Snapshots: Rome

It was hard to concentrate the day my parents arrived in Italy. Rome seemed a world away as I attempted to focus in class. Over half of my classmates had already departed from Florence to the various reaches of Europe and northern Africa. After the bell finally freed us (yes, they ring to mark the end of class periods just like in high school) I could think of nothing else but seeing their faces.

I scarfed down lunch before trekking to the train station. As I plunked down in my seat, relieved to catch the train I wanted I was seized with a panic. Remember the magical yellow boxes I described before embarking on my first train ride to Naples? Well, I temporarily forgot it too. I left my backpack—heavy in its fullness of clothes and my computer—grabbing only my coat and my purse before launching myself down the platform back to the terminal to find that precious yellow cube. I received a few odd looks from Italians who probably haven't jogged a step since grade school, but as I windedly boarded the train and worked my way through compartments I could not have cared less. My stuff and I were going to Rome together, and there was nothing that could stop us! Had I missed the train trying to validate my ticket, my belongings would have made their way to Naples unaccompanied, landing me in an all together terrible situation. Thank goodness my rare on-time arrival at the station left me with time enough to survive this ordeal. The irony of it all: no attendants came to check my hastily validated ticket during the voyage southward. All that stress for nothing! Go figure.

The train ride was quiet. I finally caught my breath and enjoyed the early springtime scenery and the few moments I had to myself before seeing mom and dad. Having already memorized the directions from the train station to the hotel, I picked my way through the gigantic Roma Termini and was glad I told them I would meet them at the hotel. A five minute walk later, I found myself in the arms of Momma!

I'll confess, I have not necessarily been homesick during my stay here in Europe. I actually find myself dreading the dwindling number of weeks left, not just because of the boatload of work I have yet to finish before the end of the semester, but to say goodbye to a country that I've finally felt like I've grasped my bearings in. I had a conversation with a professor earlier today about the moment when an individual transitions from being a tourist to being a resident in a foreign place. Most of my classmates decided that they were somewhere in between visiting and living in Florence. For me, spring break marked the turning point, or rather it was the first night we had dinner together in Rome at a small trattoria recommended by our concierge. As soon as we sat down at the table, the older Italian waiter began asking us if we wanted water for the table and so forth. My parents looked wide-eyed and supremely confused—why wouldn't they, neither of them spoke a word of Italian—but I could understand and answer him perfectly well. As soon as I interacted with him in Italian, it was as if my parents didn't exist to him; he was only catering to me. In this small experience and the repetitions of it throughout our time together helped confirm that being here in Italy is what I am supposed to do. I belong here as much as the next native. Although I do not claim that I know every nuance of the Italian lifestyle or language, I do know that this is a place I can call home if only temporarily.

Mom, Dad and I hit the cobblestones running almost from the moment of our reunion. I'm so proud of them for walking as much as we did. They generously put up with my aversion to riding the public busses even if their feet did not agree with them. We saw it all, from the Colosseum to the Vatican City and pretty much everything in between. Every night we all slept like rocks from sheer exhaustion and every morning we'd start again thanks to the annoying beeps of my alarm clock (RIP). I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.

Raphael's School of Athens
I didn't get to see this the first time I was in the Vatican so
this was a real treat. The nerd in me was ecstatic!

Sistine Chapel

Last Judgement Altarpiece

St. Peter's Basilica, Vatican City

Colosseum

Tourists

Trevi Fountain

Spanish Steps

Springtime at the Borghese Gardens

Braving the rain with the sad maroon
umbrella. If you don't have one, the vendors
will hassle you until you do.

Tired Troopers

Roman Forum

Pantheon

Cubist mosaic, which fascinated Dad.
Who knew the Romans started such a movement?

Another major theme of our trip, aside from constant walking, was laughter. From Mom catching the menu on fire in Rome to discussing the possible nicknames for pecorino cheese here in Tuscany, our time together was made all the more memorable by the smiles we shared.

Snapshots: Milan

Well, my dear readers, I don't think I can apologize enough to make up for my nearly month-long neglect of this little labor of love. Being a writing major, you'd think I would look forward to using this as an outlet for the pent-up thoughts I repress when focusing on the structured academic assignments. Instead, I have been dreading catching up on updating the archive of my adventures because so much time has past and I feel the need to give each memory its deserved explanation and reflection. These past few weeks have left me with so much to tell and not much energy with which to recount everything. Happily, I have come up with a solution.

Instead of sitting down for the daunting task of taking you through all my recent adventures in one sitting, I've decided to write shorter accounts of each experience, posting snapshots instead of novels. So, without further ado, I'll return you to the first weekend in March: Milan.

When my friend Lindsey and I boarded the slow train bound for Milan, we had few expectations. There are some students in our program who absolutely love Milan and its cosmopolitan allure. Others have expressed exasperation in the length of the trip north and the overall expensiveness of the city. We knew we wanted to see the cathedral, an exceptional example of Italian gothic architecture according to our Renaissance Architecture professor, and maybe do a bit of shopping in the world's fashion capital. Aside from these two goals, the weekend was wide open.

Upon our arrival, I successfully navigated us to our hostel in the heart of the city and we went for a late lunch at a pizzeria recommended by my guidebook. It was here that the real adventure began...

We were the only Americans in the entire restaurant. Not only were we fielding odd looks from local patrons but we struggled to communicate clearly with our waiter, who turned out to be Egyptian. We enjoyed our large pizza (the place wasn't called Big Pizza for nothing) and the company of one another while the restaurant slowly emptied of the Italians returning to their Friday afternoons when another waiter came over and began asking us questions about where we were from and what we had planned for our time in Milan. As we had relatively no plans whatsoever he and our waiter decided they would show us around if we met up with them after the lunch rush. We decided that their offer to guide us around the city could be a good opportunity to get to know the place we had so little time at so we took them up on their offer. It was about 15 minutes later that we regretted this decision. Our waiter friends were friendly enough and very generous in volunteering their time—and then one of them became aggressively friendly toward me. It is one thing to jokingly offer to take me back to your place for a glass of wine, albeit creepy; commentary on the beauty of my green eyes and the love you feel in your heart for such a gorgeous American girl is something different all together. Lindsey and I grew increasingly uncomfortable as this guy tried to link arms and persistently hit on me. We took refuge from the waiters and the equally aggressive street vendors in the piazza inside the massive Duomo di Milano, the first stop on our little tour, and decided that it was time to say goodbye to our new "friends." Thankfully they had other people to meet at what was supposed to be our second stop, so they curtly shook our hands and left us at the church. Can you say Hallelujah?

Lindsey and me at the Duomo.
So relieved after we ditched our "friends!"

The Duomo of Milano

Monumental interior architecture

Little tourist, giant church.
In fact, it is the largest gothic cathedral in the world 

Feed the birds. Tuppence a bag...

Relieved, we decided to climb to the roof and enjoy the sunny view and enjoyed the rest of our time from then. Milan, we realized, is a gigantic city. Urban city, shopping, and industry sprawled out at our feet for as far as the eye could see. It was hard to believe that the tranquility of the famous Lago di Como was nearby. Cloudy weather and an early onslaught of my tonsillitis to-be prevented us from making the train ride out there, but that leaves us with all the more reason to one day return. The rest of that evening was spent doing what the Milanese do best: shopping! We ate dinner at another restaurant recommended by my guidebook and found ourselves attracting the attention of our rather good-looking Italian waiters (who did not offer to take us out, thank goodness). An early bedtime after the stress of the afternoon was just what the figurative doctor ordered.

Ridiculously complex architecture

Milanese skyline and a Saint

Last rays of sunlight on the Duomo

The next day we decided to go to one of the more famous art galleries to see the Milanese collection of Renaissance art and were treated to an exhibition of Leonardo Da Vinci's drawings and schematics, which totally made up for not spending an inordinate amount of money to go and see the last supper. Instead, we saw a copy of the famous fresco (also in the museum) and we were up close and personal with the master's sketches, observations, and backward printing. Absolutely fantastic!

Breakfast a la Milanese: crepes!

Da Vinci, the man of Milano

We returned home to Florence later that afternoon and my health deteriorated from there. I cannot say enough good things about the strength of Italian medicine, which seems to work more effectively than that which we consume in America; although maybe I exaggerate because anything that would help me feel better would have seemed like a miracle drug at that point.

Getting the Best of Budapest

When I signed up for the school trip to Budapest back in October, I was ecstatic. I had never considered going to Hungary. In truth, it remained a vague location I had only heard of in history classes until I was boarding the plane bound for Budapest. The prospect of going to a place I knew very little about excited me, especially since I could count on one hand the number of people I knew who had been to Budapest before.

With the craziness of midterms behind me, I packed my bags with all my warmest clothes. The weather was supposed to be in the low thirties and clear—a bit cooler than Florence—so I made sure to include my gloves (RIP) and my heavy peacoat. It's a good thing I did because when we arrived in Hungary in the early evening I discovered that it was freezing!

Another thing I discovered about Hungary immediately after disembarking from the plane was that the majority of its inhabitants speak English. After stepping off the plane and realizing we couldn't read a single word on the signs we came across, our apprehension about communicating with the locals grew exponentially. I was joined by three other Gonzaga students in the taxi to the airport and it was from our driver that we learned that the language barrier would be a non-issue. He gamely answered our questions about the city and even attempted to teach us a few words in Magyar, all of which I have forgotten. The ride from the airport to the hotel took a little over a half an hour and between the four of us, it only cost me 1,500 forints. You might be wondering: only 1,500?! Thanks to inflation, 1,000ft is about equal to $5. This made the trip all the nicer because instead of thinking about how much money I was losing with every purchase in Euros, I was thinking about how cheap the cost of visiting Hungary was because the forint to dollar conversion was in our favor. Sa-weet! Unfortunately I did not purchase my plane tickets very far in advance and dropped a pretty penny on getting myself over there. All I have to say is that as we drove up to the hotel doors, I did not regret spending a single penny.

The Corinthia Hotel in Budapest only needs one adjective to describe it: luxurious. With too many bellhops to count, a gaggle of suited and smiling people manning the concierge desk, servers with napkins draped over their arms who held out trays of champagne... With a 5-star rating, it turned out to be one of the nicest places I have ever stayed. It also happened to be the location of the EU Defense Minister's conference that very same weekend! Not only were we basking in the glow of luxury, but we were rubbing shoulders with some of the movers and shakers of Europe. Not too shabby for a school trip, I'd say.

After enjoying a glass of complimentary champagne and exploring the hotel a bit, a group of us set off to get a late dinner at a pretty decent Thai food restaurant. Exhausted from traveling, we all went to bed after we returned from dinner, which was around midnight. One thing I have learned since becoming a semi-permanent resident in Europe: don't even think about dinner until after 8pm. Simple as that, Europeans do not eat until late in the evening. Europeans among my generation are known to stay up until all hours of the night, frequenting places known as discotecas (dance clubs) that don't start filling up until around 1 or 2 am. I can't say I'm a frequent patron of the discotecas here in Florence, but they're definitely an experience...

The next morning we enjoyed a superb continental breakfast, complete with pancakes, bacon, hash-brown potatoes, fruit galore, and too many pastries for me to try all of them. It was probably the closest I've come to a good old American breakfast since arriving here in Europe. De-lish! Most of us gorged ourselves before stepping out into the frigid morning air. Led by a local, we shivered our way throughout Budapest, stopping at the majority of their landmarks such as Heroes Square, Vajdahunyad Castle, the Szechnyi Baths, the Budapest Opera House, St. Stephan's Basilica, and Matthias Church, which was the coronation church of the former Hungarian monarchy.

Budapest, known as the "Paris of the East," contained countless examples of highly Baroque architecture. It also contains the second oldest metro system after the Tube in London. Stations like Oktogon, which was nearest our hotel, were tiny and the metros themselves were never longer than 5 cars. Interestingly, if you took a picture of the driver you might run the risk of slowing down the entire line. The drivers are not allowed to operate their trams while experiencing spots in their vision from a camera's flash. I kept my lens trained on the vintage tiling and avoided causing trouble, unlike others in our group whose attempts were thankfully unsuccessful. We took the metro up to Heroes square (pictured center) which paid homage to the seven founding tribes of Hungary, who came to settle in the area from central Asia, and other various influential leaders like the beloved King Matthias. The seven tribes are represented by the men on horseback at the base of the column and the important figures of the later years are found in the colonnade. Just behind Heroes Square in the city park was the impressive Vajdahunyad castle (pictured right), which was built in the late 1800's for the millennial exhibition of Budapest.

Vajdahunyad Castle in a brief moment of sunshine

The Szechenyi Baths

Across the street from the castle was the beautiful Baroque-styled Szechenyi Baths (Sh-en-yee). The 3 outdoor and 15 indoor pools, all of which we relaxed in after the tour ended, make up the Szechenyi complex, which is the largest thermal bathhouse in Europe. The city itself rests on the location of thermal springs that are naturally heated by an ancient volcano. Hungarians and tourists alike come and enjoy the baths on a weekly basis. Men and women not separated by gender and everyone wears a swimsuit. The water within the baths contains a lot of sulfur (and thus does not smell particularly good) among other minerals, which supposedly help relieve joint pain. My favorite pool was the hot outdoor pool that was heated at about  38°C (around 100°F). Since it was cold out, the water steamed all around us, obscuring any views past 10 feet. While I waded in what was practically a jacuzzi tiny snowflakes dusted my face and the faces of those around me. Pretty magical.

Opera House

Books! I couldn't resist...

St. Stephan's Basilica and Matthias' Church

Parliament through an arcade outside of Matthias' Church

We decided to have a quiet night after relaxing in the baths so a group of us went for Mexican food and watched a borrowed DVD from the hotel, which we had some trouble switching over to English.

The next morning we enjoyed another wonderful breakfast before embarking on a tour of the communist related sites of Budapest. Despite having been released from the Eastern Bloc of Soviet Satellite states since 1989, much of the communist influence is preserved in building facades. Forgotten and largely ignored by the younger generations, it remains engrained in the history of the state and the memory of those, like our tour guide, who experienced it. We first went to the Liberty stature on the Buda side of the Danube. The giant bronze woman carrying a palm leaf was erected during the Communist Era and is the only statue that remains in its original place.

Enjoying the view of Budapest and the Danube River

Parliament in the distance along the Danube

The rest of the statues are preserved in a park outside of the city. The interesting part was not hearing about who or what was depicted in the statues, but rather how our guide, who had grown up with in the communist period, perceived them. Her stories of resisting the Communist regime helped put the recent peaceful revolutions of north Africa in perspective. A people faced with a system that oppresses their rights will make a stand for what they desire and deserve: freedom.

After the statue park, we were taken to see the world's largest wine barrel that is still in use. While sipping a rosé we learned about the history of Hungarian wine production, that they were once famous for their sparkling wines, and how the mold within the underground cellar we were standing in helped in the aging process of the wine in the sizable barrels around us. We had the afternoon unscheduled so a group of us went to the Central Markt where we were able to eat a true Hungarian dish: goulash! The hearty meat and potato stew was spiced to perfection with paprika and oh, so delicious. Afterward we were able to browse the traditional Hungarian crafts that were sold within the vast indoor market. 

I loved the colorful ceramic tiles that decorated many of the
traditional rooftops like these on the Central Markt

Goulash!

Later that night we were treated to a buffet dinner aboard a riverboat on the Danube. Unfortunately I did not take any pictures of the evening for lack of juicy batteries, but it was absolutely magical cruising down the river with all the buildings lit up. We even had live entertainment in the form of a three-man jazz band. With good food, good music, and good friends, the evening could not have been any better!

The next day I spent mostly traveling on my own back to Florence. No Gonzaga students were on my connecting flight to Frankfurt so I attempted to fill my 4-hour layover with homework, but found myself people watching for the majority of the time. Lucky for me, two friends who had spent the weekend in Amsterdam ended up on my flight back to Florence and were able to split the cost of the cab! By the time I returned to Florence, I was thoroughly exhausted and satisfied with the weekend. 

My weeks since Budapest have been going well. I've been struggling to shake a persistent cold since Sicily. It seems I relapse after traveling and Budapest was no different. After recovering from a runny nose I brought home with me, I thought a quiet trip to Milan might allow me to move a bit without adversely effecting my health. I was wrong. As I write this and as my parents are on board a plane to join me in Italy for spring break, I am fighting a cough that turned out to be tonsillitis. To top it all off, I've also developed pinkeye. Awesome! Thankfully the school provides an English-speaking doctor who prescribed the necessary antibiotics and eyedrops for my recovery. I must admit, Mom and Dad couldn't have come at a better time to nurse me back to health. 

I'm really looking forward to spending a quiet spring break with them, unlike the majority of my friends who are headed off to the party in Dublin for St. Patrick's Day. We're spending the 10 days I have off from school in Rome, Venice and Florence. Speaking of my "hometown," I promise I'll write a Florence post soon. It dawned on me recently that I mostly write about my travels outside of Florence and yet I've titled this blog Finding Firenze. What a hypocrite I've been! More to come on my Milan adventure and spring break with Mom and Dad!

Made it through Midterms!

I promise a Budapest post is coming soon. In the interest of sharing something in the meanwhile, I'll leave you with my midterm project for my Writing Traveler class for which I received an A. Enjoy!

Downward Glances

Upon my arrival in Italy I learned that experiencing the country does not occur by falling prey to the cathedrals, whose fastidious architecture stuns tourists and God fearing Catholics into submission, nor by glutting through every authentic Eye-talian dish on a trattoria’s menu. Granted, Brunelleschi’s awesome Duomo unquestionably dominates the skyline of Florence, and the pizza in Naples induces one’s saliva glands into a watery frenzy. Even Palermo contends with both a serene view of the Mediterranean and a fresh cuisine comprised almost entirely from its fruits. But these details only give Italy color. The life and breath of the country isn’t found in the pure aqua of the sea, nor in the burnt terra cotta of the land—both of which could be found in a Crayola box of crayons. No, the way to get to know a place, to learn if it has a personality or if it is as flat as Columbus anticipated, is quite literally by watching where you step.

There is shit everywhere in Florence. I wish I were joking. The stone labyrinths that constitute its streets contain very few patches of greenery, which leaves the impeccably dressed canines with no place to poop but the already narrow sidewalks. No block remains unmarred by the refuse of domesticated pets. It bakes against the sidewalk in the sunshine and in oozes underfoot in the rain. Walking becomes a dance of avoidance. A successful day concludes when one’s shoes return home unsoiled.

Florentines never pick up after their animals. It’s part of their superiority complex, an innate knowledge that they are genuinely Italian and therefore better dressed and better looking than anyone outside of their acquaintanceship. Ironically some mystic rule grants them the looks of dark-haired Venus’ and Apollos complete with marble-smooth skin and symmetrical noses. They glide together above the cobblestones in leather footwear, never tripping in their pin-thin heels or stumbling through their pet’s shit. They dress like the gods they think they are, assuming the designer labels as a name tags. 

Once when I needed to retrieve my laundry from the overnight cleaners I wiggled into a sweatshirt to keep warm during the walk. It was unassuming and clean, a heather grey with the name of my university stitched across the front. I received looks of appalled disgust and quickly learned: if the name is not Armani, Gucci, Fendi, or Ferragamo then it is worthless. The look of divinity is priceless and nothing is too expensive. Discarded receipts linger on the streets of Firenze proud as their former owners to boast a valuable name and number.

There is no dress code in Naples. Neapolitans have better things to worry about than whatever clothes a visitor has on. From the moment I stepped onto Piazza Garibaldi I realized that the city was not trying to impress or welcome anyone. In just the short walk to the hostel, whose vague location I attempted to memorize from the spiderweb of streets featured on the map in my guidebook, I chanced death. 

To navigate the piazza in front of Napoli Centrale is to barely survive a round in the boxing ring in which one defends against a barrage of pushes, punches, and body-checks. Cars angrily surge forward from every direction, threatening collision and obliteration, while passersby, who would steal a man’s mistress as soon as they would nudge him in front of a bus, disregard sidewalk consideration altogether. The walkways are crowded with slow-hobbling nonni who speak quickly with large sweeps and shakes of their knarled hands, aloof street vendors offering umbrellas and (undoubtably) pick-pocketed electronics, and mopeds whose riders attempted to improve their odds of an on-time arrival by driving around pedestrians instead of cars. All this rests on a stinking and hazardous film of garbage: beer cans, wine bottles, the greasy pizza boxes, used diapers, the skeletons of broken chairs, orphaned shoes, mangled umbrellas, tattered plastic bags, even the ashes a newspaper fire built by vagrants. It is the detritus of a city that doesn’t sleep, that doesn’t drink nonalcoholic beverages, and obviously doesn’t clean up after itself. The signature gesture of Naples, could it sign, would be the Italian equivalent of the middle finger.

 

Yet Naples itself radiates an irritated, energetic pride throughout the back alleyways that twist into obscurity and the garbage that coats them from walls to sewer drains. The Italian spoken there is not the melodiously soft dialect of the Florentines. Neapolitan Italian is as angry and forceful as the city itself, imposing upon the listener with a guttural flippancy that is both marvelous and terrifying. One Sunday morning after the miracle of a garbage truck cleared away the stinking sludge, I found the sidewalks occupied by clothing vendors, knick-knack artisans, fishermen, and vendors all barking an unforgiving “Pregopregoprego” at wandering tourists like myself to come buy their goods. This, I discovered, was the origin of the trash and the pulse of the city, the place of commerce and production. At the end of the day after the market has packed up and the maze of claustrophobia-inducing streets is deserted by all souls, the vegetable rinds, mussel shells, and empty shoeboxes will remain. 

Unlike the Neapolitans, Sicilians contain their garbage. It bulges within the plastic bags that line the streets of Palermo as if it were going to jump on the next bus headed to a cove-side town. The city is reminiscent of old world luxury found somewhere in some bygone era closer to the end of WWII than today. Faded and decayed, it trickles from the high mountains into the sea where sidewalks crumble to rock then sandy dirt, dead-ending in the Mediterranean. Chunks of asphalt are as broken as the city whose buildings seem to crumble in the sunlight—as if it weighs too heavily on the brittle stone. It is an Atlantis in its last moments before it slips beneath the cyan waves.

The cracked pavement was once whole and new like the civilization that perched at the toe of the boot. So much time has passed that the concept itself carries no meaning. Schedules do not exist. Things happen in Palermo when they are meant to, usually in an unhurried and carefree manner. I ate dinner at midnight in a restaurant that might have stayed open for an eternity of nights had I been able to keep eating that long. The waiter’s distinctly Sicilian Italian was a gentler, playful derivative of rough Neapolitan. It lulls the listener into a happy trance, welcoming one into a daydream.

Palermo is not all plushness and palm trees. Its welcomes the rainfall of wintertime to wash away traces of blood on the sidewalks. The bodies of the old and young rot in the subterranean chill of the catacombs. They are victims of far more sinister acts than accepting a passive death. Family forces keep the keys to this kingdom. Looking too closely at the holes in the walls and asking the wrong questions is dangerous. Visitors are advised to keep their eyes trained on the horizon of the Mediterranean and soak in the Sicilian sunshine.