Shawn Assignment # 4

Floating Memory: A Retrospective Analysis of Italy

I have a truly terrible memory. Especially when it comes to chronology. When I think back to Italy, I see everything through a soft focus lens. My memories are fuzzy, and they swim together in the part of my brain labeled “Summer: 2007.” I reach in to grab a story or a feeling, and I struggle to place the when, where, why, how...

I remember most the times when I was alone. I guess, when I was with the others from the program, I passed the torch of remembrance to them, and absolved myself of the details. Now, months later, I read the stories and writings of the others and relive otherwise forgotten occasions. What else have I forgotten? Why was the journal such a burden, when now all I wish is for more direct link to my own experiences in Italy? But regret has no place here.

My most pervasive memory, the sensation that unifies my trip, is the heat. It invades every part of my life in Rome, Florence, Naples, Cinque Terre...it even began the journey with me in Pennsylvania, dampened by thunderstorms. A friend that wrapped itself around my body, moving with me in and out of buildings. The humidity sinks into the landscape and into my bones. I never lost the slight sheen of Italy. I reflect the light in pictures, and am reminded of my discomfort.

Every morning I awoke to the sound of glass bottles being dumped into trucks to be taken away, somewhere; the clanging overrode every other sound. Now I live next to a hotel, and I hear the same ringing of glass recycling that now reminds me of Rome. Our apartment was the fifth story of the building, and all sound was muted by the time it reached us. The background noise lulled me to sleep. Hundreds of voices collided to create a comforting rumble. The sound of the garbage cleaners at two in the morning. Vendors setting up their wares at five in the morning. My Campo sound machine. I never sleep without one.

The smell of leather. Not pleasant. It permeates the air, emitted from carts laden with the supple carcasses of Italian domestic animals. Florence. Even now my bag and jacket insist on reminding me that something was killed to make them. Americans don’t like being reminded that the things we use and eat were once alive.

The city of Naples fades into the smog at the top of Mt. Vesuvius. It is a clear day but the pollution absorbs the rays of the sun. The climb is steep; the paths gives way to your weight, like walking through sand. Pebbles accumulate in my shoes, and I am forced to stop and remove them and dump out a stream of geology.

Waves crash over the jetty in Riomaggiore. I am homesick. I call my mom and tears run down my face as the sun sets into the ocean in the most picturesque scene. The artificial lights illuminate the brightly painted buildings after dark. I eat the freshly made pesto pasta in a tin with a plastic fork and think of home. I hide in the shadow of the cliff and talk quietly to hide my shame. I feel like the locals are laughing at me but I don’t think that’s true. Life gets better quickly.

I trust my memory to include the most important things. I will rely on the triggers of the others to remember the names and details, and the few words I did write down. The rest cannot be said or captured anywhere but in my head.

Shawn Assignment # 11

Italian Propaganda

They built Rome in marble.

But marble burns.

The slow smolder of the city glows orange,

And the smoke snakes upward;

An offering to the gods.

To the ground.

Rome. Intentional?

A random conglomeration of buildings.

The streets aren't parallel.

Ruins built from ruins,

Stolen from the past to build an immortal name.

Again,

and again,

and again.

The differing agendas of the ages,

All with the same message.

Rome was an empire, built to impress.

"I AM HERE!"

Inscriptions.

"REMEMBER!"

Dedications.

"LOOK AT ME!"

Subtle.

From Romulus to Caesar,

To Julius II.

Remember.

Religion and power;

Together they rule Rome.

Artists build statues and paint ceilings.

Remember who paid for this.

A monument to a name.

My name.

Money and luxury insinuate themselves into sacred places.

The glory of God.

Who rules Rome?

What will you remember?

Who will you remember?

Valentino?

Augustus?

Airport Torture

I've stayed up all night; from the Trevi to the Spanish Steps, where we planned to meet but failed miserably. Our last night in Rome only a mild success. We call a shuttle to take us to the airport. It meets us at 3 in the morning right outside the Rome Center. Goodbyes are said. I don't feel sad. I am tired. And I will see everyone again in Seattle. But I won't see them in Rome again. What will we be in the context of another city?

The van driver is crazy. No surprise there. I no longer fear for my life in Italian cars; there have been too many incidents. We're low on gas. He pulls over and asks if we can give him some money. I hand him 10 euro. Surreal and bizarre.

We start again. White lights trail past my head, blurred and ignored in my vision. I try to convince myself the trip will be over soon, but it is just beginning.

We wait in lines at the airport. My flight is canceled. Another line to fix it. The counter doesn't open for another half an hour. Hope jolts my body awake; a stewardess walks in behind the counter. She walks away. She comes back and arranges pamphlets on the desk. She leaves. She comes back. She brings out a potted plant. She is toying with me...

Three lines later and I've started to wait at my final waiting destination. I had actually laid down on top of my bag to sleep. Two hours gone in a half conscious state. Soon, in 16 hours, I will be home. Or almost home. Something.

Goodbye Rome. Goodbye Italy. I will miss you despite the farewell.

Postcard Assignment: Campo de' Fiori

Campo de' Fiori
Roma

I can't believe it's the last day. The program has gone by so fast. I'm trying to fit in some last minute people watching from our balcony. I'm usually asleep by 2:00 a.m., so I'm not sure if it's usually this loud. The campo isn't very crowded but there are a few slightly drunk (I assume) and extremely loud individuals hanging around the flower stands. I can't tell if what they are yelling is English, Italian, or otherwise, but they are yelling in unison. The street cleaners have not come yet so the square is littered with the garbage of inconsiderate people. In the mornings, early, I can hear the clang of metal as the booths are being set up. It's comforting and familiar by now. I'm amazed people put all this work into setting up. Everyday it's the same. Put up you cart, arrange your wares, dismantle, clean up. I can barely wake up on time and hobble down the stairs to be on time. The campo changes drastically and rhythmically throughout the day. I'm thinking about all the mornings when the campo has suddenly become a marketplace while I was sleeping. And then it is all gone when I come back from class. Like magic, except lots of work. I'll miss all the specialty shops. The yogurt, the supplis, the flowers, the forno...Right now only the bars are open.

Travel Writing

How My Italy Became Italia

I would like to preface this narrative with a disclaimer.

Disclaimer:

I took Japanese for three years in high school. No other language. Ever.

Oh, wait. I lie.

In first grade I learned to count to ten in Spanish.

Narrative:

The first word I learned in Italian? Umbrello. Guess what it means. I laughed when my friend told me. Italian won’t be so hard, I thought. Maybe I should have focused on my inability to pronounce her last name correctly (Tartaglione) rather than the false sense of security that resulted from the resemblance of a few Italian words to certain English ones.

I bombarded her with questions, my tone demanding answers. She obliged. What’s the word for umbrella? Chemistry? Paper? Pen? Rain? Computer?

We sat in my dorm room, theoretically doing homework, chairs pushed up close to each other’s. My mind wandered far away from the general chemistry assignment filling up the computer screen. I looked past the rain outside my window to the sunny, verdant, rolling hills of Tuscany, and to the bright blue, sparkling Mediterranean, rushing against the coast of Italia.

Ah, Italy. How well I knew thee in my imagination. The Italy of movies and songs, TV shows and Americanized restaurants. Pasta, wine, olive oil, pizza…My fantasies consist of running through fields of green grass, stumbling on a convenient secluded and pristine pond and taking an impulsive swim bathing suit or no, making wine with the locals, stomping on grapes, getting invited to dinner by people I just met, learning Italian as quickly as a child who had spent the first few years of life here.

I will make memories, so help me God.

Now that I’m actually in Italy I have slightly more realistic expectations. However, some stereotypical Italian images have made their way into my brief jaunt into the country. An Italian grandmother did try to stuff me with food. Scooters have rushed passed me, causing my life to flash before my eyes. Siestas do exist. Young Italian couples do make out on the Spanish Steps, in subways, on buses, on street corners…Fashion does rule with a designer fist. Of course, these images can’t accurately represent such a diverse and colorful country as Italy, but they add flavor to the atmosphere in ways I couldn’t have prepared myself for.

Some experiences even blew my expectations out of the water. Gelato is just better than ice cream, especially when you eat it next to the Pantheon. Truffles taste like happiness. What else can I say? I just had to taste them for myself.

Everything feels different in person. Bernini, Cortona, Caravaggio…these artists can’t really be appreciated through photographs. Pictures of sculptures and paintings are not the interactive experience intended by the designer. The viewer needs to walk around Bernini’s sculptures to find out the whole story. To comprehend the vastness and illusion of Cortona’s salone fresco in Palazzo Barberini, the viewer needs to lie down on a couch and stare at the ceiling for half an hour. To understand the enormous gulf between Caravaggio and the other painters of the time the viewer needs to walk into an art gallery and have their eyes immediately drawn to the only Caravaggio in the room.

I don’t know how I fit into the great scheme that is Italy. Am I just a tourist, no better than a Rick Steves five-day tour group? Certainly I’m no native; I can barely order pizza. But I like to think that since I’ve shared a laugh with the women at the gelato place, returned a piece of luggage to a harried Italian couple at the train station, figured out the bus system, and made friends with an Italian grandmother, that I have a right to say that I’ve lived in Rome.

I’m no longer looking to have the right memories. I have plenty of perfectly wonderful ones.

Umbrello. Italy is kind of fun.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Only Four Pictures Left In My Disposable Camera And All Of Rome Before Me

(1) Dove Termini? Dove Termini? I’m trying to find the train station. Actually, I’m trying to find the bus that goes to the train station. Do you know where it is? I was told the bus stop was close, just up on the main road. I think I passed it; I didn’t see a road that looked main enough. Now I just keep going. I don’t want to stop. It’s so hot, and my backpack weighs forty pounds, and it is only the second day of my trip. I can’t give up no matter how many scooters try to run me over. I don’t recognize anything. Lost. And alone for the first time. I have no map, but I bought a compass a few days ago, and I clipped it to the zipper on my bag. Head west and north. The subway ticket machine takes only exact change. The bancomat gives me fifties. Taxis are a waste of money. Too tired to stand. I need to sit down.

What are all these steps?
They can’t be the Spanish steps.
The Keats/Shelley house.

(2) Opening the door to the balcony of the apartment is like opening a portal to another place. Inside I can believe I am still in Seattle, but the sound that bursts through the open door pours itself into the cracks of the room, transforming it into the city of Rome. Transported thousands of miles in a second. Just like Star Trek, or so I wish. In the morning I hear the street cleaners, preparing the field of flowers for another day. Still in bed, I can hear the clang of metal as vendors set up shop and wait for their customers. The voices fill up the square and the space above it, where I live, until the hum of morning beckons me up to alertness. A peach and some yogurt sounds good. Late afternoon the campo is cleared away once again. The locals and tourists come out to play, so the voices stay and make themselves comfortable. They will be here almost until the street cleaners come back in the early morning.

While I sleep, I dream
of being in two places
at once. Forever.

(3) White Night. Early, at eleven, we leave the apartment. One boy, ten girls. If there is any trouble, he tells us that he can be the boyfriend, depending on which one needs help. I wear my 1 Euro dress that is too low cut, an expanse of white skin. But it is my only dress, and I like it. We weave through crowds of people: to the Piazza del Popolo! Getting there takes us past mobs of people, but I am still walking of my own volition; not yet bowing to the whim of the crowd. I can still control my path and purpose. I miss dodging through people; it’s like a game, an obstacle course. When I go back home, I must go to more concerts, where the crowds are. The acrobats perform from all the places in the world. The stage is not in Rome, but switches from France and Spain and everywhere else. An hour later we leave to get gelato. Plum and wine at San Crispino’s, my favorite combination so far. Sweet and tart. It takes us an hour to walk ten minutes. At two in the morning the crowds are much thicker, denser. Time to go back.

There, I can see a
tunnel of light. It is the
most beautiful thing.

(4) We lay on couches underneath Cortona’s frescoed sky in the large salone at Palazzo Barberini. The fresco is busy, like the bees prominently displayed in the middle. Propaganda produces the greatest art. There is so much of it in Rome. The walls stand bare and plain where lush tapestries once hung making the room feel warm. Now it feels like a museum, the main activity craning your neck upward, and creating echoes. It is a relief to lie down under the sky. Figures swirl above us. I call Immortality. You can be Minerva. You’re the one holding the crest. And you, you’re Divine Providence.

You know you are a
genius if you can hold your
fingers to your eye.

Shawn Assignment # 5

The Progression of Beauty and Expectations

For an American, Italy is one amazement after another. We grow up hearing about Rome and Florence in school, through TV and movies…Our minds build up a collection of images through time, and then meld every piece of information into one, giant, absurd chunk of historically questionable, but quite glorious, ball of expectations. Ancient Rome, Renaissance Florence, the mafia in Naples…stereotypes, tyrants, and heroes. Everyplace has them, but Italy…I’m in Italy…

Cinque Terre

My first brush with beauty came in the scenic and brightly painted villages in Cinque Terre. Like pastel candy wrappers all bunched up together. The train dropped me off in Riomaggiore, the southern most village and my base of operations. The houses were built right up to the edge of the ocean. A hike connects all of the five villages together. I was there so long I walked it three times in total. Strolling along the Via dell'Amore, the trail for lovers connecting two of the villages, admiring the amorous graffiti, and the thrown covered in combination locks with no combination to represent the binding love of countless couples. All on display.

The Bus Down to Naples

My first order of business in Naples was to see Mt. Vesuvius. My mother has always dreamed of going there, and to Pompei. The top of the volcano is barren, and the city obscured by the smog even on this clear day. We have only an hour to hike to the top and get down to the shuttle that will take us back into the city. It’s a close call as we stumble down the winding path. I grab the front seat. The city slowly appears before my eyes, clearing the smog and dust, and it is beautiful. We hurdle down a road wide enough for one car, honking to warn whatever is around the corner. That, more than any other time in Italy, was when I questioned my mortality. Ancient Rome makes me feel young but the bus…it was a more immediate problem.

The Coliseum

I watched Gladiator at a hostel in Naples before the program began. On a giant, flatscreen TV. The hostel was a converted fabric factory. I slept in the loft of a nine-person room. The Simpsons was on before the movie, and we watched while lounging in bean bag chairs In just a few days I would see the Coliseum in person.

I remembered here
Before I came here.

Memories are often inaccurate.

The Coliseum was always the first monument I thought of when someone mentioned Rome, even before the movie. I thought it was cruel. The reality is grand, and the distance from its ancient uses dull any lingering repulsion. It was all exaggerated anyway.

Like a lion bred in captivity,
My imagination does not run wild.

Birds of prey with clipped wings hop from perch to perch looking for life in corners.
But all the mice were fed to the snake.

My last moments roar in my ears; a deafening lust for blood.
Mine and theirs.

The view from the outside is my favorite. It represents the grandeur of Rome. I’ve walked past it over ten times, both at night and day. What I expected and what I saw…it exceeded expectations and dashed them at the same time.

The Bottom of the Duomo

The focal point of a city with so much history the mind builds walls to keep out the wonder. Green and cream checkerboard churches reach to the sky at my back. I look up to see. Golden doors catch the sun and throw it in your peripheral vision. Inside the church lifts up to hold the sky away. Darkness penetrated by the natural light.

Private Tour of the Vatican

Another Caravaggio. I see the originals of angels that have hung above my bed since I was born. We walk through a hall with framed ceilings. To the Sistine. It is not what I expect. The room is smaller than I thought it would be, but the paintings are bigger, and cover everything. You usually only see one part at a time. A lot to take in, and I sit down to absorb. I wonder what it would be like without the benefit of privacy. I sit and run my finger between the plastic seats, along the original stone. A thrill runs up my spine. Nothing like this exists where I live. It is too young.

San Pietro—At Night and Alone

I went to San Pietro three times, and I can see the dome from my apartment. The first was at night, after dinner, after the Sistine Chapel. Very few people were around and soft lights lit up the square. We laughed and played until we were kicked out. Next time we went to see the church, and it was too crowded to be beautiful. The baldacchino, and Bernini’s statues still made the deep impressions they were intended to but claustrophobia overrode. The last time I went alone, to donate money for my grandmother. I stand in the square to watch the columns line up. And this time there is no line to get into San Pietro. I walk slowly up and down the halls, basking in the low whispers that can now be distinguished. This feels like a church.

Cortona’s Grand Salon at Palazzo Barberini - We lay on couches and look up into the painted sky.

Venice, Murano, Burano, Torcello – Pink alligators climb on houses, the light glints off the rolling water. The boat rocks and I hold tighter onto the railing. We get a tour of the islands in four languages. They take us to the glass-makers, and the lace-makers. The last island is full of the ruins of a church. It is beautiful and I know nothing about it.

In the end, I will remember the paintings and the sculptures, how you walk and nod to monuments now familiar and still awe-inspiring. Past the Pantheon, the Trevi, the Spanish Steps…and the gelato.

Postcard Assignment: Return to Florence

The Train Back to Rome
Florence

I'm actually writing this on the train back. A train I made just in the nick of time. I was waiting for my leather jacket, which was supposed to have been made this morning with lots of time for me to pick it up and get to the train. But it's ok. I'm here, and frustrated once again by the lack of taxis. Actually, the lack of my ability to get a taxi. You can't just hail them, and I didn't have the time to look for a taxi stand. I booked it all the way to the train station. Good thing Florence is so small and that this is my second time here. Otherwise my sense of direction would have required a separate train back to Rome. One last quick tour of the city. Past the Duomo, avoiding elbows and sidewalk vendors in front of the Gates of Paradise. Over the chains that make it so difficult to cross the street. Past the place where we sat to have lunch and were approached by gypsies. After The David. Through the leather market, by our first hotel I go...The smell of leather follows me. Erin had to leave her jacket too.

Last Minute Shopping In Florence

So I "decided" to all my shopping on our second and final trip to Florence. It was definitely a conscious decision that I made and not the inevitable culmination of my procrastination. It was a stressful and productive worldwind that I am quite satisfied with. And be the end I actually did some bargaining (instead of making someone else do it). Here are some samples of my success:

This is a silk square that I bought for myself, and I bought similar ones as gifts for my friends.

This is the leather bag I bought for myself. I got another very similar one for my sister, and a smaller red one for my friend Victoria.

Postcard Assignment: Ecstasy of St. Theresa

Bernini's Ecstasy of St. Theresa

S. Francesco a Ripa Grande
Roma

The first thing I notice is her hand pressed up against her breast. Then my eyes are drawn up to her face. Her eyes aren't really looking at anything in particular. Then my focus goes overhead and I see the line of her body, angled down. I don't think I'll ever get over how soft and real Bernini can get the marble to look. I want to reach out and touch it. Her pillow, the couch, they look fluffy. My eyes always go back to her face. The light shines on her face more than the rest of her body. Her expression embarrasses me. It's sexual and seems out of place in a church to me. I always look away quickly but they are always pulled back. I can hear the whispers of the people behind me. She is a show. She feels so much so deeply. Her body is twisted, you can see the tension in her hands, half closed eyes. She is drowning in feeling, overwhelmed. She sees something we don't. Do I want to know what she knows?

Add-on: Bernini built a secret window that allowed natural light to fall on the sculpture. The light changes position and intensity, depending on the weather and time of day.

Postcard Assignment: Michelangelo's Pieta

Michelangelo's Pieta
Basilica di San Pietro
Roma

The crowd in this place is worse than the one at White Night, and they are pushier. The gift shop is a nightmare, It took way too long just to get five post cards. Tour groups with matching items or clothing push past me, separating me from the group. I thought it would by rude to push the elderly. Red bands hang across necks, headphones in ears, hand pushing against it. Walking zombie-like and oblivious to other people. Courtesy is the first casualty of tourism. Dart in and out of people trying to get up to the group, a few awkward moments pushed up against strangers. Lisa says it's never been this bad. How can I really enjoy this place? It's an attraction, a site of interest. I want to light a candle for my grandmother, but I can't find a place to do it. No fake electric candles to light up either. I'll come back later. I need to buy presents anyway. The Pieta is especially crowded. Tourists with cameras, offended if you walk in front of them; it's not on purpose. Relax. Takes ten minutes to get anywhere.

Postcard Assignment: Sistine Chapel

The Creation of Adam
Sistine Chapel
Roma

I think that there is a point when your mind can no longer process anything new. I've reached it. I'm in the Sistine Chapel (named after Sistux IV), a place I've seen my whole life and all I can do is sit here. We just saw the School of Athens. I didn't realize how pretty (I know) the Vatican is. So much decor. The faux stucco ceiling, colored light with pastels, more expensive than real stucco. The Sistine seems small, busy; I wonder what it's like when hundreds of people are packed in here. Even with 30 people, the whispers of voices and feet fill the room. I don't want to come back here as a normal person. I'm sitting under the lucky painting where Julius II was elected at conclave. I wonder what it looks like filled with cardinals. Do they take off the plastic that covers the bench? There is an open space between the two plastic benches, revealing a portion of the smooth stone underneath; Michelle and I touch it. I wish I could lie down and look up. Stand under the Creation of Adam. God is a giant brain. Why is God wearing clothes? Guess it would be blasphemous for him to be naked, but sill, clothes look silly. Michelangelo looks out from the ceiling, one eye covered.

Private Tour of the Vatican

The group was walking through the Vatican Museum and this fresco jumped out at me. This picture has hung above my sister's bed for over twenty years. Didn't think I would ever see the original.

This takes my breath away.

Postcard Assignment: Pietro da Cortona's Salone

Cortona's Salone
Palazzo Barberini
Roma

This painting is on the ceiling of the salon in Palazzo Barberini. It doesn't look as bright as it does in this postcard. There are four couches positioned underneath the painting. Take a break from craning your neck upward, lie down with a few of your friends and stare for half an hour. The ceiling looks much higher and more curved than it actually is. Very tricky. Cortona learned part of his technique in Venice, where the light is different, then tore out part of the fresco and redid it. The hall is big, the walls almost bare; only the four couches take up space in the room, and the people. But not too many. Michelle, Erina, Matthew and I snag a couch to ourselves (no backs to the couches). My hair spreads out behind me when I lie down. We assign ourselves each a character in the painting. Juvenile, but fun. I could stare for hours, watching as the light changes. Not as bright, but so much color.

Postcard Assignment: Bone Church & Villa Borghese

Santa Maria della Concezione
Cemetery of the Capuchins
Roma

The thing that gets me about this place is the smell. It's not actually the smell of bones and death, but a cloying incense that will now always make me think of bones. Everyone is more silent than they usually are in a church. This is serious business. Shawn says that we are not to take this as a joke, because the monks take this seriously. Not that it's particularly funny, but part of it is so strange it's comical. I try not to breathe in through my nose because I feel like I'm breathing bone dust. Do you know at the dentist, when you're getting a cavity filled, and he (or she) files down your teeth with a loud dental instrument, and you can see your own tooth dust, and you are breathing it in and it smells like burnt hair? It's a similar feeling of creepy. Inscription reads: "What we are, you will become." It's at the end of a long, dark hallway. I don't stay as long as the others. I'm not really bothered, but I can't separate the are from its material, and I don't think you're supposed to. Strange.

Raffaello's Lady with Unicorn
Villa Borghese
Roma

When a woman is painted with a unicorn, and she is able to tame it, it means she is still "pure." When she can't tame it...In the same room hangs The Baker's Daughter, a portrait of a girl that Raphael was in love with. Lisa says that in the original painting it was recently found that a wedding ring had been found on the girl's hand, and had been painted over. Secret marriage? A new chapter of an old romance revealed. It amazes me we can still find this out so many years later. Also, shock. Not the original painting? What other fakes have been presented to us? Oh well. The grounds of Villa Borghese are beautiful. I want to try the four person bicycle type conveyances. Neatly clipped lawns. It feels like the country but it's so close to the city. An oasis from the lack of vegetation. The green by the Tiber doesn't quite cut it; it's more like the green stuff in the Tiber. I didn't realize how much I missed it. I like Rome, but every city needs its parks.

Postcard Assignment: Civita

Civita di Bagnoregio
Panorama

An epic climb up a footbridge gets you to this tiny village populated by eleven people and four times as many tourists. The town feels bigger than it looks from far away. Maybe it's harder to get around after the hike up so it seems bigger. The view from the town is amazing! The post cards tells all. Rick Steves put this village in his 2007 Italy book so it's now on the tourist map. So there is no more olive oil to buy since I was in the second group for the tasting, but I still have the memory. The restaurant is dark and lit by candles. The bread is fresh and rubbed with garlic, olive oil, and butter. The light of the candles glints off the oil dribbled on the bread. The fire by the check out counter makes the room very hot. The door to outside is open and provides a small breeze. The oven makes the bread good. We have to go. He promises to ship the olive to us.

Postcard Assignment: Santi Quattro Coronati

Courtyard
Basilica Santi Quattro Coronati
Roma

To the left of the picture is the entrance to a quiet courtyard, a place that feels completely isolated from the big, bustling city of Rome. Shawn rings a buzzer and a nun comes to open the door and usher our big group inside. I can hear a bird, almost certainly a pigeon, launch itself into flight, its wings flapping together, and I see its shadow streak across the sunlit wall on the right side of the courtyard. All 22 of us arrange ourselves around the small courtyard, to write. 40 minutes of time to sit and write. When everyone is sitting down the only sounds to be hear are the trickling of the fountain in the center, and the occasional plane flying overhead. This place is an oasis, a retreat from the modern city of Rome. A place built throughout the past where even the new add ons are far older than anything in Seattle. Sitting from far away I think I see turtles in the fountain, but up close I see that they are just curved stones. Feathers float on the surface of the water.

Postcard Assignment: Doge's Palace

The Doge's Palace
Venice

The Doge's Palace (this is actually a post card of San Marco, but the palace is located to the right of San Marco): I feel lost without the history.We wander from room to room unaware of the stories and connections linking this place to us. A board with information in four languages doesn't make a good read. Tour groups and singles with head phones walk slowly around each room, nodding absently and staring blankly, lost in a soundtrack of facts and figures. I recorded the names of the rooms and places inside: The Golden Staircase, The Scarlet Room, The Shield Hall (contains two giant globes, one of the earth and one of the heavens), The Philosopher's Room, The Stucco Room, The Equerries Room, The Square Atrium, The Four Doors Room...Many others. The ceilings are historical eye candy. Golden frames encase grey-tone and vibrant colored pictures. I spend all my time staring up. Everywhere in Italy too.

Postcard Assignment: Venice

50 Cent Gondola Indulgence
Venice

This was a tip from Rick Steves. It's from across one side of the canal to the other. Beats an 120 euro price. We go down an alley with signs pointing to the dock. It's deserted. There are two docks. Which one do we stand at? A couple locals trickle in behind us. We follow them. They look confused at our presence. We see the gondolier in stripes approach us from across the way. Coins line the side of the gondola, scattered not stacked; a giant pile of money (small change). He reaches down to make change for a dollar. The locals do not appreciate our stark tourism, and I feel bad but keep smiling and try not to let it get me down. The gondola sways; now it's full. I wonder how much time this cuts out of our trip? If we cared. But as it is we have nothing to do, and all the time to wander in a city I had imagined to be smaller. It is small, but the path is never straight, and the wide canal cuts through, an unsanitary barrier to the other side. Bridges are scenic and necessary.

San Marco's Piazza
Venice

Saint Marc's Square is not yet flooded like this picture. There is water closer to church, and the water damage is visible from the inside. The floor in the entry is wet with combined damp and dirt, a slight coating of sludge. The inside glitters with gold; and the outside too. The extra room at the side of the church isn't free. We are charged for everything but we don't actually go. The pigeons outside are a sight. Vendors sell bird seed. I read somewhere that they throw in birth control to keep the population down. If someone holds the seeds the pigeons attack, and the person is clothed in live feathers. They don't really bother me like they do some in the group. We try to each lunch in the square. Random things we bought at our hotel in the suburbs. But it is pay at a restaurant or get kicked out. We go to a park nearby to finish eating. All the benches and sitting space is taken. A deformed pigeon begs for food. We feed it but it has a growth on its beak. It's hard to please all seven of us at the same time. Tensions are a little high but there is still so much to see. Lisa recommended a church, Frari.

Last E-mail from Mom Because I Will Soon Have Access to a Phone

Dear Gabe',

I got home on Tuesday. It was supposed to be Sunday, but my flight was cancelled. I am back at work and still unpacking. I hope you are having a great time in Venice. This week is film festivle in Venice with all the movie stars. It is probablely very busy. I received a letter from USAA and they said for you to call to call because there might be a problem with your credit card. I called and all they would say is that you appear to have already contacted them. The letter is dated 24 August 07. They gave me a number for you to call toll free-0080092290920. Also you may call collect at (210) 491-9097. I looked at your credit card account and nothing out of place looke charge. I am going to walk now, I have been walking every day on my visit to Dalles and since then. We recieved your post card. So did Ellen and Grandpa and they loved it. If you get a chance, send another to them. I don''t know how to get to your blog. Leah should be moving out today. I havent talked to her in a few days. She was stressing out a little. She said Of course she wants what you describe as the best pocket book in the world! Please get yourself one also. Daddy was not up set at your leather jacket. After all he bought himself one in Italy. Writ me an email soon with your blog address. Let me know if you already got in touch with USAA.

Much love and many hugs and kisses

Mom

Postcard Assignment: From the Top of the Duomo

From the Top of the Duomo
Firenze

Firenze is surrounded by mountains. Not like our mountains, smaller. We climbed at 5:50 p.m. There was no line to get in. The staircase went up forever and didn't let you see ahead. It wound. At the last turn, the light of the setting sun greets you, and the wind cools you down after the climb. Already I was happy and then I saw the view. The city is so substantial; now I feel like I'm really here. The angle of the sun casts a long shadow, long shadows. Only half the top of the dome gets wind; the part with sun. I sit here. The city is surrounded by forest. I wish I could hang my feet off, but there is a rail around the edge. I can hear the sounds of traffic but it's hard to see movement unless you focus. (At this point we are being kicked off the and I had to finish from another local, and I had to switch pens). The last thing I saw was the long shadow of the Duomo on the city, on the east side. Then we left with all the other tourist. We met someone from Seattle. Lots of Japanese teenagers.

Postcard Assignment: Birth of Venus

Birth of Venus
Galleria Uffizi
Firenze

The Birth of Venus hangs next to Botticelli's other paintings, the religious ones he created to earn a living in a time where most commissions came from the churches. the museum goers cluster around this painting and Spring, in tour groups and as individuals. There is a constant hum of voices, mostly indistinguishable to me although many are English, and/or are speaking the language. I think seeing the paintings in silence would be a completely different experience. Shoes shuffle across the floor. You can listen to who is wearing flip flops. Some people have the headsets that give the listener their own private tour. People wearing them nod in understanding to nothing I can hear. The room is crowded, I feel rushed; I enjoy most as rest, in thought and quiet. Venus reminds me of the Virgin, although the differences between his paintings of the religious scenes and the ones he painted for himself (although not technically for himself) never seem more evident as when they hang next to each other.

Shawn Assignment # 8

The Eyes of Caravaggio

Your eyes don’t miss a Caravaggio. It draws your gaze, even when surrounded by the works of the great Italian master throughout history. It pulls you in like a whirlpool; dark and mesmerizing. But all you can see is the light, in stark contrast to the dark spaces behind the central figures.

I had never heard of the infamous Caravaggio before Italy. My introduction came a few days after I arrived in Cinque Terre. I was laying on my bed in my hostel reading the assigned Francine Prose book on the temperamental artist. The woman I was sharing the room with looked at the title page and smiled. We had up until this point exchanged only awkward pleasantries about the weather.

“He is my favorite European artist. I had never heard of him before I came here, but I will remember him best when I leave.” She was from Hong Kong, and spoke minimal English and Italian. She explained that she was never taught any western art, and everything here and in Europe was completely new to her.

“I was in a museum in Rome, and I saw a painting from across the room. It was a Caravaggio. I sat down in front of it for an hour and saw nothing else.” Now that I have seen his paintings in person, I completely understand the impulse.

Caravaggio is unforgettable. We saw many of his paintings throughout our trip, and I never got tired of looking at them. Disturbing and fascinating, each painting makes you a participant in the story being portrayed, whether you would have volunteered or not. The paintings have eyes that look at you with such intensity that you feel the need to look away. But he pulls you back in. Some of his paintings can only described as grotesque, while others as more subtly grotesque. I am, or course, thinking of Sick Bacchus.

Villa Borghese in Rome holds a wealth of Caravaggio paintings. One room surrounds you with canvases, both large and small, imbued with the dark, rebellious energy the painter seemed to pour into his medium. One of these paintings is Sick Bacchus, a decidedly disturbing painting because of the combination of lust and disease blended together in the portrait of the young god. A sheen of moisture covers his green tinged skin as his eyes implore you to come closer. But I was prepared for him, so I turn away to look at the others.

My favorite Caravaggios can be found in that room. St. Jerome and David With the Head of Goliath. But I knew about them too before I laid eyes on them. The head of Goliath is a self portrait of the artist, and I can’t look away from the face of David. He looks with distaste at the completion of his task, his mouth twisted in regret for what had to be done. He pities Goliath, and does not gloat at his triumph. Caravaggio’s David will now forever be the one I think of; this portrayal resonates with my own understanding of the story. In St. Jerome, it is the use of light and color that first piques my senses. The man’s skeletal frame is accented by the skull on the table next to him. His thin arm is stretched out in the work of God, recording a message that will outlast him. There is nothing passive about these paintings.

Running, walking quickly, through the Uffizi I have time only for a quick glance at the art displayed on the walls. We lost track of time; it was easy. I didn’t realize how big this place was, and I regret my speed now. But suddenly I stop and excitement grips my body. Is that a Caravaggio? Yes! It is! Bacchus and Meduca. I recognized them without help. It is true what the book said. I cannot look for more than a minute, but I am more drawn to Bacchus, the healthier but just as sexual version of Sick Bacchus. I find him indulgent, and while I admire Caravaggio’s vision and skill, I think I must prefer the drunken Bacchus amusing us in animated form in Fantasia. But I think Caravaggio got it right. The god is arrogant, drunk, and self-satisfied. Slightly repulsive.

Postcard Assignment: Za Za's & Florence

In Front of the Duomo
First Day in Firenze

Sitting on the steps of the Duomo. It takes a surprisingly short time to walk around here. The Gates of Paradise are across from us. People crowd in front and hold cameras above their heads to get better close-ups of the panels. The detail is amazing. Competition can bring out the best in people, especially in temperamental artists. Although that can also go the other way. It's still hot here in Florence. Vendors selling posters spread their wares on the ground, adding another obstacle on your way through the thick crowd gathered in front the Duomo. I'm tempted by pictures of Boticelli's paintings, but it seems a difficult thing to transport back to the US. Post cards are the way to go anyway. I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders to go into the church. The gift shop was in a downstairs seller type room with no ventilation. The stairs to the top looked packed with people. I will go, but not today. If I don't go I will never forgive myself.

Za-Za's Restaurant
Firenze

Best meal ever, possibly in my entire life. Table of five: me, Michelle, Matthew, Junko, and June. 100 euro to spend. We get out a pencil and paper. Honors students to the end. 5 pasta dishes: pesto, gnocchi, wild boar, spaghetti, and ravioli with truffle sauce. Truffle is my new favorite food. Next course: pizza with pesto and truffle cream sauce. It was that or salad. Then, 2 meat sampler plates, followed by 5 different desserts. Stuffed with food. Unable to move, but so satisfied. I think I'll go back again...Truffle tastes like pure happiness.

Stayin' Alive

Hey everyone! I'm still alive, even though I haven't blogged. It was hard to get to a computer before settling into my apartment by the Rome Center, and then I got really busy. Sorry to all my faithful readers! More will be forthcoming. I miss you guys, and I hope Peaches remembers me (show her pictures of me and then try to talk to her in my voice)!

Ciao!

The Elusive Journal

From Cartoleria Pantheon

It took me a long time to find this journal. Should it be pretty, or just functional? Will I be able to write in it if it's so nice? Decisions, decisions. It really did take me a long time to decide. I agonized. I decided against a notebook with Van Gogh's Starry Night. Not Italian enough. After way too long I settled on this. Ridiculously expensive, but one of the most beautifully bound bundle of paper I have ever seen. But it was hard to ruin with my scibbles...I bought it in the shop behind the Pantheon, not that you would really know. The shop had wax seals with all the combination of initials. I wish I'd gotten one of those.

Shawn Assignment # 9

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Grocery Shopping: A Step In the Direction of Adulthood

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I very rarely have the need to go grocery shopping in my everyday life. Before I went to UW my dad did all the shopping. Occasionally I went with him, but I was never in charge of planning what we needed to buy. I only have a vague idea of what different items should cost, and am generally appalled at the prices. Whenever I felt the urge to cook and/or bake, I found a recipe and gave my dad a list of the ingredients. He figured out what we had and what he needed to buy. Despite my clear lack of involvement in the process, I was always ridiculously proud of myself when I did manage to make dinner (which was an extremely uncommon occurrence, I assure you). Only now do I realize how little time and energy I saved my parents, especially since I washed the dishes even less than I went grocery shopping.

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Then I moved out of my house to a UW dormitory, where my cooking frequency promptly decreased to zero. At the dorms there were no convenient cooking accommodations, and I was forced, like every other dorm resident, to get a food plan. So it would have been economically inefficient for me to buy groceries since I had pre-made meals at my disposal, and if I didn't spend the food plan money on them it would be money down the drain. Now, two years later I am thoroughly sick of HFS food, and I cannot wait to move to my own apartment with a kitchen. And that means I must learn to shop. Although, my dad has already offered to do all my shopping for me and then make the hour drive up to Seattle. While tempted by his offer, I think I prefer to grow up a little, and plan my own meals.

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I preface my Italian shopping experiences with this description of my abilities to emphasize just exactly how little experience I have. If I can barely function in an American store where every item's price and place is clearly defined, what will I be like where I must bargain? Italy will be my testing ground. I will learn to plan, buy, and cook my own meals. Otherwise, I will go broke; it's just too expensive to go out for every meal. Necessity is the mother of invention.

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Cinque Terre:

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My first attempt did not go well.

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I wanted two peaches for breakfast. The night before I shared a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine with an environmental consultant from Texas I had met that same day, and he had done the buying. I was hungry, and had not had any fruit or vegetables in about five days. My hostel is located at the bottom of a giant hill, next to the entrance of a long winding tunnel that leads to the train. I step out and immediately see fresh produce piled in boxes, displayed in front of each small grocery store--grapes, bananas, peaches, oranges...nothing too exotic. I can see three within 100 feet of each other. No display tugs at me so much that I prefer one over the other, and I walk into the closest. I mill around the cramped space a bit before I go back outside and choose two peaches, not completely ripe. I walk back inside and take a closer look at what they are offering. I can't read a lot of the packaging, but I can see cereal, bread, milk, juice, jars of pesto, olives, and other mysterious sauces and condiments--all the usual suspects. At least a fourth of the store is devoted to wine. I am second in line and am under the impression I will eating my breakfast within five minutes. But the woman at the counter chats amicably with her customer, although I am clearly waiting.

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At first I don't mind, and I use the time to take a closer look at my surroundings. I can see an older woman in the back taking inventory out of the storeroom; she looks like the mother of the woman at the cash machine, who is about 25 or 30 years old. A family business. I haven't been in a small family-owned grocery store in years. My family shops at the PX. I look at the more unusual foods in the clear display case by the check out. I see hunks of meat, chopped red fruit, gooey black 1 inch balls... The cashier reaches in and grabs one of the chunks of meat and carries it to the slicer behind her. She starts to slice the meat and looks up questioningly as her customer, who nods in confirmation. The slices are weighed. The customer shakes her head. The cashier goes back. More is sliced. Yes, that is enough. Then it is leisurely wrapped up. It has been about 10 minutes. The woman asks another question I cannot understand. More talking. More food is brought out. I feel like this woman came into the store, went straight to the counter, and asked for each individual item be brought to her personally by the cashier.

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A sigh escapes my lips. A total of twenty minutes goes by before I get my turn. I put the peaches on the counter. They are weighed. She tells me the price; it is under a euro. I apologetically hand her a 10 euro bill, the smallest bill the cash machine has spit out at me. A stern look comes over her face, and she shakes her head.

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"Exact change only."

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I shrug and tell her this is all I have. She grabs the peaches from the counter and points me out the door. I stand stunned for a few seconds before I leave in a daze. I am shocked. After a few seconds standing helplessly outside of the store, I start walking up the cobble stone street, hopefully to a more friendly part of town. Eventually, I rally myself for another go, and I do find someone willing to accept my large bills.

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This is the first of many encounters with the Italian attitude of customer service. In the US, the customer is always right. In Italy, the customer must in no way offend or question the proprietor or they may be kicked out. As someone who has been both a waitress and a customer, I think I prefer a blending of the two.

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Campo di Fiori:

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Once I and my seven roommates were settled in our apartment, the next step was to stock ourselves with basic kitchen supplies. Located in the actual square of the Campo, the apartment overlooked the market that seemed to appear every morning. It stayed until late afternoon, when the stalls were taken down and packed up. Every morning I could here the clank of metal as the stalls were set up. We had everyone living in the apartment donate an equal amount of money to buy items that everyone would use like oil, pasta, salt, butter... These items were procured in a local grocery store called Punto. I mainly shopped in this grocery store because I was often not up in time to take advantage of the daily market in the campo, and I was also very intimidated by the intimate nature of shopping in the Campo. You had to talk directly with the stall owner and then decide on a price. Since I don't know what I bought should actually cost I felt a little overwhelmed. By the end of the trip I had more confidence. But in the beginning even the relatively large grocery store had its challenges.

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Living up five flights of stairs, I wondered exactly how much I should buy in one trip. I would have to carry the groceries up by myself, so quantity definitely factored into my shopping decisions. Correction: it did after the first time. This led me to ponder how different things were in Italy. In the US, people drive cars to the store. They go in and push around a cart which they use to move around large amounts of groceries. Then they go to check out, someone bags the groceries for them and then wheel them out to the car where they have the option of having someone else load the bags in to their car. This is not the Italian way.

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Here, groceries are bought on a need-to-get basis. In many cases you can't just drive up to the grocery store, if you even own a car at all. Instead, you walk to a local store, buy what you need, and cart it back home yourself. This changes your whole shopping outlook. Instead of asking "What do I need for the next two weeks?" you ask "What do I want for dinner tonight?" This attitude definitely encourages the use of fresher food, and cuts down on wasteful expenditures on gas, and increases physical activity. It's a generally healthier way to live, and I got very excited about it until the moment I realized how little my sedentary lifestyle had prepared me for all this carrying. But still, what a better place to start than Rome?

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My first trip to Punto was humbling. I didn't go with a list, and I was both starving and parched. I walked in with Michelle, picked up a green cart with wheels and a handle, and went off down the aisles. Our first hurdle was the shopping cart. It was small, and we couldn't figure out to wheel it around so we moved it by lifting. Then we say the small child in front of us using it properly and we copied her. However, by doing this we opened the door to buying more than we could comfortable carry. The first aisle was wine and other alcohol, but mostly wine. I stared at it for a while before giving up and getting nothing. Too many choices. After ambling around the store and picking up some vegetables, milk, juice, and other random items that caught our fancy, we spotted a downstairs. There was no elevator so we picked up our carts to go down the stairs and realized how heavy they were. I decided I was satisfied with what I had and we went to the check-out.

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The cashier was disinterested. He morosely scanned our items and slid them down the counter. I rushed to bag what I had bought, stuffing everything indiscriminately into the plastic. I lifted them and walked slowly back toward the apartment. By the time I reached the door my arms were already tired and the blood had been cut off from my fingers. I shouldn't have bought so many things of juice. And still I had five flights of stairs to go.

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