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

*

Grocery Shopping: A Step In the Direction of Adulthood

*

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.

*

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.

*

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.

*
Cinque Terre:

*

My first attempt did not go well.

*

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.

*

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.

*

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.

*

"Exact change only."

*

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.

*

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.

*

Campo di Fiori:

*

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.

*

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.

*

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?

*

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.

*

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.

*

E-mail #3 from Mom

Darling,

I just talked to you on the phone and had to go out so I came to miseracordia for the computers. I forgot to tell you on the phone that I have been looking at baby pictures and your were unbelievely cute. I have pictures of all kinds of things including you and lilly. I will show them too you when you get home. I love you.

Mommy

How To Make Friends And, At The Same Time, Create Misunderstandings

I bought a pocket Italian phrase book to help me through Italy when I was traveling by myself. It was largely unnecessary since almost everyone spoke some English, but it made me feel better and I did learn a few phrases. I made the gesture of Italian, which I think is important and polite.

*

But anyway.

*

At this point in my escapade, I am at my friend Erica's grandmother's house in the suburbs of Naples where she (Erica) spent her childhood until she moved to Seattle at around the age of 12. I was in her nextdoor neighbor's (Flavia's) room with Erica and her brother, Gianmarco. I pull out my book and start saying random phrases in my less than perfect Italian accent. There is a section in the book labeled "Romance." I will not divulge exactly the phrases I used (many I would never say in English), but needless to say we were all rolling on the floor in laughter at the end.

Shawn Assignment # 6

What do I want from Italy? Do I want a thing? Do I want tangible, solid, evidence that I was here? Memories fade, and I’ve never kept a journal. How will I know I was here…
*
To the Suburbs of Naples I Boldly Go…

*
…I need to find a taxi. Right. Now. It is too hot and I must look like an idiot walking up and down this street. What am I thinking? This place is tiny. I barely saw any taxis in Naples, so why would there be one here? Maybe they just look different here. I should have waited next to the empty taxi. But I found it so quickly I thought there would be another. And then I was only gone for five minutes...

*

Everything was going so well. I took the train fine. Got off at the right stop. Of course it was the last stop. I even asked for help to make sure I wouldn't miss the stop. I'm sooo close. Just one more step and I'm there.

*

I am just going to pretend like nothing is wrong. I will not ask for help, I will walk like I have a purpose. I'll go....this way. Yeah. This way. I hate the noise my bag makes, but it's better than wearing it like a backpack. People, teenagers. Ugg. Smile like you're not lost. Oh look, a child and her mother. They look safe. "Parlo Inglese?" She doesn't.

*

It's pretty here, at least. I can see the ocean. I think I'll miss that in Rome. I will never be able to live somewhere without being near some large body of water.

*

Enough. I just have to swallow my pride and go back to the station. I'll ask for help there. I'm gonna have to walk past all those people anyway. I can't keep walking in what I strongly suspect to be the wrong direction. Now I go uphill.

*

"Parlo Inglese?"

*

"No." He wants me to follow him. Oh, this other guy speaks English. "How do I get a taxi?"

*

"Where are you trying to go?"

*

"Here." I show him the address of Erica's house because I know I butcher the pronunciation and it's just quicker this way.

*

"Oh, you can take the bus." Feelings of resignation. A taxi would be so easy...if they were here.

*

"Here, you can buy a ticket here, and I will walk you to the stop, it's just in front."

*

"Thanks."

*

How will I know if it's the right bus? He didn't actually say the number. Look, a woman. She's waiting at the same stop. I'll ask her. "Will this bus take me to (point at piece of paper)?"

*

"No. I will tell you."

*

"Thanks."

*

Oh, here's another bus. She's nodding at me to get on. She smiles. Ok, here goes. I should call Gianmarco, tell him the change in plans. "Hey, it's me. I couldn't find a taxi so I'm taking the bus. The guys at the train station says it goes right to your neighborhood."

*

"Ok. Get off right after you see a bread factory."

*

The driver isn't even announcing the stops. How am I going to know when to get off. I don't have any sort of distance or time reference. Look for the bread factory. Bread. Right. Um, I feel like it's been too long. This is a highway. What am I going to do? Uh oh. I need to ask someone. What? Is he talking to me? Yes. He's asking...oh, he's asking where I'm going. I'll show him.

*

"You've gone too far. I will help you. We will get off at the next stop and I will show you the bus back."

*

"Oh, thank you, but you don't have to do that. If you can give me directions, I'll just--"

*

"No. It is fine. I will go with you."

*

He keeps insisting, and to be honest I will probably get lost again. But I'm still worried. I hope it works out. I should call Gianmarco again. He's laughing. Fine. Oh no. My batteries are almost dead.

*

"Gianmarco, I need to go. My phone is almost dead and I may need to call you again."

Okay, we are getting off the bus. No, I'll carry my bag...Or you can. It's too heavy to run away with, and I want to trust him. He's hard to understand.

*

"Where are you from?"

*

"Nigeria. I came to Italy a few years ago. I learn English to go to the US someday."

*

This is awkward. I really can barely understand him. This looks like a bus stop. Ok, now I can thank him and sit down to wait. There's another woman waiting for the bus. She says she is going to the same place as me. Her English is good. She says she is from Sweden and she came here to study Italian.

*

He's not leaving.

*

"I stay with you until the bus comes."

*

"You really don't have to. You've already done so much. Thank you."

*

"No, no. It's okay. I do this for you, and you do this for someone else. God will reward me."

*

God? He's talked a lot about God so far. I smile and nod a lot at what he is saying. Did he say that Africans are ignorant? Yes he is. He believes only through the true God can they grow. And that white people are so much more advanced because of God. Does he really believe this? He seems to. Whoa, what did he just ask?

*

"Your number, so I can call you to tell you when I get to the United States?"

*

Smile and nod and pretend to misunderstand. "What? I'm not sure what you said." He repeats again, and I smile and nod and hope he thinks that I am pretending to misunderstand.

*

"Are you understanding me?"

*

"I think so."

*

He looks a little miffed. Now I just want him to leave. He really has been nice, and I feel guilty but this should be the end. I'm ready to go. But I think the bus should come soon; it's been awhile. Oh, the bus should have come twenty minutes ago.

*

The bus isn't coming. We didn't miss it, it's just not coming. It's gonna be two more hours before it comes. I'll call Gianmarco again.

*

"I think it will just be easier if we come pick you up."

*

You have a car...seriously. I was led to believe you didn't. Why didn't you mention this earlier?!?

"Yeah, I think that would be best. I'll go stand on the main road." Now I have to explain.

*

"Thank you so much for all your help, but my friend is coming to pick me up, so I better go stand somewhere where he can see me." He walks with me to the main road, where he leaves to continue where he was going. He seems to be in a good mood. I watch him go and am glad he is gone. He was nice but...

*

It's almost over. My phone is ringing. "Hello?"

*

"Where are you exactly? Could you give me some landmarks and/or street names?"

*

"I don't see any road signs, but I'm by this hotel." I give him the name.

*

"I don't know where that is. Anything else?"

*

My batteries are realllly low. "Hold on, I'll call you back." I need to find the cross section. I don't see any people around...There's someone. He doesn't speak English either. Maybe if I gesture enough he'll understand. Oh well, at least I've made a complete fool of myself for the 10th time today. Gianmarco's calling again.

*

"We see you. We're pulling over."

*

Thank God.

*

Oh, the car is Davide's, Erica's neighbor. Nice of him to come and get me. Who's the other girl? It's not Erica's friend Flavia because I've seen pictures. Gianmarco tells me this is the road where the prostitutes hang out. Wonderful. At least it's broad daylight.

*

"You are waaay far away from the right stop." Thanks Gianmarco.

*

They live in a gated community. Up a big hill. Davide drops us off in front of a house. Gianmarco and I walk inside and a little old woman greets us. She doesn't speak any English and I don't speak Italian. We smile a lot and rely on Gianmarco, who says she made us lunch.

*

"Grazie." I'm starving. She shows me upstairs to the room I will be staying in. It's an office. I spot a picture of Erica as a baby. Back downstairs. Food.

*

A giant plate of pasta with white sauce later, and I get up because I think we're done.

*

Gianmarco laughs. "We're not done yet. That was just the first course. There's still a ways to go."

I shouldn't of eaten so much pasta. Looks like some stereotypes are true. Oh well, I'm game.

*

E-mail #2 from Mom

Ciao Darling,

I am writing from miseracordia. I am late getting to the bank, so I transferred money to your savings and then paid your credit card from your checking because I didn't want it to be late. I hope you are having a good time. How were Vasouvious and Pompey? I am having a nice time and all is going well so far. Judy cane up wednesday and stayed 'til Friday. Ellen, judy and I went out to eat at a nice place and then we gardened all day yesterday. I am actually still being good on my diet -so far. Both Judy and my Dad are amazed at how little you eat. Dad is home in home in Lakewood. His trip went well. I am a bad mother. I was going to write you a note to be waiting for you in Rome and I didn't. I will try to write.

Love Mom

E-mail #1 from Mom

I was really homesick and I really enjoyed getting emails from mom, so now you can enjoy them too (although it probably won't be the same)!

Dear Gabe`,

I actually looked her number up in an old Bellermine guide. I couldnt' remember her last name, but I looked at the Victorias in the same grade as you. Luckily her name in Allison and it was on the first page. I actually did not recognize her last name, but I knew her parents first names. Anyway, she will be feeding the Kitties from the day I leave to the day Dad gets back. I brushed the Kitties last night. 5 brushes from Blackie and only one from Lilly. I guess she has shed her load. Acutally I do brush her more. I dont's think I am a good companion for the cats since I am always at work, watering or in bed. I bet they can't wait 'til Dad gets home.

Judy said you are a lovely girl. She also enjoyed the visit very much. Actually even Grandpa said you are a lovely young lady. The only reason he did not want you to come is he thought you would be bored. Shawn had been there the week prior for one and 1/2 days and wined constantly that there was nothing to do and for his mother to take him somewhere. Grandpa really enjoyed your visit and Ellen also comented what a lovely girl you are. Speeking of lovely, I hear Judy gave you "Those lovely Bones" to read. Isn't it great! I just love it. It sound like it would be grusome, but it is really sweet. I couldn't put it down. Back to work for me. I love you.

Love Mom

Cinque Terre: Before the Beach

It's been too long since I relaxed.

Shawn Assignment # 2

Roman Exodus
*
Excitement and dread mix together, and wake me on my last day of familiarity. I sleep with clothes on for an early morning flight. Time to roll out of bed and leave with every drop of sleep available.

*
I gesture like a
Fool, crowned in the glory of
A new beginning.

*
My arrival in Rome was one of the most tiring and uncomfortable times of my life. I remember exhaustion and sweat. Sleep had been just a dream for two days, and those days had been filled with Greyhound bus rides, where I couldn't even move enough to uncross my legs—at least one of my legs got to sleep.

*
I had started in Newark, one week before I stepped out of the airport into the sunny streets of Rome. I left Seattle for Pennsylvania to visit my godmother Judy, my Grandpa, and my Aunt Ellen. Judy picked me up at the Newark airport. Due to my debilitating inability to sleep anywhere but a familiar bed, I had stayed awake the entire red eye flight. But I didn't want to pass up being so close to the city, and I hadn't seen Judy in years, so we decided to go visit Little Italy and Chinatown in New York. A fitting precursor for my eminent journey.

*

Little Italy is being taken over by Chinatown.

*

Judy lives in rural Pennsylvania. She is a teacher, and this is the first summer she has taken off since her own childhood. Every morning she bikes with her friend. She has four cats, two of which she nursed to health as kittens with the help of her students. Her daughter lives with her. She bought me a book, The Lovely Bones, from a locally owned book store. The owner asks me about my trip. Everyone always gets excited for me when I tell them. We visit a historical hotel on the top of the mountain. "What mountain? I don't see one." Judy points to a what I consider to be a hill. At the top Pennsylvania stretches below us, and I wonder what Rome will be like. We buy produce from a Menonite girl, about 12 years old. She has finished her last year of school, and she wears a long dress and a bonnet. We drive back to her house and see a boy driving a horse and buggy. It thunderstorms in the morning and the rain pours down, unlike the constant drizzle of Seattle. Everyone always misunderstands.

*

I stay only for two nights, and then Judy drives me to Scranton where my grandpa and aunt live. Scranton is where the TV show The Office takes place, and one of the places in the country where the population is actually decreasing. They worry I will be bored, but I enjoy spending time with them. My grandpa gives me the rosary of grandmother, who had died a year before. My family pretends to be religious for his sake, but I take it because it is also a memento of my grandma. After a few days of walks, TV watching, long talks, Ellen drives me to the bus station.

*

Ellen asks if I would like her to wait with me. But I tell her no, we should say goodbye now. I don't want to say goodbye in front of the crowd of people I know will be here to catch the bus. I watch her walk away as I cling to my luggage. A few tears escape my eyes and trickle rebelliously down my face before I wipe them away. When the bus arrives I cram myself and two pieces of luggage onto a seat. The largest piece I checked into the bottom storage of the bus. I spend the next several hours jammed into a window seat with my knees to my chest, pushed against the person next to me.

*

The bus takes me to New York, where I switch to a bus that takes me back to Newark. The bus station in New York is an underground cavern, with passages to every city. I take an escalator to find my gate. The next bus drops me off on a street a few miles from the airport. I hail a taxi for the first time in my life, and the driver helps me load my luggage. He comments on it size, and takes me to the airport.

*

I will fly to Amsterdam, and then to Rome. The flight is around eleven hours and arrives in Amsterdam at 6 in the morning. I shuffle off the plane to go through the procedural motions. I show the man my passport and visa. He glances at it and tells me I've gotten a haircut in unaccented English. I agree. I have only fifty minutes until my flight to Rome leaves, but I find the gate with plenty of time to sit and wait. I have not slept. On the plane here I talked with the guy next to me about the last Harry Potter book. He had it with him, and was rereading it to pass the time. It is not a small book; too big for me to bring and lug around for two months.

*

I board the plane and it takes off. The window is blocked by a child's head looking out of it excitedly, so I miss the final descent. But I'm not bitter. By this point I have not slept in two days, and I disembark awkwardly, stumbling and confused. I blink at the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Signs direct me to baggage claim, where I proceed to wait two hours for my luggage. I see all the other passengers from my flight come and go, new flights arrive and claim their belongings. But I wait, unwillingly to deal with people who might not speak adequate English, and I feel like a coward. Just when I start the process of complaining I see my bags. Relief fills me.

*

The next item on my list is cash; I need euros to pay the taxi driver. I have never used a cash machine in my life, but I am confident in my ability to complete a transaction. I wind up staring stupidly at an uncooperative screen. It's broken. I walk around looking for another machine all the while struggling with a laptop, a 45 lb. backpack, and an even more giant roller bag that I am unwilling to leave alone for even a second. I see people watching me, judging me, and decide asking them is a last resort. I end up going to an airport bank window and asking the teller if she can give me money from my debit card. She is young and smiles at me. She tells me there will be a fee, and I should just use the cash machine to the right. I sigh and tell her it is broken, and she answers that there is another machine about ten feet away from the broken one. Inside I could kick myself, but instead I smile and thank her. She wishes me luck.

*

Withdrawing the cash was and easy process, and it makes me disproportionately pleased with myself that I did something correctly. But if anything else goes wrong I will not be able to deal with it. My next move is to procure a ride to the Rome center, so I walk out of the airport and into actual Italy. The sun hits me and the air rushes past me, but I would not describe the experience as refreshing. Rather, it was like an overload of my senses that I was too tired to deal with, and the additional heat did nothing to cool my already damp body. And the humidity in the airport equaled the humidity outside.

*

I immediately see a sign advertising taxis. Next to the sign is a well dressed young man leaning against the wall. He looks official.

*

"Taxi?" I ask. He nods and motions me towards him. He takes the handle of one of my bags and leads me to an unmarked Prius. Alarm bells go off half-heartedly and I stop him and ask him how much the trip will be.

*

"70 euro."

*

"I was told it should be less," I said in a feeble attempt to be travel savvy. I know that it should cost less but I think he can hear in my voice that he's got me either way. I cannot think, I can barely move; I am way past exhausted. I know, and he knows, that I will give in.

*

"That is what it costs." He responds.

*

"Alright." Negotiation over, and I wince at myself. Next time I will not do this. I will hold out, I will plan better. But it does help to confirm my contention that the worst thing that will happen to me while traveling is overpaying.We load all my stuff into the car and get going.

*

His name is Fabio and he has lived in Rome all his life. He asks me about myself, and I tell him nothing specific. I am annoyed at myself because my resentment towards him is slowly fading. I should be angry, but I am just tired. About half and hour later he drops me off. I get out and leave.

*

I am so close. The road is cobbled with fist sized stones, and my luggage makes a huge racket as I roll it along. Palazzo Pio. I look around, unable to take much in. A small burst of reserve energy gets me to the door of the Rome Center, and I ring the office intercom. A woman's voice answers, and the massive door unlocks. I pull open the door and shove myself and my awkward bags inside. Then I am challenged with the stairs to the first landing. White, slippery, marble stairs. I begin the climb and rejoice at the sight of an elevator which I take to the Rome Center main office.

*

I am about to walk in and I realize how awful I must look. I am sleep deprived, red with physical exertion, sweaty, my hair is damp, and I have not brushed my teeth in a day and a half. Oh well. I walk in and ask where I can store my extra stuff until my program starts. I am going to go traveling around Italy. I am pretty sure that I am the first of my program to arrive. I babble, talking fast and a little incoherently.

*

The receptionist leads me to a classroom down the hall, and tells me I can put my stuff here. I smile and thank her. I lay all my bags down and sit next to them. I open all the zippers and dump out almost everything so I can rearrange them to fit my plans. I don't need my laptop to travel. I need my school books, but not all of them. I had brought around 15, one reason my bag was so heavy. I take my phrase book and the books assigned by Shawn, as well as some books I had brought to read for pleasure. Still a lot to carry, but I would rather have them with me. I shove some clothes and toiletries into the backpack. I will leave the other two pieces of luggage behind. I lift of the backpack and discover it weighs about 40 pounds, but I can't think of what else to leave behind. Hmmm.

*

Before my ordeal, I had planned to hop a train to Cinque Terre after my stop at the Rome Center. Ha. What a joke. Even though I had already reserved a hostel in Cinque Terre, my need for rest and an immediate shower overrode anything else. I wind up paying 75 euros for a private room with a shower, and it is worth it. I go to bed at 4 in the afternoon and leave the next day at 10 in the morning.

*

Back at the Rome Center, I ask for directions to the train station, and am directed to a bus that will take me there, and given instructions for buying a bus ticket. Clean and ready to conquer the world, I walk out of the Rome Center and am lost within 5 minutes.

*

But it's ok. I bought a compass in Pennsylvania, and decide to walk north until I find a street that looked "main" enough to be the street with the bus stop. Then I am bound to find it eventually. I walk, and here's a street. But is it "main" enough? No. I keep on walking. I wander through a large square, which I realize later during the program to be Piazza Navona (and is north of the main road we spoke of). I go through it. I walk and walk and walk. I decide that I have gone too far, and that west would now be a good idea since that is the general direction of the train station. I am bound to run into a bus stop.

*

My backpack gets heavier all the time, and I need to sit down and rest. I sit down in front of some steps. Could these be the Spanish Steps? I don't think so, they are not very big, and I imagined them to be grander. A small fountain gurgles at the bottom of all the steps. I never saw the label of the square, Piazza di Spagna. I had been sitting in front of the Keats/Shelley House.

*

I get up and wobble further west, mapless, until I get to a huge open space. Little did I know I was looking at Termini. I chose to go south, and one hour later ended up getting to the station from another direction. It had taken almost four hours to walk to the train station. And the entire time I was looking for a bus to take me there. I was no longer clean or happy.

*

I left Rome with a vengeance, and hoped I would have an easier time returning for the program in three weeks.

*