. Here I could give a shout out to her novel Ethan Frome, but considering my location, the topic of discussion today is, of course, Roman Fever. No underpaid soap opera writer could come up with a premise this good and cover it in such an efficient manner.

Cue ridiculously dramatic opener music.

Enter Mrs. Slade.

She is a vibrant woman, dark, tall and beautiful.

Enter Mrs. Ansley.

She is paler, shorter, less vibrant than her opponent.

Outwardly the two may seem unevenly matched, yet they will duke it out like gladiators without ever leaving their chairs, and they will go for several rounds. How fitting that their chairs look out over the Colosseum from a rooftop restaurant above the Palatine and the Forum.

Cue majestic, sweeping footage of the Roman Forum. Cue majestic, sweeping music.

The Forum is an ideal setting for this particular story to take place. Rome is, after all, the city of amore. The history of the Forum itself, going back as far as the history of Rome itself, is rife with intrigue and drama. Mrs. Ansley thinks of the scene below her as “the great accumulated wreckage of passion and splendor at her feet.” This refers to the literal ruin she sees before her, as well as the remembered ruins of her past, and the past of her companion. Just as the Forum and the Colosseum still retain an air of majesty and dignity from a distance, at a glance Mrs. Ansley and Mrs. Slade look quite composed. Up close they are on the edge of ruin, each holding on to a secret that could tear the other down.

Undoubtedly both women can see the triumphal arches of Titus, Septimius Severus, and Constantine from their vantage point. This is the site where generals of old paraded their victories to the populous of ancient Rome, showing off the spoils of concluded battles, carting their shamed and defeated opponents through the streets to be seen by the triumphant victors. It is no coincidence then that both women end up revealing their own triumphs against each other in this setting.

Cue footage from a gladiatorial match.

Mrs. Slade lands the first blow, seeming to cripple her opponent. Things look very bad for Mrs. Ansley as her false memories crash around her. She is a broken woman, and all seems lost for her. Then suddenly, with three words, Mrs. Ansley, still injured, lands the ultimate blow, and the battle is over, leaving Mrs. Slade devastated in the heart of Rome.

Cue musical crescendo and clashing of cymbals.

Credits roll.

Cut.

For those of you who haven't read this story, you should do it.
http://classiclit.about.com/library/bl-etexts/ewharton/bl-ewhar-roman.htm

I just love this sign. That's it really.

Etruscan Places

Tarquinia is a pleasant little city on the western coast of Italy that is home to the famous tombs of the ancient Etruscans. These tombs were detailed by D.H. Lawrence in his book Etruscan Places. Lawrence visited these underground treasures while in the advanced stages of tuberculosis, just a few years before his death. He knew he was a dying man, making his trip to the tombs seem slightly morbid. However, to those who have read his colorful description of this journey, his visit to the tombs seems hopeful, even inspiring. Although Lawrence begins his description with a note of fear, articulating how the first tomb "seems a dark little hole underground," he then goes on to illustrate the profound effect of the paintings he sees in these “dark little holes.”

Almost immediately after beginning his account, Lawrence begins to expound on the liveliness he sees in the figures of the paintings. He describes the people and objects in the images as "natural as life," and "full of life to the tips." He produces eloquent prose about the reds and blues and greens against the soft yellow walls, and laments only that the paintings are so damaged. He follows tangents about the way the ancient Etruscans would have thought about death based upon their lively funerary art. The Etruscans’ tradition of juxtaposing life and death by celebrating at funerals was promising to Lawrence;

"It is as if the current of some strong different life swept through them, different from our shallow current today: as if they drew their vitality from different depths that we are denied…To the Etruscan all was alive; the whole universe lived; and the business of man was himself to live amid it all."

This lesson given to us by the ancient people of Italy is not a lesson just for those near the end of their life as Lawrence was, but for anyone who cares to take it to heart.

Almost 100 years after D.H. Lawrence visited the ancient Etruscan tombs we made the journey to see them. Having read Etruscan Places shortly beforehand, I already had a strong image of the tombs in my head. Without ever seeing a tomb I could imagine "the dancers and the music-players, moving in a broad frieze towards the front wall of the tomb…where the banquet is going on in all its glory." Reading this traveler’s guide leaves a dominant impression of gay, dancing figures with long hands and feet, colored red against the yellow walls, feasting and celebrating and full of life. I was not disappointed upon actually seeing the tombs. The colors were just as vibrant and the figures just as full of movement as Lawrence had described. The photos I took could easily be used as illustrations to accompany Lawrence’s verbose accounts.

Not being seriously ill as Lawrence was, however, my most persistent memory of the tombs was not the liveliness of the painted figures, but rather the extreme age of the tombs. The cracked and peeling images preserved for so long underground were astounding to view. Being whooshed back into history just by descending a few stairs was enchanting, much more so than the images themselves. This shows a fundamental difference between the attitude of Lawrence and my own attitude. While the gravity of life and death is very important to Lawrence when he visits Tarquinia, more important to me is the profound antiquity of the place. I feel lucky to have seen this significant bit of the past, a window in to the history of the ancient people of Italy.

Here

Here everything has some sort of hidden history. The curve of a building is a telltale sign of the ancient foundations of a theatre or bath. The marble pillars of a church have been pillaged from an ancient monument years upon years ago.
Here getting stamps from the post office takes an hour. You have to wait in line with everyone else who is mailing packages and letters and if at first you are confused because everyone is standing around randomly and there is no line to speak of, it is because you are expected to take a number.
Here the people in the street who are asking those more fortunate for money do not pester and call out, but rather kneel or lie prostrate in an attitude of prayer. They may hold a rosary or have clasped hands, and their eyes are always closed, and they sit there like statues waiting for generous passers-by.
Here there are rules about when you should eat or drink certain things, and how you should take your meals. You are not supposed to drink coffee with milk in it after lunch time, and if you want a drink to go that's really just too bad. You should not sit down at a table unless you wish to pay a euro more for every item you buy, you must pay for some things up front, and some things you will get a check. Do not try to go shopping between the hours of one and three, everything will be closed for lunch, and do not start dinner until eight at least.
Here people have entire conversations across the campo just by waving their arms and shouting a bit. The vendors sing to themselves as they set up their stands, and shout at random to each other, I assume to discuss very important things about the selling of wonderful fruit, or to warn each other that another dumb tourist is approaching. There is a hand gesture to accompany every situation, and when speaking Italian you must use your entire face and open your mouth up wide.
Here you will walk three feet from a sparkling white fountain lit tastefully and well maintained since the baroque period, and suddenly everything will be painted some shade of gold and covered in graffiti. Taggers run rampant here, and every available, non-ancient surface is covered in colorful scrawls of spray paint.
Here all cafes are called bars, and they come equipped with outdoor seating. These areas are sometimes covered by giant umbrellas and are dotted with tall heating lamps which make sitting outside in the cold quite pleasant. Children, far from being dressed in rags, wander among the tables. Little girls with braided hair carry bunches of tulips to sell, and little boys with high voices play accordions and sing in Italian and hold out their hats.
Here everyone seems to know that you do not speak Italian before you even open your mouth. And they all speak enough English to make you feel like you should really know more of their language, just to be polite.
Here wandering the streets always gets me lost, and always makes me feel like an explorer. There are so many Piazzas and monuments and churches and little shops to keep me occupied, and I end up spending a lot of time wandering.
Here is somewhere I have been for a whole week now.
Here I take classes and drink coffee and sleep and eat and live.
Here is a perfect place to be.

So.

So. Class has started. Sort of. It sure doesn't feel like class. For our first one we got a tour of the Campo de Fiori so that we would know where to buy good coffee and good cheese and good leather things and such. The second was a trip to Tarquinia to wander around the ancient Etruscan tombs. So. Yes. Class is very un-class like.
So. The food here is pretty much exciting all the time. Mostly because I look at a menu and don't really know what anything is. I end up with delicious things most of the time. Here I am allowed to live on pasta. Rock. To drink, one can either have wine or coffee. Wine, frankly, is yuck. But as an amendment to my usual statement that coffee is also yuck, really that is true only in America. Coffee here is really ok. Really. Hot chocolate is so good that I can't even talk about it.
So. People in Rome are crazy and hard to get used to. They are very personal, especially the old ones, holding your face when they meet you and kissing you on both cheeks when you say goodbye. They are very curious, and ask a lot of questions. They have no sense of personal space the way we are used to. They drive like crazy maniacs as if there are no lines on the road. They park everywhere. Everywhere. The boys really do say "ciao bella" to everything that moves and is female. You have to realize that when Italian boys start following you around or randomly start talking to you it's not creepy, it's normal. You just have to be like an Italian girl and tell them on a regular basis exactly where they can go.
So. I miss everyone back home. If you read this you should leave me a comment so that I know you did it. Yes. That's probably what you should do. I'm pretty sure about this.
So. Ciao.

Roma Roma Roma

Things that are amazing:

1. I am in Roma
2. I know three Italian phrases that have been getting me through; per favore, grazie, and scusi.
3. We have a balcony.
4. I've seen things that I have read about in books, like the Trevi fountain.
5. Italian coffee is actually good.
6. Italian boys whistle sometimes, but sometimes they hiss.
7. I like cheese.
8. I saw sunset from the top of the Spanish Steps.
9. All of the buildings here are cream and peach and brown and gold.
10. Everything is old and has history.
11. We bought orange tulips in the Campo.
12. I live on top of an ancient theatre.
13. I almost got through a whole glass of wine.
14. Euros are pretty.
15. Italians speak as though they were singing.
16. The rooftops here have gardens that look like I want to be in them.
17. I don't miss grease or preservatives at all ever.
18. I could live here I bet.
19. I can almost say buon giorno correctly.
20. Some ceilings are so beautiful you have to stop walking for a while.
21. We walk forever.
22. It's not raining yet.
23. The market is exciting, and we bought groceries today.
24. I am good at walking on cobblestones now.
25. Street vendors are nifty.
26. Hostels are nifty.
27. Digital cameras are nifty.
28. I have the internet sometimes.
29. I know that I can not run out of things to see, people to watch, food to eat, or places to explore here.
30. I miss home, but not too much.